Chapter 3: A Slower Exploration
The first thing she noticed was the weight of his arm across her waist, solid and warm. The second was the light—soft, pale stripes of it painting the duvet, the floor, the curve of his shoulder beside her. She was on her side, facing the windows, and he was curled around her, his breath a steady, even rhythm against the back of her neck.
She didn’t move. She just lay there, cataloging the newness of it all. The faint ache between her legs was a ghost of last night, a reminder that hadn’t faded with sleep. The smell of him—clean sweat and cedar—on the sheets. The absolute peace of his body in repose.
His fingers twitched against her stomach, then stilled. He made a low, sleepy sound and nuzzled into her hair. “You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice raspy with sleep.
“How do you know?”
“Your breathing changed.” He kissed the nape of her neck. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
He shifted, rolling onto his back and stretching with a groan that was all taut muscle and satisfied ease. She turned to look at him. In the raw morning light, he looked younger. The sharp intensity from the night before was softened, his blond hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. He blinked slowly at the ceiling, then turned his head and smiled at her. It was a simple, unguarded thing that made her chest hurt.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Good.” She reached out, tracing a pale scar on his ribs she hadn’t noticed last night. “A little sore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s a good sore.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “Like I did something real.”
He reached up and brushed her tangled hair from her face. His eyes were calm, content. “It was real.” He let his hand fall to her hip, his thumb stroking the dip of her waist. “We don’t have to do anything today. We can just lie here.”
But the memory of his touch, the way he’d fallen apart under her hands, was a live wire in her blood. The sharp pain from last night felt distant, theoretical, overshadowed by everything that came after. The want was still there, a low hum beneath her skin.
“What if,” she began, her voice tentative, “what if I wanted to try again?”
Ilia’s hand stilled on her hip. He searched her face. “You’re sure? No rush, Louise. We have time.”
“I know. I’m not rushing. I just… I feel different this morning.” She tried to find the words. “Less in my head. More in my body. And I want to be here, with you, in it.”
He watched her for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. But we go slow. Slower than slow. And you talk to me. Every step.”
“I will.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a sweet, lingering good-morning kiss that tasted of sleep. Then he shifted, moving down the bed. He nudged her gently onto her back and hovered over her, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight was off her. “We start here,” he said, and kissed the hollow of her throat.
It was a different kind of exploration. There was no frantic edge, no parked-car urgency. He took his time, kissing her shoulders, the undersides of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach. His mouth was warm and unhurried. He was mapping her, learning the landscapes he’d only touched in the dark. When his fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear—the only thing she’d put back on before sleep—he paused, looking up at her for permission.
She nodded, lifting her hips to help him slide them off.
The morning air was cool on her skin. He knelt between her legs, his gaze intent but not demanding. He spread her gently with his thumbs, and she forced herself not to tense, not to think about how she must look. He just looked, his expression one of focused curiosity.
Then she saw it. A flicker. It was fast, a slight tightening at the corner of his eye, a minuscule dip in his smile before it recovered. His gaze had snagged on the strip of dark, curly hair. It wasn’t disgust. It was something subtler—a split-second of surprise that didn’t match his expectation, a fleeting blankness before his usual tenderness rushed back in to fill the space.
He bent his head and kissed the inside of her thigh. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, but the words landed differently now. She felt a cold trickle of awareness. Was that what the flicker was? Had he expected something else? Something… maintained?
He pushed the thought away, focusing on his mouth. He was trying to be present, to show her with his actions that nothing was wrong. He kissed her, open-mouthed and soft, right where she was most sensitive. She gasped, her back arching off the bed, the sudden jolt of pleasure obliterating her anxiety for a second.
“Good?” he asked against her skin.
“Yes.”
He did it again, and again, until she was trembling, her fingers clutching the sheets. He was good at this, attentive and precise. He was building something in her, a gathering heat that made her thighs shake. When he finally slid a finger inside her, it was easy. She was wet and ready, the initial sting from last night gone.
He moved his finger slowly, a gentle in-and-out that matched the rhythm of his tongue. It felt good. It felt amazing, actually. But a part of her mind had detached, was watching from the ceiling. She was watching him work, seeing the concentrated set of his shoulders, the professional care of his movements.
He’s done this before, the thought whispered. Many times. With girls who probably know how to do everything right. Girls who wax.
Her breath hitched, but not from pleasure this time.
He felt it. He lifted his head. “Okay? Too much?”
“No. It’s good. Keep going.”
He did, but the spell was fractured. She could feel herself trying to force the pleasure, chasing the feeling that had been so close. Her body was responding, but it was mechanical. The aching, mindless need from the car, from his touch last night, was out of reach. She was performing now, performing enjoyment for him.
After a few more minutes, her leg began to cramp from the tension. She shifted uncomfortably.
Ilia stopped. He withdrew his hand and moved up the bed to lie beside her, pulling her into his side. He didn’t ask if she came. He knew.
“What happened?” he asked softly, kissing her temple. “You left the room for a minute there.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
She took a shaky breath. “Before. When you were… looking. You had a look on your face.”
