Chapter 8 #2
"I'm just saying, you don't have to be careful." He kissed me again, quick and fierce. "I've been thinking about this for days. I don't want careful."
My hand slid under the hem of his shirt to touch warm skin. The muscles of his lower back tensed under my palm, and Pickle shivered against me, rolling his hips forward.
"Off," he breathed. "Can we—I want—"
He didn't finish before he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and yanked it over his head, graceless and urgent, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Then he tugged at mine.
"You too. Please. This is very unfair. I need to see—"
I let him undress me. He pulled the fabric up and over and away and spread his palms flat against my chest. His fingers danced across my body—light, curious, impatient—darting from my shoulders to my stomach to my sides like he couldn't decide where they should land.
"Holy shit," he said. "Okay. Wow. I knew you'd be—but you're really—" He gestured vaguely at my torso. "This is so much better than I imagined."
"You imagined?"
"I've been imagining constantly since you got here.
I have pictures of it in my mind. None of it was accurate.
" His hands kept moving. "You're—can I just—" He leaned down and pressed his lips to my collarbone.
Then my chest. Then, lower, a trail of scattered kisses that had no pattern or logic. It was Pickle following his impulses.
"You're all over the place," I said.
He looked up at me, briefly worried. "Overdoing it?"
"No." I pulled him back up and kissed him properly. "It's very you."
"I can focus. I can be—"
"I don't want you to be anything." I cupped his face and made him look at me. "I want you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He kissed me again, grinning against my mouth. "Okay. Good. Bedroom. We should—bedroom is better. More space. Horizontal possibilities."
He climbed off my lap and grabbed my hand, pulling me through the doorway. Tripped over a sneaker. Caught himself against my chest.
"Graceful," I said.
"Shut up. I'm a professional athlete. That shoe was a hazard. I should sue myself." He kicked it out of the way and kept moving. "Come on, come on—"
His bedroom was smaller than the living room and more chaotic—clothes everywhere, a hockey stick in the corner, and sheets that had been hastily straightened and were already coming untucked. Still, it was clean and smelled clean.
Pickle spun to face me, already reaching for my belt.
"Can I? Is this—"
"Yes."
His fingers worked the buckle, the button, and the zipper—fast and efficient. "I've been thinking about this. Like, a lot. An embarrassing amount. I kept getting distracted at practice. Hog asked if I was sick."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I was having a spiritual crisis. Which—honestly, wasn't untrue." He pushed my jeans down and gasped. "Oh my god. You're—this is—" He looked up at me, slightly wild-eyed. "You're really hot. I said that before, I know, but I have to say it again. For the record."
"Noted."
"Good. Okay." He hooked his thumbs into his own waistband. "My turn. Fair warning, I'm not wearing underwear, because I never wear underwear, because underwear is a scam invented by Big Fabric—"
He shoved his sweatpants down and stepped out of them, naked and flushed and completely unselfconscious.
My mouth went dry.
I'd seen athletes before. Filmed them, studied them, learned the grammar of their bodies—the bulk of enforcers, the coiled power of forwards, the angular efficiency of defensemen. I knew what hockey did to a human frame.
Pickle was something else.
Lean where other players were thick. Wiry where they were solid.
He was built for speed, not impact—narrow hips, long legs, muscles that looked like they'd been built by motion rather than weight rooms. His fingers twitched at his sides while his weight shifted from foot to foot. Energy with nowhere to go.
I saw even more.
The scatter of freckles across his shoulders was something I hadn't expected. There was a faint silver line of an old scar along his ribs—puck, maybe, or a skate blade. He had a soft trail of dark hair below his navel.
He was already hard, flushed pink, and he stood there letting me look with the same openness he brought to everything else. No posturing. Just Pickle, all of him, exactly as he was.
Twenty-three years old. Messy hair and sharp cheekbones and a mouth that couldn't stop moving even when he wasn't talking—lips parted, his tongue wetting them, and a grin threatening to break through despite the vulnerability of standing naked in front of someone for the first time.
