“It’s our decision, and I want it now,” I tell him, my words encompassing so much more than he will ever know.
I don’t give him the chance to question me again, my arms wrapping around his neck to pull him in for a kiss. This time, I’m the one who’s hungrily invading his mouth as I walk him back to the bed. I push and he gives in, but not without pulling me along.
We land in a tangle of limbs, our lips still pressed together, hands wandering.
Xander flips us around, his hot breath grazing my skin when he kisses along my throat. He nips at my collarbone, the gesture too gentle to create a mark, and I suddenly find myselfoverwhelmed with the wish that he would leave his traces on me. Something I can take back to the hotel, a reminder of him to bring onto the ice tomorrow.
But I’m too proud to ask for it, so I just lift my arms in the quiet request to be undressed.
Xander raises a brow at me, then chuckles. “You’re a total brat.”
He still goes along with it, freeing me of my shirt and then getting rid of his own. They disappear over the side of the bed, and I sigh when I touch his bare skin. It’s pale with a soft dusting of freckles on his chest, which makes me smile, because there’s not a single one on his nose. I trace them with my fingertips like I would do to a stellar constellation on a map.
“You enjoy it,” I wink at him and he rolls his eyes, but I still catch the grin tugging on the corners of his lips.
He doesn’t argue with me. Instead, he brings his mouth to my stomach, kissing a path down my abs to my navel. His tongue darts out and I laugh, breathlessly and with a hint of nervousness. Every touch feels purposeful today, every sensation heightened. There’s no comparing it to our explosive encounter in the locker room, the rushed intermission on Christmas. Today Xander is taking me apart, slowly and with intent.
By the time he has peeled us out of our sweatpants I’m almost ready to flip this around again.
“Are you trying to torture me into topping?” I crane my neck to watch him suck on the inside of my trembling thigh. My dick is desperately tenting my underwear, the precum leaving a damp spot on the front. I reach for it, but Xander slaps my hand away. He gives my thigh a generous lick before hooking his fingers into my boxers and pulling them down.
“You’re so impatient,” he laughs, but I can see the hunger in his eyes. He’s devouring me with his gaze, and my cheeksheat from the intensity of it. None of my former partners—man or woman—has ever looked at me like this. With unshared attention, like I’m unique. Like I’m not just the copy of another person.
You don’t feel like Nate.
I swallow hard as his voice echoes in my mind. “Just a little,” I murmur, my voice suddenly thick with emotion but also raw desire.
“I’ll make it worth it,” he promises as he leans over the edge of the bed to reach for his backpack.
“Look who came prepared,” I snort when he retrieves a small tube of lube and a condom.
I expect him to joke along even when I should be grateful. With all my focus being on pretending to be my twin again, I forgot to bring the necessities.
Xander, however, squeezes my knee. “It’s the bag I used to sleep over at your place. I didn’t plan on sleeping around in Springfield.”
Only now do I realize we never talked about being exclusive. At first I didn’t think about it, and then at some point I just kind of assumed we were. My naïveté hits me in the face. He could’ve gone out to fuck other guys all this time—and the thought is enough to make me bristle.
“You better not,” I grumble, my arms snaking around his neck to pull him into another kiss. I might not have him for long, but until then I want Xander to be mine.
Only mine.
I’m used to sharing my whole life—clothes, toys, friends, dreams—and in the end I wouldn’t have it any other way. But this? For the first time I feel the burning need to claim something for myself.
This new possessiveness spills over into our kiss, turning it from sweet to heated in a mere second. Now I’m the one toroll us over, my legs straddling his lap as I catch his lower lip between my teeth and he moans into my mouth.
His hips jerk up, rubbing his hard dick against my ass, divided only by the thin layer of his underwear. The unfamiliar sensation gives my mind pause, while my body—the treacherous bastard—shudders from the touch. It’s the intimacy of it, the anticipation linked to this simple movement that teases a moan out of me. I bear down, my hands seeking support on Xander’s chest. For a moment he just holds my gaze.
“Fuck, Nicko,” he curses, the arousal in his voice so thick it makes me preen under his attention.
I did this to him. To the guy I still want to strangle sometimes, then kiss the shit out of. I repeat the motion, my ass rubbing against his erection with more intent.
My face is flushed from the wanton display of my need. Xander’s cool fingers brush along my cheekbones. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. “So fucking pretty with your messy hair and that death glare you always wear.”
“I only glare at people who deserve it,” I mutter and he laughs.
“So pretty until you open your mouth and ruin everything.”
I want to complain, but he uses that moment to flip us again so that I hit the mattress with a yelp.
