His eyes moved over my face, my shoulders, my hands. My gaze dropped to his right hand. There it was, thick and silver on his finger, catching the dim light from the kitchen. His Stanley Cup ring.
He'd worn it here.
"Joel," he said, and his voice cracked on my name.
I crossed the distance between us and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. I didn't want gentle. My hands found his jaw, his wet hair, the back of his neck. He made a sound against my teeth, something broken and desperate, and his fingers fisted in my shirt hard enough to stretch the fabric.
He tasted like rain and airport coffee and exhaustion and want.
I pulled back just far enough to breathe. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving.
"Joel." He said my name like it wounded him.
"Shut up." I kissed him again, harder, and he opened for me like he'd been waiting for it. His hands slid up my chest, over my shoulders, and then his arms were around my neck and he was pressing into me, trying to climb inside.
He was still soaked. Water seeped through my shirt where his body met mine. I didn't care. I grabbed his hips and lifted.
Red gasped against my mouth, but he didn't hesitate, just wrapped his legs around me and held on. His thighs locked against my sides, his arms tight around my shoulders, and I took his weight like it was nothing because it was.
I walked us backward until his spine hit the wall, pinning him there with my body. The impact knocked a grunt out of him, and I swallowed it, kept kissing him, one hand braced against the wall and the other gripping his thigh hard enough to bruise.
His beard scraped against my chin and my cheeks. That was new. I'd never kissed him with a beard before. I bit his lower lip, and he groaned, his hips rolling against my stomach.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Joel, I—"
"I said shut up."
I didn't want his words. I didn't want explanations or apologies, or whatever speech he'd rehearsed on the plane. I wanted his body, his breath, the way he shook when I pressed him harder into the wall.
His hands found my hair and pulled. The sting of it shot straight down my spine, and I groaned against his shoulder, biting down where his shirt collar would cover it.
"You can't just show up here," I said into his skin. "You can't just—"
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. I'm the one who—" But seven months later, I still couldn't finish that sentence.
I pulled back to look at him. His eyes were dark, his mouth swollen, his wet hair a mess from my hands. He looked wrecked.
"I'm the one who left," I said. "But I'm still angry and I don't know what to do with it."
"Yeah. I know the feeling."
I kissed him again, rougher, and carried him toward the bedroom.
I dropped him on the bed and stepped back.
He reached for me and I caught his wrist, pressing it down against the mattress. "No."
"Joel—"
"Take off your clothes."
He hesitated only briefly before he took off his shirt first, peeling the wet fabric over his head, then jeans, then boxers, shoving them all off the edge of the bed. His cock was already hard, and looking at him hurt in a way I wasn't prepared for.
Instead of touching him, I pulled the chair from my desk and positioned it at the foot of the bed, sat down, and crossed one leg over the other.