He was beautiful the way a live wire or a breakaway was beautiful—all speed and instinct and the held-breath moment before you knew whether it would be a goal or a near miss.
I wanted to film him like this. Wanted to freeze the frame and study every detail.
I'd spent four days watching him through a viewfinder, keeping the lens between us.
Now there was nothing between us at all.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"This is happening."
"It's happening."
"Cool. Great. I just need to keep saying it out loud, or my brain will convince me I made it up." He stepped closer, pressing against me. "Okay. Yep. Definitely real."
I kissed him and walked him backward until his knees hit the mattress. He sat down hard, bounced once, and pulled me down with him.
"I want—" He was already moving, shifting, trying to find the right angle. "Can we—I have stuff in the drawer, if you want to—"
"What do you want?"
"Everything. All of it. You." He managed to get the nightstand open and grabbed a bottle and a strip of condoms. "I want you inside me. If you—is that—"
"Yes."
"Oh, thank god." He shoved the supplies into my hands. "Okay. Yes. Please."
I took my time.
Not to be careful—Pickle had made it clear he didn't want careful—but because I wanted to learn him. Wanted to know what made him gasp, what made him curse, and what made his entire body arch off the mattress.
He wasn't quiet or still. Even with my mouth trailing down his chest, and my hand wrapped around his cock, he kept talking—a stream of consciousness that was pure Pickle.
"That's—oh fuck, that's good—your hands are—why are your hands great at this, that's unfair, that should be illegal—"
I twisted my wrist on the upstroke, and he moaned loud enough that I thought about his neighbors.
"More," he managed. "Please, I need—can you—"
I lowered my head and took him in my mouth.
"FUCK." His hand flew to my hair—not pushing, just grabbing, holding on. "Oh my god. Oh my god, Adrian, that's—you're—"
I took my time with the blowjob, too. Learned what made him shake, babble faster, and made his grip on the sheets tighten. He was responsive to everything—every touch or scrape of teeth.
"I'm gonna—if you keep doing that, I'm gonna—" He tugged at my hair. "Not yet. I don't want to yet. I want—"
I pulled off. Looked up at him.
He was wrecked—chest heaving, hair a mess, eyes dark and desperate. Still, he was grinning, that irrepressible Pickle grin.
"Hi," he said breathlessly. "You're really good at that. Top marks. A-plus. Would recommend."
I laughed. Couldn't help it. I crawled up his body and kissed him, and he wrapped himself around me like he was trying to climb inside my skin.
"I want you," he said against my mouth. "Please. I've been thinking about it for days. I'll die if you don't—"
"You won't die."
"I might. You don't know. It could be fatal. Sexual frustration is a legitimate medical—"
I kissed him to shut him up, reaching for the bottle.
I worked him open with my fingers, slow and slick, and Pickle squirmed against the sheets—talking, always talking, a running commentary on every sensation.
"That's—oh—more, I can take more—" He pushed back against my hand, impatient. "I'm not gonna break, I promise, I've done this before, just—oh fuck, right there—"
I added another finger. Watched his face. His eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth fell open.
"Good?"
"So good. So—I need—Adrian, please—"
"Please what?"
"You. Now. I'm ready, I'm so ready, I've been ready since—just please—"
I rolled on the condom. Positioned myself. Pressed forward slowly, watching his face for any sign of pain.
There wasn't any. His eyes flew open, mouth forming a perfect O, while his hands reached for my shoulders.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, that's—you're—"
I held still, letting him adjust. Every muscle in my body trembled with the effort.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "Okay, you can—please move, I need you to move—"
I moved.
He was loud, like I'd known he would be. A constant stream of sounds—my name, curses, things that might have been words in another context but were only noise here. Pure want and desire, yes, and more, and there and don't stop.
The chaos wasn't a front. Wasn't armor. It was pure Pickle.
