Between the Pipes (Offsides #3)

by J.J. Mulder

Anthony’s hand slides out of my pants, and he hooks his thumbs into the waist to pull them back into place. It’s needless, since I’ll be removing them soon enough, but also oddly sweet.

Honestly, all he’s going to have to do is look at me like that again and I’ll come.

When his fingers brush the back of my knee, I flinch and he looks up at me. His eyes are black pools in the dim lighting. “Ticklish?” he asks, sounding delighted by the discovery. “No,” I lie.

Chuckling, he cups both hands around my calves and pulls my legs further apart to give himself more room. He palms my thighs, calluses rough against the sensitive skin. It feels fucking amazing. He makes that humming noise again, and this time I don’t have to ask before he speaks. “Well, I suppose I don’t have to tell you that this is my first time doing this,” he says wryly, and I huff a small laugh. His fingers tighten on my legs. “You don’t have to,” I say again. He ignores this. “Tell me what you like.” “Honestly? It’s been a long time. I’m probably going to blow the moment you put your mouth on me.” I pause, thinking about this. “So, if you don’t want me to come in your mouth, maybe we’d better⁠—" I suck in a sharp breath as Anthony lowers his head and licks the head of my dick. He does it again, pressing more firmly into the slit where precum has beaded. He hums, wrapping his lips around the sensitive tip and swirling his tongue around. Helplessly, I lean back and finally dive a hand into his hair. Soft, exactly as I imagined it would be, and plenty to grab onto—also like I imagined. I give an experimental tug on one of his curls and he groans, mouth dropping lower and taking more of me in. I have to physically hold myself back from thrusting upward into his mouth. He’s going agonizingly slow, and I’d think he was doing it on purpose with the intent to drive me crazy, if I didn’t know this was his first time. I do my best to behave. He’s experimenting with how deep h...

“Well, I’m impressed,” I tell him, and he tips his head back to laugh. Wiping a hand over my face, I don’t fight my own laugh. When he looks back at me, I smile and his own answering grin is stunning. “Must have been good, to get you to smile like that,” he says, sounding happy and a little bit smug. “Yes, all right.” I nudge him with my leg, and he bends down to kiss the top of my left thigh before getting to his feet. He doesn’t go far, but flops down on the couch beside me. We’re silent for several long, comfortable minutes. The room is filled only with the sound of our breathing and the smell of sex, and it’s the happiest I’ve been in a very long time.

If I had known the way to get Nico to smile was to blow him, I would have done so by now. When I go home and crawl into bed, it’s that smile I think of as I fall asleep. Not the heady smell of him, or the way his skin felt in my mouth, or the soft sounds he made. I wonder if it will be easier to earn those smiles now, and can’t wait for tomorrow so I can start finding out.

It hasn’t even been a full eight hours since I’ve seen him and I’m already desperate to get my hands on him again.

I sit up, suddenly. This is Sam I’m talking to. “So, crazy thing, I sucked my first dick last night.” Coughing explodes from the other side of the line. “Sorry, swallowed wrong,” Sam sputters. He takes another gulp of water, his swallow audible over the phone. “Sorry,” he says again, “did I hear you right?” “If you heard dick sucking, then yes.” “Well, shit. How was it?” Sam sounds amused, and I can picture him smiling. I smile back. “I’m a natural.” He laughs, loud, and I break out in my own uncontrollable laughter. For a few moments neither of us can breathe.

The silence on the other end is loud. “Can I ask you a question?” is what he eventually goes with, speaking carefully as though worried he’s going to offend me. “Of course.” “You date a lot of people; or, hook up with a lot of people. It’s never seemed to bother you before, as far as I can tell. What’s so different about this? Is it because he’s a man?” “No. Yes? I don’t know.” Squinting up at the ceiling, I consider the question. The fact is, it does bother me that my relationships all have short shelf-lives. Particularly now, with my closest friends happily coupled and showing me how things could be. “I’m going to be really honest here for a second: I couldn’t tell you exactly why this situation feels different, but I can tell you that I can’t stop thinking about him. Obsession-level thinking about him. It’s extremely inconvenient.” Sam doesn’t laugh, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he responds. “So, when you say that Mackenzie has rules in place so that you guys don’t get attached…” “All right, yeah, so I might already be a little attached. Fuck.” “What are you going to do?” “I’m going to take whatever he gives me and enjoy it while I can,” I answer quickly, not even having to think about it. What’s the other option? Breaking things off before they’ve even really begun? “Sounds like you might be setting yourself up for heartbreak,” Sam warns me, and I sigh. “Dude, why Nico Mackenzie of all people? Makes no damn sense at all. I’ve never even…I’ve never been at...

