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He moves.
Two strides, and the space between us is gone. His hand slams flat against the tile beside my head, and my back hits the wall, cold against my shoulder blades. Icy water cascades over us both. He’s so close his chest brushes mine with every breath.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls.
His body brackets mine. My cock jerks against my stomach, and I know he feels it, because his hips shift.
The head of his cock drags across mine.
I bite down on a groan. He doesn’t. A low, wrecked sound tears out of him, and the whole length of him slides against me, hot and slick, steel against steel. The friction sears through every nerve I own. My fingers claw at the wall. My hips arch before I can stop them.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Then show me.”
His forehead drops to mine. We’re breathing the same air, panting it, sharing it. Water runs into the seam between our mouths. Our cocks press together, thick and trembling, and he rolls his hips once, slow, just enough that I see stars behind my eyes.
I lift my chin. He tilts his head. Half an inch between our lips. One of us just has to move.
“Zane! You in here?”
The voice echoes down the tile corridor, cool and clipped. Zane rips himself away like I’ve lit him on fire.
He’s across the room in three strides, snatching the towel off the hook and wrapping it around his waist with shaking hands. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anything. His chest heaves, and the flush on his neck spreads to his ears.
“Coming,” he calls. His voice cracks in half.
Then he’s gone. The door swings shut behind him, and the rush of water becomes the loudest sound on earth.
I slide down the wall until my ass hits the wet tile.
My heart slams against my ribs. My body aches, every muscle tight, my skin still buzzing where he touched me. I tip my head back and let the water hammer my face.
Tomorrow night, one way or another, this ends.
I want to believe it.
But my pulse still races, and I can’t keep lying to myself.
This isn’t the end of anything.
This is the start.
6
ZANE
The tape cuts into my wrists, tight enough to hurt. Good. Hurt, I understand.
Dan winds the last strip around my left hand and smooths it flat with his thumb. Across the locker room, Jason leans against the lockers with his arms folded, watching me like I’m a horse he bet the house on.
“You slept?” Dan asks.
“Some.”
“Liar.” He tears the tape with his teeth. “You’ve got bags under your eyes big enough to check at an airport.”
I don’t answer. I pull my hand from his grip, uncap the marker, and write my father’s initials on the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point. R.B. I do it every fight. Tonight the letters wobble.
