Butterfly Page 20

  Felix choked on his laugh. “They say romance is dead,” he teased, and Fisher grinned at him, settling on his knees between Felix’s thighs.

  He stroked a hand over the muscle, squeezing and kneading, and Felix spread his legs more, a wordless invitation.

  “Condoms,” Fisher said suddenly. “Fuck, I don’t—do you have any?”

  Felix shook his head. “There’s been no one but you since we met,” he said, suddenly shy with the confession, but Fisher’s eyes softened.

  “Me too, you know that, right?”

  “I… hoped,” Felix admitted. “But I didn’t know how to ask.”

  “It’s easy,” Fisher said, that teasing light back in his eyes. “You just say, ‘Fisher, I’m in love with you and I want to be monogamous.’ See? Easy.”

  Felix thumped his shoulder, making Fisher laugh. “Easy when you know the answer, maybe,” he retorted. “Not so much when it could have driven you away permanently.”

  Fisher’s smile slid off his face. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so stupid. If we’d just talked—”

  “Enough,” Felix ordered. “No more blame. Make love to me, Fisher.”

  “I can do that,” Fisher said. He nudged Felix’s thighs apart a little more, settling between them with his thick brows drawn together. Studying the situation. Love swelled in Felix’s chest, making it hard to breathe, and he tilted his hips in a wordless invitation.

  Fisher’s lips quirked absently and he uncapped the bottle of lube, spilling a generous amount into his palm. His finger was wet and cold when it touched Felix’s skin but it warmed quickly as Fisher traced small circles around his hole.

  Felix squirmed, planting his heels on the bed and trying to push into the contact, but Fisher would not be rushed. He put his dry hand on Felix’s knee, steadying him maybe, grounding them both, and stroked the sensitive skin behind Felix’s balls with his finger, pressing and retreating until Felix was breathless and desperate.

  Finally, Fisher seemed to relent, adding more lube before sliding a finger knuckle-deep inside. The noise Felix made was definitely not dignified, and Fisher’s lips twitched again, eyes still intent on his work as he slid deeper, bit by bit until his knuckles were pressed against Fisher’s ass.

  “You feel so good,” he whispered. “You’re so hot, so tight.” He pumped his finger in and out a few times and Felix groaned, reaching for himself. Fisher slapped his hand away. “Not yet. Not until I’m inside you.”

  “You’re—ah—inside me now,” Felix panted. “Please, I need to—”

  “You can hold on,” Fisher said calmly. “Can’t you? For me?”

  It took Felix a few minutes controlling his breathing before he was able to swallow and nod. Fisher smiled at him, eyes warm with pride.

  “I’ll make it worth it,” he promised, and added a finger.

  Felix’s grasp on reality dissolved, awareness narrowing down to Fisher working him open on his fingers, murmuring encouragement and endearments under his breath as if he wasn’t even aware of it.

  His skin felt tight, too tight for his body, a pressure coiling in his chest tied directly to the ache in his balls. He writhed, fist jammed against his mouth. He thought vaguely Fisher was up to three fingers, but he couldn’t be sure. All he could process was the relentless push-pull, splitting him open and filling him up.

  “I think you’re ready,” Fisher said, and Felix whimpered as he pulled his fingers free. Fisher petted his knee, soothing him as he shuffled forward. His eyes were still so intent on his task, slicking his cock and lining up, and Felix reached for him without thinking, desperate suddenly to kiss him.

  Fisher leaned back from his grasping hands, lips quirking. “Wait, baby, wait—” He pushed and the head of his cock slipped inside, making them both groan. Fisher tilted forward, sliding deeper and planting his elbows on either side of Felix’s head, fully blanketing his body.

  “Now I can kiss you,” he said, and rolled his hips at the same time. His nose brushed Felix’s cheek as their mouths met, breath mingling hot and desperate, and Felix made a noise like a sob as Fisher worked somehow, impossibly, deeper. He laid claim to Felix’s body, touching it like he owned it, tangling his hands in Felix’s hair and still kissing him, demanding everything from him. Felix gave it gladly, his own hands roaming over Fisher’s biceps, his shoulders, everything he could reach. He exulted in the feel of satin skin under his fingers as Fisher fucked him, slow and deep, the movement of his hips pulling Felix closer to the edge with each thrust.