I hear a small commotion in the background and a noise I recognize as their patio door sliding open. Troy’s muffled voice floats over the line and Sam tells him I’m on the phone. A moment later, his cheerful voice chimes in my ear, sounding not a bit out of breath despite just having returned from a run. “Hey, Lawson!” “Hey, Nicky. How was your run?” “It was great. Only did about eight miles, because they’re doing construction on the route I usually take. I might go finish up in the gym, though.” “You better,” I say gravely. “It would be a shame to only get the eight in. Lazy of you, really.” “Yeah, yeah, smartass. You should join me tomorrow morning! Running is allowed, with your shoulder.” “Put Sam back on the phone,” I demand. Troy snorts in delighted laughter, but obliges and hands the phone back to Sam. I hear the door slide open and closed once more, and Sam’s voice comes back on the line. “Troy just shouted love you, bye which I assume was meant for you.” “Eight miles, Sam. For fun.” “We’re going kayaking today, too. And he probably still won’t be tired by the end of the day,” he replies, sounding so in love it makes my chest hurt a little bit. We can’t all be Troy and Sam. “What time is practice? Do you want to come with us?” “Thanks, but that’s all right. I’ll probably hang around SCU after camp and see if Nico will let me blow him again.” Sam gives a bark of surprised laughter, and mumbles something too softly for me to hear.

“Tony—,” he starts, and I cut him off with a raised hand. “Shut up,” I say, because I’m a professional. He scowls at me. “Movement drills today. Starting with a middle-out T-push.” I skate over and position myself in the crease, hugging the left post. Pushing to the top of the crease, I squat down like I’m preparing for a shot before pushing back toward the opposite post from where I started. I do it several times, while Morgan watches in silence. “You need to focus on rotating your hips and leading into the push with your blocker and glove.” “I know.” “Do you? Because I’ve been here a week, and you let in shots you could have saved because you aren’t moving correctly.” This earns me another scathing look. I leave the crease and wave a hand for him to take my place. He does, and I have him repeat the drill for twice as long as I would with any other player.

“All right, that’s enough for today.” After a while, I stop him even though his movements are still strong. Pushing him to the point of exhaustion won’t help him learn. I tap my stick against the front of his leg pads. “Good job.” He grunts, but knocks my own leg pads in response.

“Why can’t you play hockey?” “Because I’m a Morgan,” he sneers, “and a Morgan has to uphold the family name and further the family business. A Morgan can’t do anything as base as play a professional sport. That’s not a real job.” The vitriol with which this is spoken is impressive. Also, worrying. No eighteen-year-old kid should be this unhappy. “What’s the family business?” “My dad steals land from people and then puts up a fancy hotel that nobody with a blue-collar job can afford to stay at. Sometimes he adds a golf course, because he’s an asshole.” Oh boy. “Maybe, once you get close to finishing your studies, Coach Mackenzie could have a talk with your dad? It’s early days, but if you start getting scouted it might be worth having a chat with your parents. Or I could, if you wanted.” He stares at me, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in a blatant expression of mistrust. Reaching up, he scratches absently at a silver hoop in his nose. I’ve told him not to wear that fucking thing to practice a dozen times. Pick your battles, today is not the day. “No, that won’t work.” He deflates slightly, a little bit of the ire seeping away. I wonder what he would be like if all of the anger was absent. “It’s fine, I’ll figure it out myself.” “All right. But you have my number. Don’t hesitate to call.” Nico had provided the team with all of our contact information on the first day, in the event that there was an emergency that prevented the boys from making it to practice. Or, if any of th...

