I stomped back towards the arena, fists clenched, cursing under my breath. It had not been a good night. First we lose to the fucking Avs. Then the news reports the winter-storm-equivalent to Hurricane Andrew is coming through, and then my car won't start. Just. Fucking. Fabulous.

 

       I pull the door open, and Steve stands on the other side, surprised. "Hey Kirk, I thought you'd left already."

 

       "Yeah, me too," I laughed humorlessly, "but my car apparently had other plans."

 

       He glanced at the snow already blanketing the ground outside, "Why don't you let me drive you home? By the time you get it towed, you won't be able to get out of town."

 

       "That's fine. Thanks, Steve. I appreciate it."

      

 

 

       Normally, the drive from downtown Detroit to my home in Novi took about a half hour. An hour and fifteen minutes after we left the Joe, we were still a good 10 miles from my street. A comfortable silence had fallen over us--we'd talked for most of the drive, but we'd reached a lull in the conversation. It wasn't awkward, surprisingly; normally, I felt like it was my personal duty to fill in the silence. I stared out the window, at way everything around us was nothing but white. It was beautiful, really, I mused.

 

       And then everything went spinning.

 

       The car swirled for what seemed like an hour, but was only a few seconds in all reality. I gripped the dashboard, watching the clusters of white reflecting the headlights back at us.

 

       "Are you okay?" Steve asked finally, his voice low.

 

       "Fine," I replied slowly, and I was. A little bit tense from the shock, but physically, I was completely unharmed. "What about you?"

 

       He didn't answer, just stared ahead.

 

       "Steve...are you okay?"

 

       "Y-Yeah, I'm fine," he answered shakily, "just a little bit shaken up. I mean...everything was going okay, and then the world just spun."

 

       I nodded slowly, trying to calm my erratic heartbeat, "I know," I told him, then glanced around, relieved that I could still see the road. "We should try to get to my place before it gets too much worse. And you should call home; you'll never make it there tonight."

 

       "Yeah. Sounds good," he said, turning the car around.

 

       He didn't say much for the rest of the ride.

 

 

 

       I'd added another log to my fireplace, hoping to keep the living room warm. I left the curtains pulled back from the giant picture window along the wall; the scene outside of it was too beautiful to not look at. I stood there, a glass of deep red wine in my hand, letting the alcohol warm my insides while the fire warmed the outside. It didn't hurt that I was wearing a pair of brand new gray sweatpants, still soft and cozy inside. I was even wearing a shirt—I normally didn't, but with Steve staying over, I felt it was more appropriate. Quite frankly, the gray and black plaid flannel was comfortable, and I wondered why it had been sitting in my closet for so long.

 

       I watched Steve's reflection as he walked back into the room, looking distracted. I smiled; he'd picked out the bottom half of the same flannel pajamas, paired with a sweatshirt I'd bought years ago in Edmonton. The distant look in his eyes was beginning to scare me.

 

       "Want a little bit of wine?" I asked, walking around to meet him in front of the fireplace.

 

       "Sure," he said, sitting down with his back resting against the couch, and he resumed staring, this time into the fire.

 

       I poured him a glass and sat next to him, watching the flames. They danced and curled, crackling and sparking through the wood, mesmerizing me until I'd forgotten about the game, my abandoned car, the snowstorm outside, and the accident on the ride home.

 

       But the howl of the icy wind against my house echoing through the room brought me out of it. The look on Steve's face, the terror that had been hiding in the deep, melted brown of his eyes when the car had finally stopped spinning, haunted me. He'd still only said three or four words since we'd gotten to my place, and had come nowhere near a full sentence. Steve was the epitome of strength—if he was scared, where in the hell would that leave me?

 

       "I could have killed us," he said, voice monotone.

 

       I sat up and looked at him, watching the yellow light dance and flicker against his features, the scars of his trade even more pronounced by the shadows, making his already handsome face even more intriguing. Now, rather than fear, guilt, hot and powerful as the fire that was reflected in his eyes, sparkled there, creasing a deep line in his forehead.

 

       "I wasn't careful. I thought we were fine, and then everything just spun. I could have ended your life, because I wasn't paying enough attention," he spoke each word slowly, deliberately, as if it were hard to find the right way to express himself.

 

       I reached for his glass, which he had a white knuckled grasp on. I set the wine down, and entwined my fingers with his. "We are fine, Steve. It was a sheet of ice on the road, covered in a couple inches of snow. It could have happened to anyone. And we're fine, sitting in my living room, sipping wine and watching the fire. Alive. Relaxed. Everything is okay. Fine. Perfect."

 

       "But what if we'd hit a tree? Or another car?"

 

       I ran my finger along his jaw, tilting his head up so that he would look at me. When he did, I grinned gently, "We didn't," I whispered.

 

       He stared at me, taking in a long, shaky breath, then bit his bottom lip, "I'm sorry, Kirk."

