Chapter 8 Roman #2
His body resisted—tight, almost too tight—then gave way with a slow burn that made my breath catch. I sank in slowly. Inch by inch. Grady's hands gripped the sheets. His jaw tightened, but he didn't tell me to stop.
I bottomed out. Held still. Let us both adjust.
"Okay?" I asked.
"Move."
I pulled back. Thrust in again. Found a rhythm. Steady. Deep. Grady's legs locked me in place.
The angle shifted, and I hit something inside him that made him gasp.
"There. Right there."
I aimed for it again. Grady's head pressed back into the pillow. His chest heaved. Sweat gleamed on his skin and I leaned down to lick and taste it.
I fucked him harder.
The mattress absorbed the movement without complaint. Outside the windows, the city carried on its own business. In here, everything aligned.
Then something happened.
Not planned or choreographed.
I shifted my weight and changed the angle slightly again. Suddenly, it all clicked into place. The depth. The pressure. Our bodies fitting together.
Grady's eyes opened wide, pupils dilated. "Fuck. Roman—"
It was like a circuit completing. The same instinct that allowed us to find each other on the ice without looking.
He reached out for the back of my neck, pulling me down.
"Right there," he pleaded. "Don't stop."
I didn't.
We moved together, falling into perfect sync. Trust made visible.
I'd never had sex like this.
Grady wrapped his hand around his cock. Stroked in time with my thrusts. His other hand gripped my shoulder. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
"Roman—"
I shifted angle slightly, grinding deeper, and—
"Wait," Grady said. "That's—"
Wrong angle. He tensed.
I adjusted, finding the right position again.
"Better?" I asked.
"Yeah. Fuck. Yeah."
Rhythm restored. Bodies in sync again.
I leaned down and kissed him. His mouth opened under mine, desperate and demanding.
He was getting close. His sounds were rougher and less controlled.
"Come on," I moaned against his mouth. "Let me see it."
Grady came.
His whole body went rigid, and he arched his back off the bed. He spilled cum over his fist and across his stomach, stripes of white against the flushed skin. His choked moans went straight through me.
The sight of him—uncontrolled and undone—pushed me over.
I thrust deeply and came hard. Pleasure rolled through me in waves that made my vision blur.
When it passed, I was still braced above him. Arms trembling. Breath ragged. Sweat dripping from my forehead onto his chest.
Grady looked up at me. Eyes dark and clear.
I pulled out carefully, dealing with the condom. Grady grabbed tissues from the nightstand and cleaned himself up with efficient movements.
I collapsed onto the bed beside him. We lay there, breathing hard in the lamplight.
My heartbeat slowed as the sweat on my skin cooled.
Grady rolled onto his side and faced me.
I looked at him.
His hair was a mess. Face flushed. Chest still rising and falling faster than normal. He looked nothing like the captain who'd stood at the blue line earlier today. Nothing like the controlled presence who walked through locker rooms and press conferences without a hair out of place.
He looked like a man who gave me control and got exactly what he wanted.
Grady reached out and touched my wrist where it rested on the mattress between us. He wrapped his fingers around it. Not tight. Resting.
"Still with me?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Good."
His right thumb touched the scar on his left knuckle. Rubbed it once. Twice.
I'd seen him do that before, in the locker room when the pressure mounted. After tough losses. When he was holding something back.
He caught me watching and stopped.
The unspoken words were heavy on my chest. We'd crossed lines without discussing the destination.
Grady didn't pull away. He didn't sit up and start rebuilding walls. That meant something.
I thought about that hotel room two years ago. The note I'd left when I was too scared to wait for him to wake up.
This wasn't that weekend. This was Chicago. Grady's home. He'd chosen to bring me here.
He asked for what he wanted.
Grady's thumb started moving against the inside of my wrist. "You staying?"
"Yeah," I said. "If that's okay."
"It's okay."
Tomorrow we'd both go to practice. With the team, coaches, and staff.
We'd go back to being captain and winger, Grady and Roman. Professional. Appropriate.
But something had shifted, and we both knew it.
Grady reached over and switched off the lamp.
Darkness settled over the room. Not complete—city light filtered through the windows. Enough to see shapes, and the outline of his body beside me.
We lay there. Close, but not touching. After a minute, he moved closer. He reached for my other hand under the sheet and threaded our fingers together.
I squeezed.
Neither of us said anything. We lay there in the dark. Breathing. Holding on.
I didn't know what came next. Didn't know how this would work, or what it would cost, or whether we could keep it together.
But right now, Grady's hand was in mine.
Tonight, I'd chosen.
And I wasn't running.