His voice is stiff and uncomfortable sounding. He hasn’t moved a muscle since stepping inside. “All right, well, kitchen is this way.” I place a gentle hand at his low back, inciting him to move. We walk abreast, and I’m just starting to feel pretty good about the state of cleanliness—it’s much less tidy upstairs, but he doesn’t have to know that—when Nico runs into a wall. It’s a half wall that separates the kitchen from the dining room area; a wall I’ve been meaning to knock out in order to open up the space. It’s on Nico’s right side, and I’d given him plenty of space to skirt around it when I turned into the kitchen. He hits it hard, the way someone would run into something if they were walking around an unfamiliar place blindfolded. He inhales a sharp breath, a hand on his stomach like the wind was knocked out of him. “Shit.” I reach for him, confused. “Sorry.” He opens his mouth, closes it, and then repeats the process. His eyelids shut, and his jaw clenches tight. When he speaks, his voice is as taut as a stretched rubber band. “My mistake. I didn’t see it.” This only confuses me further. How the hell could he not see it? It’s a fucking wall. Nico’s eyes open, and my confusion turns immediately to worry. His green eyes are clouded with pain and humiliation. When he speaks, the words come out sounding choked. “I didn’t see it because I’m almost fully blind in my right eye, and partially blind in my left eye.” I freeze. Blind? This strikes me as wholly unlikely for ma...

Anthony just threw me a bone, and I’m pathetically grateful. More carefully this time, I tail him into the kitchen and lean against one of the counters as he begins pulling stuff together for dinner. While his back is to me, I rub a hand over my low stomach. I’m going to have a bruise there, though it’ll be nothing to the one on my ego. Christ, how mortifying. He’s not bringing it up, which is kind, but I can also tell it’s killing him to not ask questions. After he loads a pan of things to throw on the grill, I follow him into the backyard. He hasn’t grabbed my arm and tried to steer me around, which means Anthony ranks very highly among the short list of people who know about my eyesight. Squinting, I look around the yard, vigilantly trying to spot any possible obstacles. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be many, and I try to relax my shoulders away from where they’ve crept up toward my jaw.

He’s humming when he returns, a habit of his I’ve noticed several times. I wish I found it more annoying that I do.

The proverbial elephant in the room feels enormous. “You can ask, if you want. It’s okay.” I look over at Anthony, and find him already watching me, eyes fixed on my mouth. When I stop talking, he meets my eyes. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says earnestly. I feel a stab of pain at these words, even though they were delivered with compassion. Every damn thing in my life makes me uncomfortable. “It’s okay,” I repeat. He doesn’t speak again for a few minutes, and I let him have his silence. God knows I’d rather sit here in the quiet than answer questions about my disability. “I never was much of a science guy, so forgive me if this is a stupid question. But if the visor injuries were what damaged your eyes…why can you still partially see?” “Ah. That’s a good question, actually. I did get a corneal abrasion from the visor, but actually the most damage from that occurred to my face.” I gesture at my slim scars. His eyes barely flick toward them before settling back on my eyes. “When they first brought me back to the locker room, there was so much blood and nobody could tell what was going on. It probably looked like a scene from a horror film, and I think the immediate worry was that I’d lose an eye. Luckily, that didn’t happen. And actually, the corneal abrasions would have healed and my eyes would have been fine.” “But,” he prompts, correctly hearing the rest of that sentence. “But I got an infection, and by the time that was brought under control…I was legall...

We eat in his backyard, in the slowly waning light of the day. Anthony doesn’t ask any more questions about the accident, and Martin Tremblay doesn’t come up once. Instead, we talk about South Carolina University and Carter Morgan, and the college hockey world. Regardless of how it started, it ends up being a pleasant evening. It’s not lost on me that this might be a regular occurrence—afternoons like this—were Anthony and I to form any sort of lasting relationship. It won’t happen; can’t happen. But a nice thought, nonetheless. Plate empty in front of me, the sky throwing shafts of pink and orange light across the sky, I stretch my legs out. I feel oddly peaceful, and relaxed in a way that is unfamiliar to me. I spend so much time coiled tight with anxiety, I can hardly recognize comfort when it’s presented to me. Next to me, Anthony is reclined in his chair in a way that should look sloppy, but only makes me want to jump him. His eyes are closed, and the last vestiges of sun are angled onto his face. He needs a haircut—soon enough he’ll have to tie it back in order to see the puck. As if pulled there by an invisible string, my hand reaches out and tugs on one of those stray curls. His eyes open. “You need a haircut,” I tell him, but run another loose coil of hair between thumb and forefinger. His eyes are dark, even in the sun, and fixed on mine. “I know. I keep meaning to, but…” A small shrug and an even smaller smile. His jaw is stubbled with black hair; it takes no me...

He blushes. Actually blushes: a sudden bloom of color over his cheeks. Jesus Christ that’s fucking adorable.

