Would you come over?

You know that you want to

How does it feel to know I still want you?

-The Ataris, “Between Me and You”

            Steve Yzerman is kissing me.

            Oh. My. God. Oh. My. God. Oh. My. God.

            I leaned into the kiss, not wanting it to end, but needing it to before the spinning of sparks and tingles inside of my stomach made me explode. One of his hands rested on my chest, and an involuntary shudder ran through me, leaving me even more breathless and less in control.

            Fortunately, he pulled away, his eyes half opened and looking very confused. We stared at each other for a long while, not saying anything, just communicating with faint eyebrow twitches and telepathy. Eventually, he seemed to come to a conclusion, then grinned encouragingly at me.

            He’s not freaked out. He’s…he’s…coming on to me?

            He raised a hand to my face, cradling it around my cheek, his pinky brushing against my neck. The other hand rested on my shoulder and pulled me closer. He kissed me once on the nose, just a gentle brush of his mouth, forcing me to smile, making my nerves settle a little bit. Then he kissed the left corner of my smile, then the right. I took a deep, shaky breath, then glanced into his still opened eyes, full of heat and desire. I saw his eyelids fall, and then I closed my eyes as well, imprinting his facial expression on my memory so that I would never forget it.

            And he kissed me again. It started simply, just a few pecks on the mouth. Then it turned hotter, deeper. His mouth opened just a bit, capturing my bottom lip, and he nibbled it just enough to make me tremble, then he released it, and went to my top lip and did the same, making me squirm to get closer to him, pushing him back against the sofa so that our chests could touch. He took my head in his hands and ran his fingers through my hair, still biting at my lips. Tentatively, I slipped my tongue out of my mouth, lightly touching his lips, running it along the seam of his mouth until he opened, allowing me to have access. He tasted delectable, sweet and rich, flavored by the coffee that he drank, saturated with more sugar than anyone I’d ever known. He moaned into my mouth, rubbing his tongue along my own, the slickness of it making my heart pound and my breathing heavy.

            He pulled from my mouth, leaving me in a nearly physical pain until I was rewarded with the damp heat of a kiss on my jaw, then on my neck. He nipped at the skin there, then let his tongue run over the mark, soothing it. Without thinking, I let my hands go to the front of his shirt and start unbuttoning it. Surprisingly, my fingers stopped shaking long enough to pull the buttons through their tiny holes, and I was granted with a touch of his perfectly toned, sculpted chest and stomach.

 I sat up for a moment and maneuvered us so that we were laying on the couch, myself on top of him, my left leg between both of his, his hands in my hair and mine tracing his abs. I pulled his shirt off and tossed it across the room, then rubbed all over his upper body. I loved to feel his muscles tense under my fingertips, the way his biceps curled and the mass of his pecks. I leaned down, kissing the hollow of his throat, then his collarbone, sucking at the skin there.

He sighed loudly, shudderingly, and I could feel his excitement building up against my hip. I nearly fainted when I noticed the effect I was having on him, and stopped kissing his skin long enough to sit up and look at him. I looked at every part of him that was exposed to me--his face, flawed with scars but beautiful nonetheless; his lips, full and soft and sensual; his neck, warm and smooth; his chest, broad and chiseled and powerful. In every single way, his body made me tremble with pleasure. He was perfection.

            He realized I’d moved away, and he looked up at me curiously through his eyelashes. He must have recognized the hesitance in my expression, because he sat up as well, resting his hands at my waist. He kissed me again, prying my lips open with his own until I relaxed against him. His hands slipped under my T-shirt, pressing against my damp, heated flesh, wrapping around until he reached my back. He trailed a finger up and down the ridge of my spine, swirling a tickle through my entire body until it reached my mind where it swelled, enveloping any rational thought in a fog.

            He tugged on my shirt, lifting it over my head, then throwing it to the ground where his already lay. He gently pushed me back against the sofa, kneeling over me, wincing for only a moment before the intense gaze returned. He grabbed my hand from his shoulder and kissed each fingertip, then the palm of my hand. He let his tongue glide from my wrist up my forearm before kissing my bicep, then nipping at my shoulder and all along my collarbone. Then his lips shadowed down to the slight valley between the muscles of my chest, kissing the severely sensitive skin there, whispering over each nipple, then slipping back up, his tongue darting for just a moment in the indentation just below my throat. He kissed and licked and nibbled his way along my other shoulder and arm, until he reached my other hand. After kissing each digit, he twined his fingers with my own and stared down at me.

            What now? His eyes asked me. He knew what my body wanted, it was painfully obvious under my shorts, and his body was begging for the same. But there was a nagging at the back of my head.

            He had Lisa. And Isabella. And Sophia. And Maria. He had an entire family. He had to be loyal to them. How could I do this to him? Try to steal him away from the perfect life that he’s had for so long?

            I took a long, deep breath, and broke the connection between our eyes. We had to stop. He had to know that now; he had to have realized how wrong it was. He eventually cleared his throat, “God, Jiri, I’m so sorry. I didn’t…that wasn’t…I…” he stuttered, then gave up, laying down against me. He rested his head on my chest and wrapped an arm around my waist. I slipped an arm around him, holding him to me, not really wanting him to move—it was too inviting a feeling for me to pass up. After a few minutes of silence, I felt his muscles relax, and then he was asleep.

            I woke up several hours later, and he was still curled against me, in the same position as when he’d first dozed off. I slid away from him, careful not to wake him up. It was already 8:30; I was supposed to be at camp by nine. I would never make it, and to be honest, I couldn’t have handled it. I hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, and my mind was still jumbled from what had happened in the very early hours of that day.

            I stepped into the bathroom and started the shower, then looked at myself in the mirror. For a guy who’d barely slept the night before, I didn’t look too bad. My lips were a little bit swollen and pink from kissing him as much as I had, but my eyes were alert and happy, my hair was a disaster of curls, but it looked so good, knowing what had caused it to look that way. I almost avoided the shower completely—I didn’t want to wash the smell of Stevie from my skin. I didn’t want to erase the evidence of what had occurred—I might not believe it later.

            I did decide that bathing was in my best interests, so I did so quickly, hoping to be done before he woke up. I dressed quickly and brushed my teeth twice, just in case. Steve didn’t wake up until I was in the kitchen, pouring some Fruity Pebbles into a cereal bowl. He limped into the room with the bottle of Advil I’d left on the coffee table, then drank some milk out of the carton to wash down the pills. I watched at him, nervous about how he would act.

            “Hi,” he said simply.

            “Good morning.”

            He took a deep breath, “Um, where’s the phone? I should call Shanny and tell him I’m not coming to camp today. You should too.”

            I nodded and pointed to the cordless phone on the far wall. “Bren? Hi, it’s Steve. Look, I’m really sore this morning, so I won’t be at practice,” he explained, then paused for his response, “Thanks man, I’ll talk to you later.”

            He handed me the phone, then pulled his shirt back on. “I’ve got to get home before Lisa worries,” I felt my face fall, and he noticed, “I’m sorry, Jiri. We’ll talk about…well…we’ll talk later today. I just…right now I don’t know what to say. I need to think.”

            “Sure, go and think,” I said flatly, unable to think of a reasonable reply. I turned away, pouring my uneaten cereal into the sink.

            “You deserve an explanation. I know you do,” he said to my back, “but I…”

            “Don’t know what to say, I know. Go home, okay? Think. Whatever you need to do. I’m already going to be late for practice,” I told him without meeting his eyes.

            Maybe going to camp was a good idea—I needed to do something to keep me from curling into a great big sobbing wreck on my kitchen floor.