  His orgasm was wound tight, caught in his chest. He was going to come any second now, without even a hand on him, and he wasn’t ready for it, he didn’t want it to be over.

  “Stop, stop,” he gasped, and Fisher went still instantly, lifting his head. There was horror in his eyes.

  “Am I hurting you?” He tried to pull away and Felix wrapped his legs around Fisher’s hips, yanking him back.

  “Don’t—just need—” He couldn’t find the words, and damn him, Fisher saw it, realization dawning on his face mingled with delight.

  “I made you forget your pretty words,” he said. Crowed, really, and Felix would punch him for it, or kiss the stupid grin off his face, but all he could do was pant for air, Fisher still so hard and thick inside him that he thought he might shake apart right where he was. He fumbled for Fisher’s head, pulling him down into a clumsy kiss, trying to pour everything he was feeling into it.

  Somehow, Fisher got it. He kissed him back, lips and tongue sweet, cupping Felix’s face. When he rolled his hips, Felix gasped. Fisher raised an eyebrow.

  “You want me to keep going?”

  Felix just nodded, still unable to find words, and Fisher grinned briefly. Then he pulled out and slammed home, and Felix’s eyes rolled back in his head. He arched into it, grasping desperately at any part of Fisher he could touch. Heels scrabbled in the sheets. Hands tangled in hair. Fisher grunted with each thrust, eyes gone distant as he chased his pleasure.

  Felix had been riding the knife-edge for so long that he couldn’t pinpoint the moment he tipped over. It felt like unspooling, thread being pulled from its container, unwinding in his chest as his entire body lit up with it. His toes curled, every muscle locking up as he rode the bliss. Dimly, he heard Fisher swear, thick and choked, and redouble his efforts, fucking him through it until Felix collapsed back against the bed, abruptly boneless.

  Fisher slowed and then stopped, buried deep inside him. Felix opened his eyes, blinking until he could focus. There was urgency in Fisher’s eyes, but he didn’t move.

  Felix licked his lips. He felt so good, liquid and warm, well and truly fucked out. “Do it,” he rasped.

  Fisher groaned raggedly and dropped his face into Felix’s throat as he began to thrust again. His breath was hot, mingled filth and endearments falling from his mouth. Felix welcomed the overstimulation, shivering as Fisher stiffened and drove deep, freezing.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, shuddering all over, and spilled in Felix’s core. His arms shook from the effort of holding himself up, body rigid, and Felix pulled on him until Fisher groaned and collapsed on top of him.

  It was several minutes before either of them could speak or move. Felix let himself drift, Fisher’s body a heavy, welcome blanket.

  Finally, though, Fisher stirred, lifting his head. “Fucking Christ,” he said wonderingly. “I always wondered why people made a big deal about makeup sex. I think I get it now.” He nosed along Felix’s jaw, and Felix stretched beneath him and turned to capture his mouth.

  “Have to shower again,” he said after a minute.

  Fisher wrinkled his nose. “As long as we can do it together this time.”

  * * *

  They made their way into the bathroom and Felix turned the water on as Fisher rested a broad hand at the base of his spine. When the water was warm, they stepped in and Fisher muscled Felix under the spray.

  “Let me,” he said. “You’ve had a long day.”

  Tha
t made Felix laugh, as water cascaded over his shoulders and chest. “I have? You were in an accident today.”

  “So you can take care of me in a minute,” Fisher said, already squeezing body wash into his palm.

  His hands were warm and gentle as he soaped Felix up, ghosting soft over his cock and pulling him in against him to reach around and clean up the mess he’d left.

  Felix wrapped his arms around Fisher’s shoulders and held on, still half-drifting from the combination of adrenaline, exhaustion, and endorphins.

  He dragged himself back to awareness when Fisher finished rinsing him off, though, and insisted on doing the same to him. Fisher let him, a smile in his dark eyes as Felix cleaned him up, and they kissed under the spray, sleepy and languorous.

