The moment of pause allows me to look at her—hair mussed, lips swollen from my kisses, blouse falling open to reveal the curves I imagined. She's more beautiful than my memory, more real. And she's choosing to be here with me.
"You're gorgeous," I tell her, my voice rough.
"So are you," she says, working at the buttons of my shirt. "But you're wearing too many clothes."
We're not gentle with each other. Can't be, after everything. This isn't the tender exploration of our first time together or the comfortable familiarity of the mornings that followed. This is claiming. Reclaiming. A physical declaration of what we've both finally admitted we want.
My shirt joins my tie and jacket on the hallway floor. Her blouse and bra follow. My hands slide up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher, finding the edge of her underwear—simple black cotton that somehow drives me crazier than any lace could.
"These need to go," I mutter, hooking my fingers in the waistband and dragging them down her legs.
She kicks them away, then reaches for my belt, her fingers clumsy with urgency. "Fair is fair."
I help her, lifting my hips to shove my pants and boxers down, not bothering to take them all the way off. I need her too badly for finesse.
But when I move to climb over her, she plants a hand on my chest, holding me back. "Not yet."
Confused, I pause. "Lena?"
Her eyes are dark and determined. "I want to taste you first."
The words send a jolt of heat through me. But as she starts to move down my body, I catch her shoulders, gently stopping her.
"Me first," I say, and before she can protest, I shift our positions, laying her back on the hallway floor.
I take my time with her body, even as my own throbs with need. I press kisses to her neck, her collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts. She arches beneath me, hands in my hair, trying to direct me where she wants me.
"Patience," I murmur against her skin, though I have none myself.
When I finally reach her thighs, I can't help myself. I've fantasized about this since the day she moved out—about marking her pale skin, leaving evidence of my possession that only we would know about. I bite down, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to leave a mark.
She cries out, but not in protest. Her hands tighten in my hair, pulling me closer rather than pushing me away. I do itagain, a little higher, a little harder. The sound she makes is primal and needy.
"More," she demands, and it unlocks something savage inside me.
I've always been careful with lovers, mindful of my size and strength. But Lena isn't fragile and doesn't want me to be gentle right now. She wants the defender, the man who protects what's his on the ice and off it.
I nip and suck at the tender skin of her inner thighs, painting a constellation of marks that bloom pink and then darker beneath my mouth. Each one draws a gasp or moan from her, her thick legs falling wider to give me better access.
When I finally move higher, tasting her where she's wet and wanting, she nearly flies off the floor. Her back arches beautifully, a string of curses falling from her lips that would make my teammates blush.
I grip her hips, holding her in place as I devour her. There's no teasing, no drawing it out—just relentless pressure and rhythm that has her climbing toward release with stunning speed.
"Alder," she gasps, her thighs trembling against my shoulders. "I'm going to?—"
"Let go," I urge against her most sensitive spot. "Let me feel you."
Her orgasm crashes through her with an intensity that surprises us both. She cries out my name, her body shaking, hands fisted in my hair almost painfully. I work her through it, easing only when she tugs me away, suddenly oversensitive.
I rise to my knees, lifting her with me. We're still in the hallway, half-clothed and fully desperate. I want more space and more comfort for what comes next.
"Living room," I decide, scooping her into my arms.
She comes willingly, wrapping around me as I carry her the short distance to the larger space. I lay her on the soft rugin front of the couch, taking a moment to admire the mess I’ve made of her.
This time, I take a more measured approach. I kiss each part of her methodically, relearning the geography of her body. The curve of her waist, the soft plane of her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. She watches me through heavy-lidded eyes, letting me explore without rushing me.
"I missed touching you," I confess between kisses. "Missed the way you feel under my hands."