But.
Underneath the noise and the motion, threaded through all of it like a bass note—there was focus.
I'd seen it before. On the ice, in the footage, and the way he could read a play before it happened.
Here, now, that same focus was trained on me.
Pickle watched my face even while he babbled. He adjusted his angle when I made a sound he liked. His hands were restless and everywhere but always, somehow, finding exactly where I needed them.
He was disarray and precision all at once. Scattered and sharp.
I saw it. All of it.
"Adrian—" His voice cracked. "I'm close, I need—"
I wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking in time with my thrusts, and Pickle shattered.
He came with a shout, body seizing, clenching around me so tight I lost my rhythm. I watched his face and followed him over the edge, burying myself deep.
For at least thirty seconds, neither of us moved.
Eventually, I found the strength to pull out. Dealt with the condom. Grabbed a shirt from the floor to clean us both up.
Pickle lay sprawled across the mattress like he'd been dropped there from a great height, one arm flung over his face, chest still heaving.
"Holy shit," he said.
"Yeah."
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"I can't feel my legs. I think you broke my legs." He moved his arm and looked at me. "Worth it. No regrets. You can have my legs."
I collapsed beside him. The sheets were tangled, half off the bed, damp in places. Neither of us moved to fix them.
Pickle rolled toward me immediately, pressing against my side, one arm across my stomach, one leg thrown over mine. Claiming my body.
"That was really good," he said.
"It was."
"Like, really good. Top five. Top three. Top—" He paused. "Actually, I don't have enough data points for a proper ranking, but I'm confident."
"Confidence is good."
"I'm very confident. I'm statistically certain." He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "We should do it again. For science. Expand the sample size."
"Later."
"Later is good. Later is acceptable." His fingers danced across my chest. "I talk too much after sex. You can tell me to shut up."
"I don't want you to shut up."
He lifted his head. "Really?"
"Really."
"Most people want me to shut up. Not in a mean way, just—" He shrugged. "I'm a lot. After. During. Before. All the times."
"I know."
"And that's... okay?"
I pulled him closer and kissed him. "Absolutely."
He nestled his face into my neck. His arm tightened around my stomach, holding on.
"Stay," he said. "Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." Another squeeze. "Good. That's—I'm glad. I'm really glad."
His breathing started to slow. His body grew heavier against mine, that post-sex exhaustion pulling him under. Still, he kept talking—quieter now, half to himself.
"I like this. I like you. I like that you didn't tell me to be less. Nobody ever—" He yawned. "Nobody ever wants all of it. They want the fun parts without the—" Another yawn. "But you—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
I waited. His breath evened out, deepened, and slowed to a rhythmic pace.
He was asleep—mid-thought, mid-word—gone.
I stared at the ceiling.
The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of Pickle's breath. Outside, Thunder Bay hummed its midnight hum.
There was a beautiful man asleep on my chest, and suddenly, my mind began to race.
I've been here before.
I knew the feeling.
Three weeks.
That's how long I'd filmed Theo before we kissed. Three weeks of convincing myself it was a professional interest. Three weeks of watching footage at night, finding new things to notice—the light on his jaw, the grace of his fingers on piano keys, and the crooked smile he saved for quiet moments.
I'd fallen in love through a lens. Told myself it wasn't happening until it was too late to stop.
Pickle shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. His arm tightened around my waist.
This is the Theo pattern.
I named it. The recognition didn't make it less dangerous—if anything, it made it worse.
Because I knew how this ended.
I'd done it once.
I'd do it again.
That was the pattern. That was who I was—someone who watched and wanted and then held on so tight he crushed the thing he was trying to keep. Someone who braced so hard for the end that he made it happen.
Pickle deserved better than that. Pickle deserved someone who could accept all of him without already planning the exit. Someone who could stay.
I wasn't sure I was that person.
But lying there, with his weight warm against my chest and his breath slow against my skin, I wanted to be.