 

       "For what?" I asked, surprised.

 

       "For the accident..." he started, but I stopped him, leaning in to kiss the lip he'd been nibbling. When I moved away, he blinked at me for a long moment, then glanced down, one side of his mouth curling up nervously.

 

       As for me, I couldn't believe I'd done it. Sure, I'd daydreamed of it growing up, I'd visualized it when I was traded, and I'd fantasized the event a million time in the years I'd been under his expert leadership, but I never thought I would have the nerve to do it.

 

       "You're right," he said quietly, breaking into the silence only betrayed by the crackling of the fireplace and the screaming of the storm outside. "Everything is fine," he added, staring at our hands, still attached, then up at me. "Everything is perfect."

 

       Then he kissed me. It was just a gentle touch of his mouth on mine, sending a shiver down my spine despite the heat of the fire. His free hand found my throat, and his fingers slid around to the nape of my neck, then into my hair as the kiss turned warmer. His tongue possessed my mouth, tasting every part of me, dancing with my own tongue, making me moan against his lips. His kisses, now scalding, traced across my jaw, then left a stroke of flames over my adam's apple to my collarbone, where he sucked and licked at the skin, burning me. I let his hand go, sliding my hands up under the bottom hem of his sweatshirt, tracing the lines of his body with blind fingers, the lack of a visual stimulating the sensation of his skin under mine to the point of explosion.

 

       His fingers tugged at the buttons of my shirt until it lay open, baring my chest, marked with bruises from long forgotten blocked shots. He pulled me onto his lap, so that I was straddling him, his rapidly swelling shaft pressing up against me through our pants. I'd imagined the way his lips would feel enclosed around my nipple, but I had never anticipated the fury of emotion and lust that would spark when his tongue touched the nub, heat pulsing through me with every throb of my quickened heart. He tossed my shirt away, then allowed me to do the same with his.

     "Perfect," he murmured as his hands found mine. He stared at my chest and stomach, lust replacing the guilt and fear of the earlier parts of the night. Lust that warmed the skin it touched as well as that which was hidden, begging for some of the same attention.

 

       He pulled me close for a kiss, his teeth biting just hard enough on my upper lip, making me grind my hips against him, a silent plea for more of him, more of the heat that was making me mindless with need. As if he'd understood the choked moan, he lifted me from his hips just long enough to tug at the waist of my sweatpants, pulling them off and discarding them on the sofa behind him. "Perfect," he whispered again as he wrapped one hand around my straining cock, the pad of his thumb brushing over the droplet of precum at the tip, making me squirm against him.

 

       He grinned and kissed me again, then pulled at the flannel pants he was wearing. Like me, he'd foregone underwear, and the knowledge that his bare skin had been inside of my pajamas made my blood even hotter, molten and burning through me. As soon as he was free of the material, I grabbed for his dick, my hands and eyes exploring the length of him until he groaned and begged me to stop.

 

       "I want to be inside of you, Kirk. I want to watch you while I'm making you come. Let me, please," he pleaded, cradling my face in his hands. I nodded silently, lost in the haze of him, the absolute wonder of the man in front of me, the man I'd wanted for as long as I could remember. He smiled and dipped two fingers into my wineglass, then held them to my lips. I licked the liquid from his fingers, then sucked the digits into my mouth, my tongue running along their length, as if there were another part of his anatomy that I was tasting. He shuddered a bit, then pulled his fingers away. He swiped at the precum on the head of my cock, then as soon as possible, he found my entrance and had them inside of me. I screamed, my muscles clenching around the intrusion. Once I'd relaxed, he started to slowly move them in and out, and soon I collapsed against him, gripping his shoulders for support.

 

       He pulled his fingers out, then positioned the head of his cock at my entrance, then thrust gently, pushing only his head in, waiting for me to get used to the size. I arched my back, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. "Ready?" he asked quietly before going further. I opened my eyes to stare at him, then nodded, preparing for the full length of him. He thrust once, hard, and filled me with a searing pain that swirled quickly into a hot pleasure that left no part of my body cold.

 

       His hips started a slow rhythm, a torturously slow motion that made me writhe and groan, begging for more. He giggled quietly and started to move faster, his tongue finding my ear, tracing along the lobe. As he started to nibble it, I felt the tension building in my muscles, and the feel of his stomach against the underside of my cock was even more dizzying, and I knew I was close. He stopped smiling, and frowned with concentration as he pushed deeper, harder, faster into me. He came with a long, shuddered moan, and the heat of his explosion inside of me set my orgasm off, and I came as well, crying his name out. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me against him, his face nuzzling my neck. "Perfect," he mouthed against my throat.

 

       I shivered, staring into the cold whiteness outside, contrasting with the comforting heat that had settled inside of me, concentrated at the place where Steve's body was still connected with mine.

 

       "Perfect," I whispered back, kissing his forehead. "Absolutely perfect."