He nudges me with one elbow, playfully. Then, he bends over and gets to work. He starts with broad, sweeping strokes across the paper. His hand moves confidently, and he doesn’t once stop to erase or correct anything, as far as I can tell. I also can’t tell what it’s supposed to be yet. I lean over, trying to get a better view. Fuck it—grasping the bottom of my chair, I scoot the whole thing in toward him. He doesn’t take his eyes off what he’s doing, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile.

I wait, turning around only when I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. Sitting forward once more, I look down at the sheet that he slides in front of me. It is a hockey rink, like I thought. My hockey rink, at SCU. And the figure on the ice is unmistakably me. It’s a ridiculously accurate rendering, and I have the uncomfortable sensation of looking in a mirror. A flattering mirror. He’s drawn my face in a way that makes it obvious it’s me, but also makes me look better than I do. The scars are there—one long one bisecting an eyebrow and traveling across the corner of my eye, with a few smaller ones on my forehead. Somehow, he’s made the scars the least interesting part of my face. It’s how I wish I actually looked. “That is how you look,” Anthony says, and I jolt. I hadn’t realized I’d said that last out loud. “This is incredible. I can’t believe you can do this.” I really can’t. I just watched him do it, and I can hardly believe it. Who the fuck can sit down and create something like this? Unbelievable. “Here.” He holds out a hand, and I reluctantly pass it over. I have a very strong desire to snatch it back. I want to keep it. “I need to spray it with fixative so that it doesn’t smudge.” Indeed, the pads of his fingers are black where he used them to blur the drawing. He leaves the room, but is gone for only a moment before coming back and handing me the page. “I can keep it?” I ask, trying to keep the need out of my voice. “Sure. Throw it away, keep it, whatever you want t...

“All right, time to talk about something else,” he says loudly. “Want to go upstairs and have sex?” I laugh at the transparent conversation change. I’ve laughed more in these past two weeks than I have in the past two years. “Lead the way.”

I’m not sure what mad impulse compelled me to do that. I’ve never felt comfortable showing my art to anyone, and certainly not someone I’ve only known a couple of weeks. Nico, who so often has only acerbic things to say, could very easily have torn me apart just now. Instead, he’d seemed almost awed, and went so far as to ask to keep the damn thing. I should have taken my time, really put in a good effort. Maybe I’ll ask him if I can redo it.

Damn it all, I want to kiss him so bad. Palms on his waist, I walk him back to the bed. Finally—finally—I get to run a hand over all that skin. Fingers splayed, I trace one long line from his ribs, over his hips, and down his leg as far as I can reach. He’s hard, and I’m hard, and I want so goddamn much.

Practically leaping off the bed, I head into bathroom to grab the lube. When I come back, Nico’s head is turned toward the doorway. He’s flushed, heat diffusing across his cheeks and the top of his chest. He already looks debauched, and we’ve barely gotten started.

“I like your legs,” he tells me, and runs his hands up and down. He looks like he wants to lean forward and take a bite.

I have to remind myself not to collapse and sit on top of him, cognizant of his narrower frame and my bulk. If I thought he’d looked depraved before, it’s nothing compared to how he looks now: lips swollen, eyes glassy, and hair damp with sweat. Sitting gingerly back on his thighs, I drop my head into the crook of his neck. I need a second to fucking breathe. He smells like sex and Dove soap, and me. Nico’s hands, tentative and featherlight, coast up my back. The touch is so delicate, compared to what we just did, it feels almost loving. And so begins the wishful thinking portion of tonight’s events.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, and holy shit, is that a smile I see? “Since when?” “Since I’ve been with anyone. Years, in fact.” He says this with not a trace of shame. “The last time I touched a dick that wasn’t my own was before the accident. Before the hospital.” “Why?” “I wasn’t in the right headspace afterward, I guess. Couldn’t find the right person.” I want to ask if he’s found the right person now, but bite my tongue. I’ve already toed the line with the post-sex cuddling; saying shit like that would send me hurtling over the edge.

