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“You ready?” Henri asked as he climbed over Dylan. None of their skin touched yet; it was Henri hovering over him and enjoying the sinfully beautiful view beneath him.

Dylan nodded.

“It might be more comfortable if you rolled over⁠—”

“No.” Dylan reached out with both hands and grabbed Henri’s forearms. “I…I want to see you. Please.”

Henri dipped down and kissed Dylan. He laid himself over Dylan, melting into him, and deepened the kiss. He might’ve stayed there all night, if it weren’t for Dylan incessantly grinding up into him.

“Hen,” he pleaded. He ran his nose along Henri’s.

“Shhh. I’ll take care of you, mon coeur.” He settled between Dylan’s legs and reached for the lube. A new container, completely full. Dylan really had been thinking about this. “I’ll go slow, okay?”

True to his word, Henri’s pace was painfully slow. He circled Dylan’s hole and stroked him lazily to help him relax, little good that it did. Dylan was still so tense, so worked up from probably days and days of imagining this moment, that Henri’s tentative, shallow thrusts past his rim were met with resistance.

“I could suck you off,” Henri said after several minutes of no progress. “It would help you relax if you came.”

Dylan shook his head urgently. “No. I want to come when you’re inside me. I…I won’t be able to come twice. I’m sorry. I can—” He closed his eyes and visibly forced his leg muscles to loosen. Still, his hole was clenched tight.

“Mon coeur.” He leaned down to seal their lips together, hoping it would distract Dylan enough that he wouldn’t be able to remember the words he said, wouldn’t be able to look them up later and expose Henri. The kiss was slow, thorough, endless, and eventually, Dylan forgot about everything except their mouths working against each other; he relaxed enough that Henri’s finger slipped inside him easily.

“Henri!” Dylan arched beneath him. “Fuck.”

“Still a long way to go.” He kissed Dylan’s forehead, his temples, his nose, his eyelids, his cheeks, then started all over again as he slowly worked him open. “Let me take care of you, mon chou.”

Perhaps that’s a safer nickname, he thought. If he looks it up, he’ll only laugh that I called him a cabbage. Better than him knowing he holds my heart.

“Keep talking in French.” Dylan’s voice had a whiny edge to it, so breathy and needy and delicious. “That’ll make me relax. Promise.”

“Of course, mon chou.” So he babbled on in French about how much he adored Dylan. His capabilities on the ice, but also his kindness off it. The man he projected to the world—a talented, fierce competitor—and the funny, down-to-earth one that he saved for his teammates and friends. He was careful with the words. Knew there were some words that any English speaker might guess and steered away from anything too incriminating.

“Tu es la meilleure chose qui me soit jamais arrivée, mon coeur.”

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, my heart.

“J’ai peur de tomber amoureux de toi. Je ne m'en remettrai jamais.”

I’m afraid of falling in love with you. I’d never recover.

On and on he went, watching as Dylan came undone and feeling him loosen for him bit by bit. Two fingers, then three, slipping in so easily that the only thing that kept him from fucking Dylan senseless was that he never wanted to stop murmuring confessions in Dylan’s ear. But this wasn’t about what Henri wanted, so he forced himself to pull his fingers out.

Dylan’s shoulders grew rigid as Henri pulled away. Henri sat on his heels as he put on the condom and slicked himself up, watching Dylan for any last signs of uncertainty. “Are you⁠—?”

“I’m ready,” Dylan said quickly. He looked like he was a few seconds away from flipping them over and riding Henri to get what he wanted. If their roles were reversed, that was what Henri would do. “Please. I’ll beg. You can’t leave me like this.”

Henri put his hand around Dylan’s cock and ran a finger over the tip. Dylan shut up. He bit his lip, his stupidly kissable lips, and looked so friggin’ sexy Henri had no idea what he’d done to deserve him.

“Then beg,” Henri said. It was the only thing Dylan had said that he’d held onto, the rest slipping away before the words had landed.

“Please fuck me, Henri. Please make me come. Please come inside me. Please fuck me so hard I’ll be thinking of you when I’m in Vancouver, and you’re on the other side of the fucking country. Please, fuck me so I stop thinking about how I’m going to have to wait another week before I can get my hands on you.”

Henri sat there, stunned. He regretted asking, because holy shit. That was…

Again, he couldn’t digest all of what he’d heard, so he focused on the one actionable thing in all of that.

Please fuck me.

He didn’t trust himself to speak. He slicked himself up with more lube, positioned Dylan’s legs under a pillow to improve the angle, and guided the tip of his dick to Dylan’s hole. Henri looked up and watched Dylan’s face, then drowned in ocean blue eyes as he sank in.