Page 92 of Ice Dance

He leaned back, arching over my hands, then braced his arms on the table behind him, showing me all of him, legs spread, knees up.

“Did you like the flowers?” I asked, not bothering to hide the way my voice caught.

“I love the flowers.”

The flowers were beside us. Mostly forgotten. I wasn’t looking at those, I was looking at him, drinking the exquisite vision of him down, getting harder with every breath. I bent forward, gathering him up, but keeping him arched over the table, and worshipped his chest and abdominal muscles with my mouth, tongue, and teeth, avoiding the worst of the bruises. He panted, writhing and alive in my grip.

His hand came down between us, trying to grope at my fly and get to the part of me I needed him on the most. I gently moved it away. If he got his hands on me now, I wasn’t going to be able to take my time with him.

“You’re killing me here, Ren,” he groaned.

“Then I shall make it worth it.” I hooked my fingers under his waistband, pulled the tracksuit bottoms down, over the jutting ridge of his dick, and tugged them off. Now he was spread out on the table in just his pants, propped upright on his elbows, looking every inch the dancer I was about to devour.

He breathed hard, chest rising and falling in quick motions, eyes hungry, hair wrecked, which wasn’t saying much as he always let it bounce free. I saw him every day under harsh rink lighting, saw him wrung out and breathless at the gym, saw him laughing, furious, quiet. I so rarely got to see him like this that I wanted to capture the image in my mind forever. Every part of him. The quivering muscles, the scrunch of his abs, the play of tattoos, his proud erection.

I slid my hands up his warm thighs, no different to when we were on the ice performing holds, but of course, entirely different in this context. His smile fell sideways.

“Ren . . .”

I bowed my head and kissed the inside of his knee. He sighed. I did it again, slower, and his fingers went into my hair, catching. I pulled the last barrier of fabric down, taking my time, because this would last. This wouldn’t be rushed, not like every other time. It wasn’t a stolen moment between sessions. I was staying, and I planned to use every minute.

I let my lips touch the smooth, firm skin of his dick and flicked out my tongue. A sigh left him. He let his head fall back, throat exposed, one elbow braced behind him, with his other hand still in my hair. It would be easy to rush this, easy to take him apart, but I wanted to properly explore what he liked, what made him moan and made his fingers tighten.

I took him in, wrapped my tongue around him, sucked a little.

He rolled his hips up. “God, fuck.”

His hand moved from my hair, his arm going out, knocking the flowers to the floor.

His body moved with me, rocking, feeding me, no longer under his control, but under mine.

I’d planned to pull off, to make it last, but this was too exquisite to stop, seeing what I was doing to his body, to him. With my hand and mouth, I worked him higher and sucked him off hard. He writhed and moaned and swore, completely at my mercy.

His rhythm stuttered, his fingers locked in my hair, and he came, half thrusting, jerking. I swallowed, and pulled off him, then worked him through the edge with my hand so I could get a look at his face. I’d thought him beautiful on the ice, but it did not compare to him splayed naked on a table, spent and breathless.

He pulled on my hair, so I scooped him up and kissed him, like he’d done to me once, after having his mouth on me. If he tasted himself, it didn’t bother him. We rocked, swaying together. Then his hand came down, finding me achingly hard in my trousers, and I let him tug off my belt then work at the fly. And when that wasn’t enough, he dropped off the table, easing me back, and worked the trousers all the way off, so I stood naked.

“You’d have a word for this,” he said, rising from the crouch and coming level with my dick.

“Resplendent?”

“I have no idea what that means but it sounds like you.” And then he was on me, taking me into his warm, wet tightness. Camden didn’t do slow. He did hot and heavy and fast, unleashed and impatient, and he took me deep. Hand and mouth working sweet ecstasy until my spine buzzed, and I became a thing of need without thought, a string pulled tight to breaking point.

I came without a chance of holding back or slowing it, and the smirk on his face said he knew it. He still worked me, almost to the point of pain, when everything became too sensitive. Then he stood up and slapped a messy kiss on my mouth, our chests and dicks and thighs stroking each other.

He mumbled something about the bedroom into the kiss. I bent my knees, scooped him up, and carried him there.

THIRTY-TWO

CAMDEN

Sex with Ren always began slow and ended desperate, but now, in my apartment bedroom, with him pulled chest to chest, the both of us spent, we had time to indulge. We kissed slow, rediscovering our bodies and how they worked while naked and pressed close, with nowhere to be and no rush to get there.

It felt special, like it hadn’t done before. He’d always held something back, been reserved, maybe a little afraid, and I’d let him set our pace, fearing that if I rushed him, he’d back off. It had felt like maybe we’d never get a moment like this, side by side, sharing bodies and breaths, his hands tracing delicate lines down my waist, over my sore hip, down my thigh. He grabbed my leg, hitched it up, and I locked it around him, making us closer than we’d ever been. I’d admired a lot of guys’ bodies, had a few under me, in me, over me, but none had been like Ren’s.

Maybe it was because I cared about him more than the others, cared what he thought, what he felt, and I was so scared that he’d wake up one day, realize sleeping with me was a terrible idea, and walk away. He hadn’t yet, and the softness in his touch suggested that maybe he wouldn’t.

Dare I dream it?