Page 20 of Cross Ice

When I opened the door at his knock, Nico was standing there with that smile that did stupid things to my pulse. A dark blue Henley stretched across broad shoulders, jeans that made my mouth go dry.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I missed you,” he said, stepping inside.

“It’s only been three days,” I teased.

“I know.” His gaze dropped to my lips. “Still missed you.”

He kissed me slowly, hands framing my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. I let myself get lost in it.

We made it to the bedroom. Barely. Clothes shed in a trail across my organized living space, and what followed was different from the first two times—less urgent, more deliberate. He took us both in hand and kept his eyes on my face the entire time, like he was more interested in what I looked like than in anything else. That was the part that undid me. Not the friction of skin against skin, which was considerable, but the specific attention of someone who wanted to see exactly what he was doing to me.

After he cleaned me up, we lay facing each other, catching our breath, Nico tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder.

“I should probably feed you,” I said eventually. “I was planning to make stir-fry.”

“You cook?” He propped himself up on one elbow to look at me.

“Simple meals.” I sat up and reached for my clothes. “Give me thirty minutes?”

“I’ll help.”

The evening dissolved into something easy and domestic with stir-fry, a small dining table, surface conversation about our weeks that felt important anyway, and Nico asking for Friday and Monday before he left. Five times in just over a week. Not casual. Something else. I said yes before I’d fully decided to, and afterward I sat alone on my couch and tried to figure out what that meant.

Friday night, Nico showed up at my door with Thai takeout and that smile that made my knees weak.

“I thought we could skip the cooking,” he said, holding up the bag.

“Works for me.”

We ate on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, some baking show playing on TV that neither of us was really watching. Nico sat close enough that our thighs touched, and every point of contact felt electric.

“How was your week?” I asked.

“Good. Busy.” He stabbed a shrimp in his Pad Thai. “Had a couple of intense events. Wednesday’s was rough.”

Events. I filed that away. Another placeholder where a real answer should have been. Events of what? Training implied a gym, something physical. But he traveled for it, worked Saturday nights, kept hours that didn’t fit any kind of training schedule I could map. I didn’t push. But I stored it.

He set his takeout container on the coffee table and pulled me to him. The kiss was deep and slow, tasting tangy-sweet from the Pad Thai. When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

“Come here,” he said. Not a question.

He walked me backward through the bedroom door, peeling off my clothes as we went. By the time we reached the bed, I was naked and his mouth was on my neck.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he murmured, catching my wrists gently when I reached for his shirt.

Something in his voice, commanding but warm, made my breath catch. I nodded.

He pushed me back onto the bed and stripped off his own clothes before joining me. Started kissing his way down my body with unhurried focus, like he had a destination in mind and intended to take his time getting there. When I tried to muffle a sound against my forearm, he lifted his head.

“Don’t hold back,” he said. “I want to hear everything.”

I let go of the breath I’d been holding. And the next sound he drew out of me, I let it come.

By the time he took me into his mouth, I was already trembling. He worked me slowly, deliberately, and every time I made a sound, he paused just long enough to say something quiet and ruinous—“That’s it, you’re so perfect like this”—before continuing. The praise did something to me I hadn’t expected. Made heat pool low in my gut, made me want to be good for him, made me want to hear it again.