Page 9 of Cross Ice

Being wanted like this, being asked… I’d forgotten what it felt like. Given the choice, I chose yes.

We broke apart just in time for an older couple to step on at the sixth floor. Stood on opposite sides, both trying to look normal. The couple got off at eight. The doors closed.

We lasted maybe two seconds.

When the elevator reached the twelfth floor, we stumbled out into the hallway, half laughing. He fumbled with the key card, hands shaking, and something about that—the fumbling, the shaking, the laughing—made him feel real in a way the club hadn’t quite managed.

The door opened, and we were inside.

The suite was gorgeous, with high ceilings, modern furniture, a bedroom visible through an open doorway. Probably cost more than my rent.

I didn’t care.

Nico’s jacket hit the floor. My blazer followed, then our shirts, and we shed our clothes as we stumbled into the bedroom. By the time we reached the bed, we were both down to our boxer briefs, and I could finally see all of him.

He was beautiful. All muscle. Smooth, tan skin, and sharp angles. He pushed me down onto the bed and followed, covering my body with his. The weight of him, the heat, was overwhelming in the best possible way.

“Fuck.” His warm breath ghosted against my neck. “You’re so⁠—”

“Kiss me,” I breathed. “Please.”

His mouth was everywhere: on my lips, my jaw, my neck. He worked his way down my chest, pausing to bite gently at my collarbone, and I arched into him.

Our boxer briefs disappeared. I wasn’t sure who’d stripped them away—him, me, or some desperate combination of both—but suddenly we were bare, pressed together with nothing between us. The first contact of his cock against mine made us both groan. Hot, hard, slick with precum. He rolled his hips, and I felt the friction everywhere, pleasure sparking up my spine. We found a rhythm of grinding and thrusting, our bodies moving together like we’d done this a thousand times instead of just tonight. His hands gripped my hips, guiding the motion, pulling me harder against him. The pressure built with every slide, every movement feeding the ache that had started the moment I’d seen him across the club.

When he took me in his mouth, I had to grab the sheets to keep from coming apart entirely. I fisted the expensive cotton in both hands like it was the only thing tethering me to earth.

He started slowly with just the tip, tongue circling the head, licking up the precum. Then he sank down, taking me deeper, and the wet heat made my breath catch. He pulled back and did it again, building a rhythm that had my toes curling.

He was good at this. Too good. His mouth was hot and wet and perfect, lips stretched around me. He hollowed his cheeks when he sucked, tongue working the underside on every upstroke. When he took me deep enough that I felt the back of his throat, I had to fight not to thrust up into that perfect heat.

But it was the way he looked up at me through his lashes while he did it, his dark eyes holding mine, watching my reaction, seeing exactly what he was doing to me, that made my brain short-circuit.

A sound escaped me I didn’t recognize. Half gasp, half groan, completely helpless.

His hand gripped my hip, holding me in place when I tried to move. The other wrapped around the base of my cock, stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach, working me over with practiced efficiency. In control but asking permission with every movement. The contradiction of it—the power and the gentleness—was going to destroy me.

“Nico,” I breathed. The first time I’d said his name since we’d gotten to the room. It came out wrecked.

He pulled off just long enough to look at me. “Yeah?”

“I want you inside me. Do you have—” I broke off, breathing hard. “Lube? A condom?”

Understanding flickered across his face. He rolled off the bed and searched the floor until he found his jeans. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket and withdrew packets of lube and a foil wrapper.

“Yeah,” he said, coming back to me. “I’ve got you.”

He slicked his fingers with lube, watching my face. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

I nodded, and he started with one finger first, slow and careful. The pressure was intense but not painful. I breathed through it, and when my body relaxed around him, he added a second. The stretch burned, but in a way that made me want more, not less.

“Okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah. Don’t stop.”

By the time he added the third finger, I was already moving against his hand, chasing the feeling. He worked me with maddening patience, each careful press stretching me wider, preparing me. When he found that spot inside me, the one that made stars burst behind my eyelids, I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped. Didn’t even try.

My hips moved without permission, chasing the pressure of his fingers. Shameless. I’d forgotten how to be anything else.