Chapter 16
Sasha
Aaron is trying to be responsible and I’m not going to let him.
He’s standing at the locker room door, still in the red jersey, still wearing makeup, looking both ways down the tunnel like a man planning a bank robbery. The crew is gone. The parking lot was empty when I checked. The whole building is ours alone right now, and he’s doing a security sweep.
“Clear?” I ask from the bench, unlacing my skates.
“I think so. The Zamboni driver’s truck isn’t in the lot.”
“Fantastic. Take off your clothes.”
His head whips around. “Sasha.”
“What? We’re sweaty. We’ve been skating in makeup for three hours. I’m suggesting a shower. Very reasonable.”
“You’re not suggesting a shower.”
“I’m suggesting a shower that happens to include both of us.” I pull off my left skate and drop it on the rubber mat. “Alone. With no one in the building. For the first time in —” I do the math. “Five weeks? Six?”
His mouth works. He’s doing the thing where he calculates risk — how private the locker room showers actually are, whether anyone would come back to the building at this hour, the odds of getting caught. I can see it happening behind his eyes. The people pleaser running scenarios.
I pull off my right skate. Stand up. Walk over to him in my socks on the rubber floor and stop close enough to see the foundation along his hairline where the stylist blended it.
“Aaron.”
“What?”
“Stop thinking.”
“I’m not thinking.”
“You’re always thinking. It’s your worst quality.” I reach up and run my thumb along his jaw. Underneath, his skin is warm. His pulse jumps under my fingers. “Your best quality is what happens when you stop.”
He closes his eyes. Just for a second. His head tilts into my hand — barely, like he can’t help it — and the tension in his shoulders drops half an inch.
“Lock the door,” he says.
I lock the door.
The locker room showers at Ashford are industrial. White tile, twelve heads along two walls, drains in the floor, fluorescent lights that buzz. Not romantic. Not where you’d plan a first date.
But the water is hot and the steam fills the room fast and Aaron Kelly is taking off his jersey and I don’t care about the tile.
He pulls the red jersey over his head and drops it on the bench.
The pads come next — chest protector, shoulder pads — and then his compression shirt, peeled up from the bottom, and I watch the reveal like I haven’t seen it before.
I have seen it before. Hundreds of times in this locker room, surrounded by teammates, not allowed to look.
I’m looking now.
His stomach is flat and tight, a line of dark hair trailing below his navel.
His shoulders are broader than they were last year — he’s been doing extra upper body work and it shows.
There’s a bruise on his left side from a hit in Thursday’s game, yellow at the edges, still tender-looking.
His skin is fair and flushed from the skating and the lights and — if I’m reading him right — from the fact that I’m standing six feet away watching him undress.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I am.”
“Most people would look away.”
“I’m not most people.” I pull my own jersey off. Toss it on the bench next to his. “And you don’t want me to look away.”
He doesn’t argue. His ears are pink.
He turns away to finish. The hockey pants, the jock, his compression shorts — all of it peeled off and dropped on the bench, and I watch every second.
The long muscles in his back when he bends to step out of his pants.
The line of his spine. His ass — round and tight and pale where his tan lines end — and his thighs, thick from skating, dusted with dark hair.
He straightens up and reaches for a towel and I’m still standing here half-dressed with my mouth dry.
A year. I’ve been looking at this man for a year and it still hits me like the first time.
“Are you planning to shower in your pads?” he asks over his shoulder. He’s caught me staring and he’s trying not to smile about it.
“I’m enjoying the view. Don’t rush me.”
“The view is going to the showers now. Keep up.”
I strip down the rest of the way — pads, compression layer, shorts, everything — and follow him.
I can feel his eyes cut to me as I pass, tracking my chest, my stomach, lower.
He’s not as subtle as he thinks. Let him look.
I’ve been waiting weeks for him to look at me without checking over his shoulder first.
The water hits hot and hard and I tip my head back and close my eyes. The makeup runs — I can feel it sliding down my temples, my jaw, pooling in the hollow of my throat before the water carries it away. The steam builds fast. The tile warms under my feet.
Behind me, the water from a second showerhead turns on.
