Page 113 of Full Contact

“I want you to fuck me. Slowly.”

“I can do slow.”

He opened me with his fingers, his eyes on my face. When I tensed, he waited. When I breathed out, he gave me a little more. The room was quiet enough to hear the cap of the lube bottle click shut.

“Now,” I said.

He rolled the condom on and pushed in a little at a time, until I could breathe around the stretch. He was hot and solid over me, his arms braced on either side of my head.

“Slow down,” I said, though he was hardly moving.

He slowed. A few thrusts later, I hooked a heel behind his thigh and pulled him deeper.

Trier laughed into my neck. “Those are competing instructions.”

“Follow the second one.”

He settled into a long, steady rhythm and held it. When he slid a hand under the small of my back and lifted, I said his name out loud.

He paused. “Was that a direction or a review?”

“Both. Keep going.”

He wrapped his hand around my cock and stroked me in time with the movement of his hips. When I got close, he didn’t speed up. He kept me right there until I came, my back arching off the quilt and my fingers digging into his shoulder.

He followed a minute later, driving into me harder, his breath ragged against my neck, and stopped deep with a low groan I felt in my chest.

After, Trier’s weight pinned me to the mattress. Eventually he got up and came back with a warm washcloth, as he always did, and lay with his arm across my chest.

“So,” he said. “His ID.”

I smiled. “It says Noah Piatkowski. The credential says PICKLE, in capital letters. Pickle offered to call his mother so she could confirm that people really call him that.”

Trier laughed against my shoulder. “Did security accept maternal identification?”

“The supervisor said mothers will say anything. Adrian pulled up Pickle’s junior hockey card on his phone. Noah ‘Pickle’ Piatkowski, age fourteen, braces and a mullet.”

“And that was enough?”

“The supervisor studied it for a long time. He handed back the credential and told Pickle to enjoy the game.”

“I’d have let him in for the mullet alone.”

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it without dislodging Trier’s arm.

Pickle: EVERYBODY HOME. HOG CRIED AT THE BAR. THANK YOU MARK.

I showed Trier. He laughed without making a sound, his chest shaking against my side. I plugged the phone in and set it on the pillow beside my head, where it always went.

A moment later, Trier lifted my arm a few inches, drew the charging cable out from under it, and laid it along the edge of the mattress. He put my arm back and settled against me without a word.

My legs were heavy. My head was quiet for the first time since morning. I was too comfortable to reach for the lamp, so Trier reached over me and switched it off.

***

Snow had fallen overnight. It covered the courtyard planters with soft caps. Peaches had her gel at seven, collected her treat, and ate breakfast while Trier stood guard over her bowl in sweatpants and bare feet. When she’d finished, he took eggs out of the fridge and handed me the bread.

“Toast.”