Page 18 of The Fall

Blair maps my soul, navigates the secret places of my body. He molds himself to me, and I wrap myself around him, ankles locking at the small of his back. I’m shameless, begging him for more, deeper, closer, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.

“Blair.” I’m undone. Unmade. “Blair, please, please...” I shatter into him, splintering into a million glittering pieces. He works me through it, wrings out every last tremor and aftershock.

When I finally drift back into myself, he’s stretched out beside me, tracing patterns on my sweat-soaked skin with his fingertips. His head is propped in his other hand, and he’s watching me, a satisfied smile curving his swollen lips.

“Back with me?” he asks, his voice low and rough, thick with—fuck—me.

I’m still floating, my nerves singing, but I need to feel him, and—more than that—taste him.

I surge up, capture his lips, lick into his mouth. He opens to me beautifully, groaning as he falls back to the bed.

It’s too easy to climb on top of him. I don’t even think, don’t second guess. I strip away his sweats in one swift pull, then settle into his lap. Suddenly, we’re skin-to-skin, every inch pressed together, every hard plane and coiled muscle. His heat, his strength, it’s all mine, all beneath me.

I nip at his jaw, his throat, kiss across his chest. I want to take him apart, untether him the way he undoes me. He looks sculpted, every line defined, panting and flushed beneath my lips. Down his body I go.

“Torey...” He arches into my touch and fists the pillow over his head.

I wrap my hand around his cock, feel the smooth velvet over hot iron. He bucks and curses, a tremor running through him as he whispers my name. And, God, there’s power in that. I’m bringing Blair Callahan to the brink with my touch.

I want to take my time, taste every inch, like I’ve fantasized about nonstop. I also want everything, right now, all at once. I want it all, a full year of everything I’ve lost. I have no idea where to start.

Right here. I slither down, kneel between his legs, and take him into my mouth, as deep as I can.

The feel of him on my tongue is indescribable. I pull back slowly, dragging my lips along his cock, savoring the salt-sweet taste of him. I swirl my tongue around his head, tracing the ridge, dipping into the slit.

“Fuck, Torey...”

I look up through my lashes as I take him in again, centimeter by agonizing centimeter. His pupils are blown. I hollow my cheeks and suck. His head falls back, the tendons in his neck standing out.

I slide my hands up his thighs. His muscles quiver beneath my touch. Each time I take him deeper, until his head brushes the back of my throat. I pull off with an obscene pop, my lips swollen and wet. I need to catch my breath.

He cries out. He’s glistening and desperate, and I love that I can shatter his control.

I lick a long, slow stripe from base to tip, then take only his head between my lips, sucking while my hand works his shaft.

I hollow my cheeks and swirl my tongue, lose myself in the slide and suction, revel in the feel of him gliding over my tongue.

I moan around him, press my tongue flat against the underside.

He’s gasping, whispering my name over and over. He’s close.

How good am I at this? How much can I take? I hum and take him deeper, swallow him all the way down.

He shatters on a silent scream and floods my mouth.

Apparently I’m pretty good.

And I fucking love it. I swallow greedily, taking every drop, everything he can give me. He trembles and twitches, pants and moans, as I keep sucking him dry.

When he tugs me up, I melt into his arms as he kisses me, chasing his taste on my tongue. We trade lazy kisses back and forth, basking in the afterglow until he rolls us, tucking me into his side with my head pillowed on his chest. I burrow closer, tangling our legs.

It scares me how deep this love runs when I have no memory of how we got here. Every atom of me is oriented toward him. He is my North Star.

This is what it feels like to be cherished, to be wanted for everything you are and everything you aren’t yet, but could be, if only?—

If only has arrived, though. I’m here, I’m living it. This is my life, my beautiful, wondrous, amazing life. With Blair.

The missing pieces don’t matter. The uncertainty and the fear—all of it falls away. This is everything.

I’m complete.

The ice is calling me and I’m ready to answer.

Our locker room in Philadelphia is on fire. The guys are buzzing around me, taping sticks and lacing up skates. The stench of sweat and ripe gear fills the room, mixing with the sound of torn tape and our pump-up jams. It’s a smell I’ve missed, a smell that reminds me of home, of where I belong.

Hollow’s shouting something to Axel. Hawks is beatboxing. Divot and Simmer are stretching, but their stretching looks like they’re trying to breakdance in skates. It all rolls through me, wave after wave after wave. I’m part of it, part of this family.

“Kicks, you good?” Hawks asks, bumping my shoulder with his.

“Yeah, man. Ready to get out there.” I lace up my skates, but my eyes are wandering.

There he is, pulling his jersey over his head in the middle of a bubble of defensemen. Blair’s stall sits a few down—far enough that we won’t get caught staring, close enough that I feel him. He’s a tide, constantly pulling me in.

His searing blues meet mine. Our gazes hold?—

Desire. That’s the first thing that breaks over me. The memories from earlier, before the game. God, the taste of him is still on my tongue. He’s everywhere, even when he’s not beside me. He breathes with me, every inhale and every exhale.

He smiles, that slow smile that unmoors my world. His gaze sears straight to my heart. Heat skims under my skin, restless. I drop to one knee, fidget with my skate laces. Tie them, retie them.

This feeling rushes through me: fire and ice, flying and free fall, thunder and silence. I can’t define it, can’t describe it. It’s Blair, it’s the game, it’s this team. It’s everything, a whole year compressed into these breaths, my own life right in front of me, waiting for me to step inside it.

It’s a primal need: to be on the ice with Blair, to match him stride for stride, to be there for every pass, every check, every goddamn breath. To be with him.

Coach strides in. “All right, boys, listen up!” His voice cuts through the chatter, silencing everyone.

“We’ve got a big one tonight. Philly’s hungry, but we’re hungrier.

Go out there and make ‘em pay.” He runs through the lines.

“Emerson, you’re with Simmer. Novak, you’re with Divot.

” A pause. He looks at me. “Kicks, you’re centering Calle’s line. ”

“Yes, Coach,” I boom back.

“We need to match their intensity from the drop of the puck.” Coach claps his hands together. “Let’s get it done, boys!”

The room erupts. An itch to move, to glide, to fly starts in my legs.

The arena roars to life as we troop down the visitors’ tunnel and out onto the ice. The rink is dark, save for the glow of Philadelphia’s team colors swirling over the ice as the home team skates out. Thousands of voices rise in a swell of cheers, filling each space between my heartbeats.

Everything is raining down on me: the roar of the crowd, the biting cold, the smell of ice. I breathe it all in, let it fill me up.

The back of Blair’s glove brushes against me as we stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the blue line. His touch steadies me, centers me. “Ready?” he asks.

“I’m going to give you everything,” I promise him. Everything, everything I have, everything I am.

At center ice, right before puck-drop, our eyes meet, and I see the reflection of my own untamed heart in his gaze.

It’s him and me.

The puck drops.