The Photographer #3
His hands found my hips and lifted me just enough to reposition us beneath the spray. I braced one hand against the tiled wall and used the other to graze my fingers up and down his cock.
He kissed me again as he guided himself inside of me. He moved slowly at first, carefully.
The tile pressed cool against my back while his body held me securely between the wall and the heat of him. Each measured roll of his hips made my fingers tighten against his shoulder.
His mouth found the side of my neck.
I closed my eyes.
The shower amplified the echo of every sound: water against tile, our uneven breathing and the soft shift of skin as he drew me closer.
Nothing about it felt real.
Not the player I saw every morning now thrusting deep inside of me.
His pace deepened. The movement pulled a rough sound from him.
My hand slipped on the wet tile before catching his shoulder again.
He adjusted immediately, one arm locking more securely around my waist.
“I’ve got you.”
The words went through me.
I had heard him say similar things on the ice, calling to teammates beneath the noise of a game.
I had never understood how intimate they could sound.
I pressed my face into his chest. His skin tasted faintly of water and salt.
His breathing grew heavier, losing the measured rhythm we had built.
I loved that.
Heat built low inside me as he quickened the pace.
My body began to shake. He noticed immediately.
His hand slid higher along my back.
“Close?”
I nodded.
His eyes fixed on my face.
He watched every reaction with the same attention I used behind the camera.
“You feel so good.”
That did it.
Pleasure rolled through me so suddenly that my knees tightened around him. My hands gripped his shoulders as I came apart, unable to silence the moans that escaped me.
His arm tightened around my waist, keeping me steady as he continued to thrust deep into me.
I buried my face against his neck.
His rhythm lost its last trace of control. He pressed closer, breathing rough against my temple, body tensing. He pulled out, covering my stomach and chest in cum.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
The water continued rushing over his shoulders.
He lowered me carefully until my feet touched the shower floor.
I kept my hands on his chest while my balance returned.
He looked down at me as the water from the shower rinsed away the evidence of what we had done.
His hair was plastered against his forehead. Water ran from his jaw.
His expression softened.
I looked at the man I had known for years without ever knowing this version of him.
He kissed me once.
Softly.
Then he reached around me and turned the water cooler.
I slapped his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Preventing organ failure.”
“It was fine.”
“I’m seeing spots.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
He stepped out of the shower before I could turn the temperature back up.
He pulled a clean towel from the shelf and wrapped it around my shoulders as I stepped out.
The gesture was unexpectedly gentle.
I stared at him.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re taking another picture.”
“I don’t have a camera.”
“You do it with your face.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does to me.”
I opened the bathroom door.
Cool air rushed over my damp skin.
Our clothes lay scattered between the bathroom and his bed.
My clean clothes still sat folded inside the suitcase.
He followed my gaze.
“You never got what you came out for.”
“I got distracted.”
I turned toward him.
He was smiling.
I threw a pillow at his head.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of his phone alarm.
For several seconds, I did not understand why he was in my bed.
At some point after the shower, we had sat on my bed in towels, still arguing about the thermostat. Then we had kissed again.
The second time had been slower.
Now his arm was heavy across my chest and his face was pressed into the pillow behind me.
His alarm continued vibrating on the nightstand.
“You need to turn that off,” I murmured.
He made a sound that was not a word.
“Our bus leaves in forty minutes,” I said.
Another sound.
I reached toward the nightstand and his arm tightened around me.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Fine.”
He lifted his head. His hair stood up in several directions.
He reached for the phone and silenced it.
Then he looked at me.
The morning light coming through the curtains made everything feel more exposed than the steam had.
We were coworkers again.
The player and the photographer.
His eyes moved over my face.
“What?” I asked.
He leaned over and kissed me.
A knock sounded at the door.
We froze.
“Bus in thirty!” a teammate called from the hallway.
He closed his eyes.
I pressed my face into the pillow to keep from laughing.
He reached for me again.
I pushed his shoulder.
“The bus.”
“We have thirty minutes.”
“I have to pack six cameras.”
“I’ll help.”
“You are not touching my equipment.”
His hand slid beneath the sheet and settled at my waist.
“Still the rule?”
“Especially now.”
He leaned closer.
“What about the photographer?”
I looked at his mouth.
“Different rule.”
The bus almost left without us.