Page 17 of Cross Ice

I wondered what he’d think of my perpetually unmade bed and the hockey equipment I never managed to put away. And then I stopped wondering, kissed him again, and stopped thinking about anything except the way he responded to every touch.

We broke apart and undressed each other slowly, no frantic tearing at clothes like in the hotel. I pulled his sweater over his head and took a moment to just look at him, his lean muscle and smooth skin, the light from the window casting shadows across his chest.

“What?” He sounded self-conscious.

“Nothing. You’re just…” I ran my hands up his sides. “You’re beautiful.”

His cheeks flushed, and I loved it. Loved that I could make him color with just words.

He reached for my shirt, and I let him pull it off. His hands immediately went to my chest, fingers tracing the lines of my tattoo.

“What does this mean?” he asked. “One life to live, one life to love.”

“Got it a few years ago,” I said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. “It’s a reminder to live fully, to live without regrets.”

He tilted his head to look up at me, his expression open, curious, and for a second I almost said it. Almost let the whole thing out right there: who I was, what I’d been hiding, why I’d been circling it since Friday. The words were right on the tip of my tongue.

I kissed him instead.

It was the wrong choice, and I knew it even as I made it.

We fell onto the bed together, and this time was different from Friday night. Less frantic. We had time now, time to explore, to learn what made each other come apart.

I kissed down his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin, with a hint of body wash and something underneath that was just Evan. Musk and warmth. When I reached his collarbone, his pulse hammered beneath my lips.

Lower. His chest rose and fell faster as I worked my way down, paying attention to every reaction. The catch in his breath when I dragged my teeth across his hip. The way his fingers tightened in my hair when I took him into my mouth. Small sounds escaped him, quiet gasps I had to earn.

He tasted clean and slightly salty, and the weight of him on my tongue made me ache. I worked him slowly, hollowing my cheeks, and his back arched off the bed. His lips parted in a silent moan, head tipping back against the pillow.

“Nico,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I’m gonna⁠—”

I pulled off and kissed my way back up his body, feeling the tremor running through him. “Not yet.”

He reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out a condom and lube with shaking hands. I took my time opening him up, working him carefully—one finger, then two, then three—watching his face for every flicker of pleasure or discomfort. When I found that spot inside him that made his breath stop, I massaged there again, deliberately, and he unraveled.

He writhed beneath me, one hand fisted in the duvet, the other gripping my shoulder hard enough to leave indents. Not begging out loud or with words. His body told me everything, pressing back against my fingers, chest heaving with each breath, those quiet desperate sounds trapped in his throat.

When I finally pushed inside, we both groaned. His was rough and broken, mine closer to a growl. He felt perfect. Tight and hot and absolutely perfect, like his body had been made for mine.

I went slowly at first, letting him adjust, but he pulled his knees up to his chest and the new angle let me slide deeper. So deep, I felt it everywhere.

“More,” he breathed, barely audible, but I heard it.

I thrust deeper, filling him completely, and the long moan that escaped him made my chest tighten. Not just with arousal. But with something closer to tenderness, and unfamiliar enough that I almost didn’t recognize it.

We found our rhythm. The slick heat, the perfect resistance, the way he clenched around me when I hit that spot inside him. His hands moved restlessly, clutching at my back, my shoulders, threading through my hair like he needed to hold on to something or he’d fly apart.

The sounds he made were quiet but desperate and raw. They made me want things I’d spent fourteen years avoiding.

He came untouched between us, my name falling from his lips in a strangled gasp. “Nico, God, Nico.” He pulsed and clenched around me, heat spilling between our bodies, pleasure taking him apart completely.

Watching him shatter, really seeing him in that moment, unguarded and vulnerable, pushed me straight over the edge. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in sweat and skin and him, and let go. The orgasm tore through me, whiting out my vision, so intense I couldn’t breathe through it.

I shuddered and gasped his name into his skin like he’d gasped mine.

I collapsed onto him, elbows taking my weight, breathing hard. Sweat cooled between us, and our hearts pounded against each other. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my back, his breath ghosting fast and uneven against my shoulder.

I should move. Roll off him. Clean up.