  When they were dressed, Fisher helped him strip the bed and change the linens before they climbed back in. Felix curled up against Fisher’s chest, sleep tugging at him.

  Still, there was something else to be said.

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “Hmm?” Fisher’s nose was in Felix’s damp curls and he didn’t seem inclined to move.

  “This. Us.” Felix tucked his fingers in the hem of Fisher’s shirt. “The—my fans. They will say… things. Hurtful—they’ll judge you, Fisher, say vicious things about you.”

  Fisher tightened his grip. “I can’t control what anyone else says or does,” he said, voice a low rumble in Felix’s ear. “If they’re jealous, that’s their problem. I won’t read the comments, okay? I promise.”

  Felix nodded fractionally against his chest. “They don’t speak for me.”

  That startled a laugh from Fisher. “I know that, or we wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Felix leaned back enough to see his face. “I heard you lost your job.”

  “Mm.” Fisher traced a line down Felix’s backbone. “Did you hear I got another one? A better one? The pay’s better, the staff is incredible, and half of them are queer too. Plus Wren left Saint Mary’s and got a job at the new place. She’s not my assistant, but I still see her every day, eat lunch and talk hockey with her.” His eyes were keen. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about why the head of Primrose House called me for an interview, would you?”

  Felix ducked his head, burying his face in Fisher’s shirt. “Primrose House?” he said, trying for a normal tone. “Is it a good school?”

  “It is.” Fisher sounded amused. “It’s so good, in fact, that Roderick Murphy’s children attend it. You might know him? Saint’s winger?”

  Felix gave up. “I might have asked Roddy to put in a good word for you. Suggest you for consideration. It was actually Saint’s idea.”

  Fisher tipped his face up and kissed him. “Even when we were apart, you were trying to take care of me,” he murmured.

  “I felt responsible,” Felix admitted, and hurried on when Fisher’s brows drew down. “If you hadn’t been so upset when that asshole showed up, you might have been more… temperate. Been able to turn him down without risking your job.”

  “No.” Fisher shook his head. “I was never going to get out of that situation easily. It’s not on you. And anyway, it’s behind us. I have a much better job now, one where you can come eat lunch with me sometimes if you want. Although Wren will probably faint dead away when she finally meets you properly.”

  Felix laughed and tucked his face into Fisher’s throat again. “I look forward to it.” He closed his eyes, finally able to let himself relax, and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

  Epilogue

  “Fisher, what are we doing here?” Wren’s voice was about an octave higher than usual. “Why did you tell me to bring my skates? I thought you didn’t skate at all!”

  “I don’t,” Fisher said, ushering her through the sliding doors into the foyer of the practice rink. “But some friends of mine do. I thought it might be fun if you skated with them.”

  Wren’s eyes went huge and she stopped dead. “Fisher. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

  Fisher played dumb. “Didn’t what?”

  “Fisher.” Wren sounded nearly hysterical and Fisher took pity.

  “It’s just a few of them,” he said. “And they’re all really nice. Plus you already know Kasha, and you’ve met Saint.”

  Wren buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe this,” she said, muffled through her palms.

  “Look, you only have yourself to blame,” Fisher said, and Wren snapped her head up to glare at him.

  “How do you figure?”

  “You shouldn’t have told me how much you love playing and how you thought about going pro before you decided to go into teaching instead.” Fisher shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “If you think about it, it’s pretty obvious this is all your fault.”

  Wren’s mouth worked. “I can’t decide whether to hug you or murder you,” she finally said.

  “Hug,” Fisher said instantly, and held his arms out. Wren launched herself into them and Fisher laughed, holding her tight. “I love you,” he said against her hair.

  Wren sniffled and pulled away, eyes suspiciously bright. “Love you too. Am I really gonna skate with Saint?”

  “Well, if you actually get geared up, yeah.” Fisher gave her a gentle push toward the locker room. “They’re already waiting, get going!”

  * * *

  Several players were in the middle of the ice and Felix was between the pipes when Fisher got to the rink itself and made his way down to the side nearest him. Felix caught sight of him and his eyes lit behind his mask. He skated over, pushing his helmet to the back of his head, and Fisher leaned over the boards to meet him with a kiss.

