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Henri startled. He lifted a hand to his cheek, and it came away damp. “Oh,” he said. He was crying. That was embarrassing.

But before he could sniffle and wipe away the evidence—too late, anyway—his wine was gently plucked away, and he was in Everett’s arms.

“Tell me about your mom,” Everett soothed. “Tell me about Quebec.”

Tell me about when you were last happy, it felt like he was saying. Henri trembled, biting back a whine. So he talked, half the time not even sure if it was English or French or a mix of both that tumbled out, but he talked and talked until his voice felt hoarse. But it didn’t hurt to dredge all of it up the way it usually did. He was safe because no one would hurt him when he was safe in Dylan Everett’s arms.

He fell asleep like that, imagining himself back on a sailboat with his parents at his side, a hockey medal around his neck, with the draft a distant blot on the horizon he was still moving toward instead of running away from.

CHAPTER 33

Henri woke up in stages. He was bone-deep tired, the kind that hinted at a lot of travel and hockey lately, but there was something deeper than that. A rawer exhaustion that he couldn’t place as easily, though he was no stranger to it. He woke up, warm and safe and relaxed despite the exhaustion, so he allowed himself to drift back under. He didn’t dream, and he was thankful for it.

The next time consciousness nudged at him, he was able to perceive more of the world around him. Heat radiated from beneath him. The gentle rise and fall of breathing synced to his own. A heartbeat, slow and steady, that soothed him more than it had any right to. And fingers running through his hair, pressing gently but firmly along his scalp. The ghost of a kiss on his forehead, whispers of words not fully formed.

This, he thought, was a dream worth holding onto, so he buried his nose into prickly stubble and breathed in a decidedly masculine scent. This was a kind of heaven he rarely got, so he willed himself back to sleep so he could enjoy it a few moments longer.

The third and final time, there was no retreating back to sleep. He was hard, morning wood pressed enticingly against a warm body, and though he couldn’t remember whose body it was or the exact circumstances of where he’d fallen asleep, Henri’s hips thrust forward greedily.

The movement was met with a groan, throaty and sinful, and Henri answered it with another thrust. The hand that’d been so gently massaging his head froze, fingers digging in with more pressure than before. Not painful, just harsh, and that was what finally alerted Henri to the fact that this might not be a dream after all.

He stilled. His mind cast a net for all the scattered pieces of the previous night. Any clue to explain who was under him and how much trouble he was in right now.

Then a hand tilted his head up, and when Henri dared blink his eyes open, he was met with the bright blue depths of Dylan Everett staring up at him.

“Oh,” Henri said, and immediately regretted it. This was both a best- and worst-case scenario. Best because Everett was too nice to hold this against Henri, even if there was some unintentional fallout. Worst because of the obvious way it would haunt Henri for the rest of his life, how very close he got to bliss reminding him how very far he truly was. “I’m sorry. I⁠—”

And then, instead of cutting him off with the firm ‘We’ll pretend this didn’t happen’ Henri expected, the hand in Henri’s hair slid down to the nape of his neck and drew him in. Slowly, deliberately, so that Henri could pull away if he wanted to. Henri very much did not want to stop. At the very last moment, instead of being a coward and breaking the spell, he surged forward the final few centimeters and let their lips meet.

Everett groaned sinfully. His grip tightened as he now buried both hands in Henri’s hair and kept him close for kiss after kiss after kiss. Every kiss Everett initiated, Henri happily met. He would stay here forever if he could, drowning in the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen. He had to close his own eyes to save the last threads of his composure.

“Ev—” Henri gasped as his world was abruptly flipped on him. His eyes shot open in an attempt to undo the strange vertigo of finding himself on his back with Everett on top of him, his full weight pinning Henri to the bed. He looked down at Henri with a possessive, wild look that gave him goosebumps.

“Don’t,” Everett warned.

Henri swallowed. Oh no. It was ruined, wasn’t it? He’d messed things up already. “Don’t…?” he asked and was embarrassed by how unrecognizable his voice sounded.

“Dylan,” he growled as he nosed along Henri’s neck. “You can’t call me anything else when you’re in my bed. Understand?”

Henri’s cheeks burned. His dick throbbed. His whole body ached for the man above him; calling him by his first name seemed an easy sacrifice to make.

“I understand,” he whispered and was rewarded with Everett—Dylan thrusting down into him. Their dicks met through the fabric of their sweats, so tantalizingly close that Henri writhed.

“Then say it.” Dylan pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Henri’s pulse and sucked a bruise there. It’d leave a mark, he knew it would, and all Henri could do was bare his neck more.

“Dylan.”

And then Dylan bit down on his neck.

Henri bucked up into him. The prickle of pain amidst the pleasure was almost too much to bear, so he grounded himself in the pleasure. He spread his thighs wider, shifting so Dylan could settle between them. Once he did, Henri hooked both legs around him and urged him to set a faster pace.

Dylan propped himself up on his elbows and ground into Henri as if their lives depended on them getting off as quickly as possible. Considering Henri’s skin felt like it was on fire, maybe there was some truth to that.

They shared the same air, a mix of pants and groans and curses as they inched their way closer to the edge.

“What language do you speak when you come?”

"Celle que tu veux," he said, too intent on matching Dylan’s pace to care all that much about what fell out of his mouth. Whichever one you want, I don’t care. I’ll say anything so long as you don’t stop.