But then, with the same crashing inevitability of a wave finally reaching land, Nik reached up and cradled Blair's jaw in one massive hand. His grip was solid, solid enough that it was part gesture of affection and part you aren't going anywhere.
Blair, despite all the good decisions he'd tried to make for both his sake and Nik's, leaned into the touch.
And then Nik was kissing him. Holy shit. Nikita Tarasov was kissing him, as in leaned in and took hold of his head and manhandled him into a full-on kiss, the crush of his lips just like the way he threw his body around
on the ice, hard and purposeful and with a weight behind it that made Blair weak in the knees.
Gasping, Blair dug his nails into Nikita's shoulder, holding on tight, reaching with his other arm. They fumbled one another into an awkward embrace, toppling sideways onto the sand, landing on bruised ribcages and elbows and grunting with the mild discomfort but unwilling to part.