  “Hi,” he said. He was grinning like a fool and he didn’t care.

  “Hi yourself.” Felix’s curls were disheveled, peeking out from his helmet, and his eyes were bright with his smile. “Is she here?”

  “Getting her skates on. Completely losing her shit, of course, so be nice.”

  “I’m always nice!” Felix protested. “I can’t speak for Caz, though.”

  “Mean as a snake, that one,” Saint agreed as he skated nearer. He smiled at Fisher, who returned it.

  “I’m telling your boyfriend,” Felix said, and shoved him. They tussled briefly, grabbing at each other’s jerseys and skidding back and forth on their skates as Carmine approached and gave Fisher an eye-roll of solidarity.

  “It’s always like this,” he said, sounding longsuffering, and Felix freed himself from Saint’s grip and punched him in the shoulder.

  Wren came out the side door and made her way toward them, everything in her bearing screaming uncertainty.

  “Wren!” Kasha shouted, and bolted for her. He scrambled over the boards and scooped her up in a huge bearhug as she shrieked and clung to his shoulders.

  “Don’t drop me, asshole!”

  Kasha set her back on her feet, a huge smile on his face.

  “Wow,” Felix said. “I don’t think he’s ever looked at anyone but Saint that dopily before. Saint, you have competition.”

  Kasha bent to say something in Wren’s ear, her hands still on his shoulders, and she laughed, cupping his face and kissing him.

  “Oh, well that explains it,” Saint said under his breath as Fisher resisted the urge to cheer.

  Wren’s blush reached the tips of her ears when they turned to the group, but no one teased her for it. Instead Saint opened the door for her to step out on the ice and gestured for everyone to gather around.

  “I was thinking we’d do a game of two on two,” he said. “Me, Caz, Kasha, and Wren. Felix is goalie for both teams.”

  “Twice the work,” Felix complained.

  Saint ignored him. “Wren, who do you want for your partner?”

  “Uh.” Wren shifted her weight and shot an apologetic look at Kasha. “You, if that’s okay?” she said, looking back at Saint. “Sorry, babe,” she added to Kasha, who looked baffled.

  “Why you’re apologize? Saint is best. Is right you pl
ay with him.”

  “So me and Wren, and Caz with Kasha,” Saint said. “No-contact, we’re not breaking the best thing to ever happen to Kasha today, kids.”

  Wren shot an agonized look at Fisher, violently scarlet, and Fisher grinned.

  Even to Fisher’s inexperienced eye, it was obvious the men were slowing down their moves for Wren. But it didn’t take long before she was showing off some moves of her own, ducking around Carmine to send the puck to Saint, or feinting Kasha before snatching the puck off his stick. Saint whooped when she pulled that maneuver, and Wren blasted it over Felix’s shoulder to hit the back of the net.

  Maybe he was moving slower to give her a chance, but when Saint caught her in a celebratory hug, Kasha quickly joining them, the smile on Wren’s face was so wide it had to have hurt, and Fisher’s eyes stung.

  “What is this, the minor leagues?” an unfamiliar voice said. It was drenched with disdain, and Fisher turned to see a tall man with blond curls and icy blue eyes, a bag over his shoulder and lip curled.

  “Who’s asking?” Fisher said, straightening.

  The man gave him a look up and down and clearly dismissed him. “Simon,” he said. “I’m here to talk to Saint.”

  “Well, Saint’s a little busy,” Fisher said. “But they’ll probably be done soon.”

  Simon blew out an irritated breath. “Fucking figures. Not like anyone around here takes the game seriously anyway.”

  Fisher narrowed his eyes. Simon wasn’t even looking at him, glaring out across the ice at the players, who hadn’t noticed his arrival.

  “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Can’t believe this is my fucking life. Waiting for a spoiled child.”

  “Are you referring to Saint?” Fisher asked, struggling to keep his temper.

  Simon sneered. “Like you haven’t seen the fits he throws when things don’t go his way. If you haven’t, give it five minutes. Guarantee you’ll get a tantrum over something. And don’t get me started on that fucking goalie. His wrist’s so limp, I don’t know how his blocker stays on.”