“Thank you for the ride,” Nico says, probably trying to say goodbye in the car and keep me from walking him to the door. I undo my seatbelt and am out of the vehicle before he can call me back. Meeting him on the passenger side, we walk side by side to his door. I don’t grab his hand, but I want to. Nobody has ever accused me of being smart. “No problem. Thank you for the multiple, mind-blowing orgasms.” Nico gives a startled laugh, which feels better than holding his hand probably ever could. I watch him walk inside, trying not to feel awkward about being left on the front stoop. I hadn’t been expecting him to invite me inside, but I can’t pretend that I didn’t want him to. I contemplate calling Troy or Sam, to pass the time on the drive home. Maybe Corwin, although he and Nigel had been planning on heading out of town today. It’s not until I’m merging onto the highway that I realize I don’t want to talk to just anyone; I want to talk to Nico.

The rest of the week passes by in a blur of hockey and sex. I leave my house in the morning, and don’t return until the other side of midnight. Nico and I don’t go back to my place, but fall into a routine of going to his after camp finishes for the day. One would think, based on the sheer volume of orgasms alone, that I’d be satisfied, but I’m not. In fact, my want is only getting worse. A craving I can’t fulfill, no matter how much I eat. I’m sleeping like shit, despite being dead tired by the time I get home. The second my head hits the pillow in my empty bed, alone in my empty house, sleep is impossible. It’s not being alone that bothers me, per se, not when I’ve spent my entire adult life living alone. No, what’s bothering me is the fact that I really shouldn’t have to be alone. My relationship with Nico, three weeks strong, is the longest running relationship I’ve ever had. And it’s not even fucking real. Nico remains irritatingly steadfast, never giving me more than an inch. And even that, I have to work for. We go to practice, eat dinner, fuck a couple times, and I leave. Like goddamn clockwork. A tiny sliver of shame has lodged itself in my sternum, and every night of sleep I lose it grows a little bigger. This thing between Nico and I isn’t just a hook up, not to me. Sounds like you might be setting yourself up for heartbreak, Sam had told me. Looks like he’s going to owe me an I told you so, before this is through.

Before they skate off, Vas taps his stick on Morgan’s leg pads, and Morgan offers a glove for a fist bump. I almost cheer in delight. If nothing else is accomplished this summer, please let me at least leave Carter Morgan with a fucking friend.

Christ, I’m in a rotten fucking mood. “How’re they doing?” Nico’s voice intrudes, adding another layer of shit to my already chaotic head. I desperately need some sleep. “Good.” He eyes me sideways, noting the tone, which says things my response didn’t. “And you?” “Fine.” His eyes narrow. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are we going to keep playing this game?” “You love games, though, right? You and all your rules.” His eyebrows wing up, almost comically. “This isn’t the time or the place, Anthony.” “Nice shot, Vas,” I call, skating forward and ignoring Nico. It burns me how much I like him. I like him so fucking much I hate him.

He’s beside me, so close his shoulder brushes mine. I want to lean into him so badly.

I look at him. There is a small cut on his jaw where he must have nicked himself shaving this morning. His light brown hair shines under the artificial light of the rink. I hope he doesn’t have a headache, and the fact that the thought popped into my mind at all makes me grind my teeth.

“No,” I interrupt, because I’d rather go sleepless for a week then miss a single night with Nico.

I consider sending them all home early several times, but discard that thought. It’s born from a desire to be at home with Anthony, and that’s a desire I’m trying not to look too closely at.

“You good?” Anthony’s sandpaper voice has me turning to the left. I’ve noticed that he only advances on my left side when he approaches me now. I know he’s trying to give me the best chance at seeing him, and the knowledge makes me feel a little dizzy. It’s a remarkably thoughtful thing to do, and something that most people wouldn’t have considered. “I’m good.” A lie—at best, I’m fine. At worst, I’m about to spend the night sick with a migraine. “You don’t have a headache?” he asks, and then shrugs when I give him a questioning look. “You’ve been squinting more than normal, and I saw you shield your eyes a couple times like the lights were bothering you.” He points toward the ceiling helpfully. “Oh. Well, yes, now that you mention it, I do have a headache. But it’s fine.” “I’ll get you some soup,” is all Anthony says to that, before sitting down on the bench to remove his skates. I’m not sure how soup is supposed to solve this particular problem, but now that he’s mentioned it, it does sound good.

“Chicken noodle soup,” he tells me, grabbing two of my bowls and placing them on the counter. When I reach for the bags to help him, he places gentle hands on my hips and steers me away. “Sit. I’ll do it.” I don’t tell him that I don’t need him to take care of me because, frankly, it feels nice. It feels like something a boyfriend might do for you, an inner voice whispers. I ignore it, and sit down. Closing my eyes, I listen to the soft sounds of Anthony serving up the soup and preparing tea. It’s not lost on me that I didn’t even have to ask him to do that—he just knew that’s what I would want.