He was silent for a beat. “What look?”
“Like you were disappointed.”
He went very still. Then he let out a long, heavy sigh. It was a sigh of recognition, of ah, shit. He rolled onto his side to face her. “Louise. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
His expression was pained, earnest. “That wasn’t disappointment. It was… a stupid, split-second adjustment. In my world, at competitions, in the dressing rooms… it’s just very common. I’m used to seeing it a certain way. That’s my baggage, not yours. The second I actually touched you, I forgot about it. Because it’s you. And you are perfect. Exactly as you are.”
Tears welled in her eyes, hot and shameful. “So you did notice.”
“I noticed a part of you. And then I noticed all of you. The freckles on your thighs. The way you smell like vanilla. The little sound you make when I kiss you here.” He leaned in and kissed her jaw. “That’s what matters. My knee-jerk, brainless reaction to a cultural norm doesn’t matter. I am sorry it showed on my face. That was my failure, not yours.”
He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Do you believe me?”
She wanted to. Desperately. “I think so.”
“Okay.” He kissed her forehead. “Then we try something else. We forget about the destination today. No goal. Just touch. You touch me. I touch you. We get used to each other, no pressure. Yeah?”
She nodded, sniffling. “Okay.”
“Come here.” He arranged her so she was half on top of him, her head on his chest. He took her hand and placed it on his stomach, just like last night. “Your turn to explore. No rules.”
Hesitantly, she let her fingers wander. Over the hard panes of his abdomen, the faint line of hair leading down, the sharp V of his hips. She traced the scars—a long one on his knee, a small puckered one on his forearm. He watched her, his eyes lazy and soft, his body relaxing under her tentative touch.
“Where’s this from?” she asked, circling the one on his arm.
“Quad Lutz gone wrong when I was sixteen. Took a chunk out on the boards.”
“And this?” She touched his knee.
“Torn meniscus. Surgery last year.” He covered her hand with his own, pressing it flat against his warm skin. “See? We all have our history. Our imperfections. They’re just proof we’ve lived.”
She shifted, bending to kiss the scar on his arm. He sucked in a quiet breath. She kissed his stomach, his hip bone. She was learning him, and with each touch, her own self-consciousness began to recede, replaced by a growing sense of power. He was letting her see him, all of him.
She moved lower, her heart pounding in her ears. She remembered the rhythm from last night, the feel of him in her hand. This time, there was no instruction. It was just her, following her own curiosity. She took him in her hand, watching his face as she did. His eyes darkened, his lips parting.
“Yeah,” he breathed, a simple exhale of encouragement.
This time, it was different. There was no script, no need to get it ‘right’. She experimented, stroking him, learning what made his breathing catch, what made his hips lift off the mattress. It was intimate in a new way—less about a specific outcome, more about the shared, silent communication of touch.
After a while, he gently pulled her back up, rolling so she was beneath him again. He kissed her deeply, his body settling into the cradle of her hips. He was hard against her, but he made no move to go further. He just rocked against her, slowly, a delicious friction through the thin barrier of their skin.
“See?” he whispered into her mouth. “No goal. Just this. This is enough.”
And it was. The coil of pleasure began to wind tight again, but this time, her mind was quiet. There was no audience, no critic. There was just the slow, building friction, the sound of his breathing, the glorious weight of him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, meeting his rhythm.
The climax, when it came, wasn’t a shocking peak but a deep, rolling wave that pulled her under gradually. It shuddered through her, leaving her boneless and gasping. He held her through it, his own body tensing above her as he followed her over the edge, his release a hot rush between them.
He collapsed beside her, spent. They lay in a tangle of limbs, slick with sweat, the morning sun now bright on the rumpled sheets.
He was the first to speak, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “Okay. That was…”
“Yeah.”
He laughed. “Exactly.” He pushed himself up and padded, naked, to the attached bathroom. She heard water running. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and gently cleaned her stomach, his touch practical and tender. Then he cleaned himself and tossed the cloth toward the bathroom door. It landed with a soft thump.
He climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet over them. “Now,” he said, tucking her against him, “we lie here. For at least an hour. Maybe two. I have to be at the rink for conditioning at one.”
The outside world intruded, a stark reminder of who he was and the life he led. The rink. His father’s calls. The world that waited beyond this blue-walled sanctuary.
She traced a pattern on his chest. “What happens after?”
“After?”
“Today. Tomorrow. With… us.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers stroking her arm. “Whatever you want to happen,” he said finally. “I’m not going anywhere. But my life is… chaotic. Travel. Training. Media. It’s not normal.”
“I don’t need normal,” she said, and realized she meant it. “I just need you to be honest. Even when your face does a stupid, split-second thing.”
He winced, then smiled. “Deal.” He squeezed her. “And you have to be honest when you leave the room. Even if you think it’s stupid.”
“Deal.”
They lay in silence, the city sounds beginning to filter in—a distant siren, the hum of traffic. The weekend was unfolding outside, and in here, they had built something new and fragile. It was messy, and real, and theirs. For now, it was enough to just breathe him in, and let the future wait another hour.