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“It’s fine,” Henri said, because he was doing his best to make it fine. To extend half the grace to Sokolov that Dylan had. Because this didn’t have to be messy. Sokolov had been Dylan’s best friend for a decade. Dylan was going to be in his wedding party. It was reasonable to want to meet his fiancée.

That was, of course, ignoring that they were fucking the whole time and Sokolov was objectively a shitty partner to Dylan. That wasn’t just Henri’s read based on what Dylan had (and hadn’t) said. Novak wouldn’t be this hostile if it were just about the hockey.

“It’s not fine,” Dylan said around yet another yawn. “It’s messy. I hate that it’s messy. It shouldn’t be.” He continued to work his hand through Henri’s hair, over his scalp. This time he used his nails. It was divine.

“You’re handling it better than I would,” Henri said. It was the best he could offer. “TV?”

“Sure.” Dylan kept one hand on Henri’s head as he stretched over to get the remote. He found a movie channel and let it play at such a low volume it was just white noise. Soothing. Between that and Dylan’s steady heart beneath his ear and his big hand working through his hair, Henri was asleep within minutes, clutching Dylan like a lifeline.

It seemed unfair, he thought before he drifted off. That Dylan was the one comforting him, when it was Dylan who’d have to face Sokolov tomorrow.

Except I have to face him too. On the ice, where he’s always had the upper hand…

CHAPTER 51

When Henri slept well, he didn’t dream. To sleep well, he usually had to be so exhausted that his endless worries about hockey were rendered meaningless. Good sex was another, if he could manage to go from sex right to sleep. But the best sleep, he found—deep and dreamless and so restful he didn’t even need coffee—was when he fell asleep next to Dylan.

So when the dream started, Henri wasn’t quite able to discern it. It was feelings and sensations long before it crystallized into shapes. But when it did, wow.

Dylan was on top of him, pinning him down and riding him. Henri babbled nonsense, French and English mixed with moans, making it incomprehensible even in his dream, even to himself. He held Dylan’s waist tightly and fucked up into him. Dylan was so tight, so wet, and Henri never wanted this moment to end. Maybe he died, and this was heaven.

The world around him shifted again, so subtly it was hard to tell what was different. Dylan was still there, but now it was his mouth and tongue working Henri’s dick. And Henri wasn’t holding Dylan’s waist as he thrust up into his mouth; he was fisting his hair and forcing him to deepthroat like a pro. Henri loosened his grip, though his hips took more effort to still.

Dylan swallowed him down a few more times before he let go of his cock with a wet pop. His hand was immediately there, stroking lazily. “Finally woke up.” His voice was wrecked. Henri had never heard anything hotter.

Henri tried to sit up, but Dylan pushed him down. “How long…?”

“Long enough I’m surprised you haven’t come.” Dylan’s eyes were glassy, lips plush, and sweat collected at his brow. Fucking beautiful. “You talk in your sleep. You know that?”

Henri shook his head. He barely processed what Dylan was saying, his attention on his lips and his hand. “What'd I say?”

“Lots of stuff. Most of it nonsense. Mostly plus and my name.” He licked his lips; Henri tracked the motion hungrily. “Glad you’re dreaming about me.”

“Who else would I dream about?”

“I dunno. Just glad it’s me.” This time when his tongue dipped out, it was to lap at the tip of Henri’s dick. Henri arched off the bed. “What does plus mean?”

“More,” Henri choked.

Dylan laughed, little more than a breath of air against his skin. “Do you still want more?”

Henri nodded. As hot as his dream had been, the reality was so much better. “Plus, mon Dylan,” he whispered. “Please.”

“More what?” Another lick.

“Whatever you want,” Henri said. It was the truth. Whatever Dylan was willing to give him, he wouldn’t protest. If he weren’t so tense with desire, his body would be completely pliant for Dylan to do whatever he wanted.

“Promise?” This time Dylan kissed his cock, below the head. His hand had never stopped stroking, though it was a languid pace compared to how Henri had been fucking into his mouth earlier.

“I promise.” I’m yours, he almost added and only barely bit back the words.

Dylan grinned at him, but instead of his beautiful mouth returning to his earlier ministrations, he dipped lower. He kissed his way farther down, his lips pressing to Henri’s cock and his thighs, lapping at his balls gently as he continued lower still. Henri’s breath hitched when Dylan lifted Henri’s legs and pressed his nose underneath his balls, his lips ghosting over his hole.

“Dylan,” Henri whined. “I—I’ve never⁠—”

“Me neither,” Dylan said just before his tongue licked Henri’s rim.

Henri’s hands found the sheets and clenched them so hard he might never be able to let go. And that was only at Dylan’s first tentative licks. As he grew more confident, bolder, Henri absolutely writhed. This wasn’t the slow, thorough way he’d opened Henri up only a few days ago. This was urgent and sloppy. Dylan groaned as he worked, pushing his tongue in and devouring him from the inside out. Whatever Henri had been dreaming before—he could scarcely remember now—he knew this was the moment he wanted to live in forever. This was the moment he would think about for years and years, long after he was done with hockey and Dylan had moved on from him.