Nothing I don’t like about him, actually. And how dangerous is that?

I hadn’t turned the lamp off when we came in, so it’s light enough to see his face; there are pillow imprints on his cheek, and his hair is flattened on one side. It’s infuriatingly cute.

It is one of the more enjoyable days we’ve had at camp. Predictably, the boys are excited to see Corwin and Troy, though pretend to be unconcerned. Morgan, of course, treats them with the same hostile wariness he treats everyone with. Although Corwin, in particular, seems to hold his attention; more than once, I catch Morgan staring at him when he should be watching the puck. “Hey.” I whack my stick against his leg pads to get his attention. “Pay attention.” “I am,” Morgan replies, and then turns to fish a puck out of his net—proof that he hadn’t been paying attention. I raise my eyebrows at him and he huffs, rolling his eyes into the back of his head. “Dude, I had no idea Corwin Sanhover was such a babe.” “Don’t call me dude. And—what?” “Sorry, Tony. Seriously though,” he casts an appraisingly look at Corwin’s backside, and I have the urge to smack him upside the head, “I’ve seen him play on TV, but damn. Doesn’t exactly prepare you for the real thing, does it?” “Stop staring at him.” I hit his pads again, more firmly. “Aw, it’s okay Tony. You’re pretty, too.” He gives me a pouty look, and pats his gloved hand on my shoulder. “All right, shit head, knock it off. Back in the crease.” I shove him, sending him sliding backward on his skates. “Troy! Get over here and fire some bullets at my goalie.”

By the time practice ends, I’m in a riotously good mood. Nico, walking beside me, doesn’t outwardly appear to be riding the same high as me, but he’s not scowling, either. Plus, I’ve somehow convinced him to go out to dinner with me. The sun seems to be shining down on me today, and I mean to capitalize on it. “All right, what do we feel like?” I ask, buckling my seat belt and looking across the car at Nico. “Whatever you like.” “The Tailored Hem?” I suggest. He looks at me. “You want to go to a gay bar for dinner? Just the two of us.” Before he can remind me of the no public dates rule, I speak over him. “Good burgers, remember?” “Sure. Let’s go there.” Grinning, I pull out of the parking lot. This is abso-fucking-lutely a date.

I feel bad. Nico functions perfectly normal as far as I can tell, so it’s easy to forget he’s got such a debilitating impairment. I need to be better—make sure I’m not walking him into situations he’ll struggle with. The last thing I want is for him to be uncomfortable.

We apply ourselves to eating, then, and conversation fades to background noise and idle chitchat. It feels less like an awkward date, and more like how I imagine dinners at Troy’s or Corwin’s go. It’s comfortable, and I can greatly see the appeal. Getting to know someone is exhausting, and after having done it so many times I’m pretty well sick of it. I want someone to stick, and I want that someone to be Nico. God help me.

As he usually does, he rests his head back and closes his eyes. This, I know, isn’t an effort to get me to leave him alone, or any sort of rudeness. Rather, it’s him resting his eyes. Like always, I let him do this in peace, knowing also that he could probably use a break from conversation after yelling at hockey players all day.

“I agree.” Reaching across the console, I nudge his knee. “See? Looks like you’ve got good instincts about people after all.” “Subtle,” he says, and reaches back over to my side of the car to rest his hand on my thigh. Surprise shoots through me, my hands jerking the steering wheel unnecessarily and almost veering across the center line. Heart pounding, I wait for him to remove it. He doesn’t, and I’m so absurdly grateful I could cry. Nico, completely unaware of the havoc that hand on my leg is causing, lapses back into silence and closes his eyes once more. Giddiness rushes through my veins like a straight endorphin injection. I’m so impatient to get to his house I miss the exit and have to take a detour, adding an extra fifteen minutes onto our journey.

I can’t bring myself to let go of his hand, where it’s still holding his above our heads. He doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the soothing rub of his thumb over my palm. It’s almost sweet, and my throat feels a little tight at the thought. I don’t want to evaluate my feelings about Nico too closely, and most certainly not when he’s lying naked and sweaty beneath me. Turning my head, I lay my cheek on his shoulder, close my eyes, and breathe.