Not three heads down. Not a safe, teammate-appropriate distance.
The one right next to mine.
I open my eyes. Aaron is beside me. Naked, wet, water streaming down his chest, his hair already dark and flat against his forehead. He’s looking straight ahead at the tile wall with the kind of focus he normally saves for penalty kill film.
And he’s hard. Already. His cock is thick and flushed, curving up against his stomach, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
God, I love this man.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks at me. Green eyes, water on his lashes. “Hey.”
“Come here.”
He doesn’t hesitate. That’s new — or not new, exactly, but more.
Six months ago he would have stalled. Made a joke.
Found a reason to keep two feet of distance between us.
Now he steps under my spray and his hands come up to my waist and his fingers press into the muscle above my hips and I feel every point of contact like a brand.
The water runs between us. His chest against mine. His stomach against mine. I can feel his cock pressed against my hip — hot and hard and twitching — and I roll my hips forward and our cocks slide together and we both inhale at the same time.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “That’s —”
“Yeah.”
I cup his face. Both hands, water running over my wrists. His jaw is sharp under my palms and his stubble scrapes my fingers and I tilt his head and kiss him.
His mouth opens immediately. No hesitation, no tension, just his tongue against mine and his hands gripping my hips and pulling me closer.
I kiss him deep and slow — we have time, we actually have time, and I’m going to use it.
His mouth is hot and tastes like the sports drink they gave us during filming and I lick into him and he makes a sound that vibrates through my chest.
His hands slide from my hips to my back. His fingers drag down my spine — firm, deliberate — and my cock throbs between us. He’s touching me like he’s been thinking about touching me. Like he’s had a plan.
I pull back. Water runs down his face. His eyes are dark with want and he looks wrecked already and I haven’t even started.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I say. “Every day. You in this shower. Me in this shower. No one else.”
“Me too.” His voice is rough. His hand slides down my stomach — slow, watching my face — and wraps around my cock.
My abs clench. I push into his grip and his fingers tighten and I groan against his mouth.
“Harder,” I tell him.
He squeezes. Strokes me slow from base to tip, his thumb dragging over the head, spreading the wetness that’s already gathering there. The water makes everything slippery — his palm, my cock, the slide of his hand — and I press my forehead against his and breathe.
“You remember what you told me,” I say. “The text. About wrapping your hand around both of us.”
His hand stills. His eyes snap to mine. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you’ve ever said to me with your cock in your hand, Aaron Kelly. I have an excellent memory.”
His face goes red but his hand doesn’t move away. His eyes drop between us — my cock in his grip, his own cock hard and straining against my thigh — and I watch him make the decision.
He presses closer. Lines us up. Wraps his hand around both of us and squeezes.
“Oh fuck —” The words leave me in Russian first and English second. His cock is hot against mine, both of us thick and slippery, and his hand can’t close all the way around but the pressure is perfect. He strokes once — slow, tight, dragging our cocks together — and my vision blurs.
“Is this what you thought about?” I manage. “That night?”
“Better.” His forehead is against mine. Water runs down both our faces. “This is better.”
He strokes us together. Slow at first, finding the rhythm, learning what makes my breath hitch and what makes my hips jerk.
I grip his shoulders — digging in, needing an anchor — and watch his hand work us both.
My cock slides against his with every stroke, wet and hot, the friction building until my thighs are shaking.
“Faster,” I tell him.
He goes faster. His grip tightens. I can feel every ridge of his cock against mine, the heat of it, the twitch when I roll my hips into his hand. Water streams over his knuckles and down our shafts and the sounds are hot as hell, echoing off the tile — wet and rhythmic and loud in the empty room.
“You feel incredible.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Your hand — Aaron — don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.” Rough. Breathless. His thumb drags over both our heads on the upstroke and my hips buck forward. “Tell me what you need.”
“You. Just — this. Keep going.”
I grip the back of his neck. Pull his mouth to mine. Kiss him messy and open while his hand moves between us, and I’m leaking into his palm, we both are, everything slick and heated and blurring together.
He pulls back just enough to speak. “I want to make you come.”
“You’re doing a good job.”
“No — I want —” He lets go of us both and drops to his knees.