Page 170 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

I pulled his underwear over his cock and held him in my hand, stroking him slowly as the ripples of pleasure passed over his face.

On the sofa, forgotten there last night, was the bottle of lube, and I decided that I couldn’t resist him. I couldn’t resist the chance to have him one more time in this incredible, wonderful place. And I wanted him like this, dressed and in a hurry, rough and quick.

I grabbed the lube and poured it over my fingers, then stroked him well until he was biting his lip and holding my gaze like it was made of steel.

I inched backward, sitting down on him and letting the pressure wash over me for a long, held breath until he was inside me.

My eyes rolled back, and a deep groan rumbled out of my chest as his cock filled my body, the fabric of his pants rough and rubbing against my ass as he thrust his hips from below.

My sweats and briefs were only low enough to bare my ass, my cock and balls still packed inside the tight, folded fabric. I pressed my hands against Damon’s chest, his sweater soft and stained with lube now, but neither of us paid attention to that. Sweaters could be washed, and our time could never be reclaimed.

He jerked his hips a little faster, fucking me from below until I sank low on him and pinned him to the sofa, grinding painfully slowly against him, letting the pleasure last, letting it get away from us and rise lazily toward the peak.

And when I sped up, riding him hard, I didn’t slow down again. I led him there, to that distant, hidden place where our souls united into one. He came inside of me, face sweaty and bright, hair matted, eyes rolling back, fingers sinking into my waist.

My dick tensed, and I came inside my briefs with little more than a passing touch over my sweatpants.

I could feel him inside me even after he pulled his cock out. I could feel the heat of his orgasm burn through my body. I could feel those tingles, that residual passion, when I pulled my briefs and sweats back on, and lay on top of him, catching my breath.

“You’re so beautifully dirty, Seth,” he said in a low purr. “I’ll never get enough of it.”

Never? Neither would I. Not for a second did I fool myself into thinking otherwise.

We lay in the afterglow not only of a quick and dirty one on the sofa, but also of four days of the best sex of my life. And if it were only sex, I would have walked away with ease. Sure, I would forever long to feel something close to it again, but I would live.

It hadn’t just been sex.

The snowball fights, the hikes, the tender holding of hands, and the kisses that woke me up each morning. The caressing of his fingertips down my torso and the sweet words whispered into my ear when I was on the precipice of sleep. Those innocent moments of proximity, of closeness between two bodies and two beings. Those I would forever yearn for. Those I would never learn how to live without.

Later, when the cabin disappeared from the rearview mirror, my heart sank a little lower, and I looked out my window to hide the stinging tears in my eyes. My eyelashes fluttered, blinking the tears away, and I swallowed. Would there be a next time for us?

Chapter Fifteen

DAMON

I skated a lazy circle at the blue line, trying to stay warm, but my head kept drifting back to the last month. A strange thing to be thinking about in the middle of a game against the Breakers, but it had been that kind of month. The kind that settled into your bones and lived under your skin and filled you with every breath when you weren’t looking.

Since the cabin, Seth and I had somehow fallen into something that did not have a name. If someone asked, I would have said it was casual. I would have said we were just having fun, that it was nothing serious. I would have said a lot of wrong things with a straight face, because it was easier than saying aloud how it felt.

We spent an entire afternoon building a ridiculous blanket fort in his room, only to spend the evening tearing half of it down because Seth claimed it was a fire hazard. He said it with a straight face, too. That was the funny part. We ended up on the floor, laughing at how crooked the whole thing still looked. He fell asleep there, head on my stomach, and I lay awake wondering what the hell we thought we were doing.

Another night came with takeout containers, a half-watched documentary, and me tracing slow lines along his hip while he pretended he wasn’t leaning into every touch. He stole my hoodie twice. He pretended it was by accident. I pretended I didn’t notice. Losing my clothes to him was infinitely better than leaving a scattered trail of underwear all over the city.

There were mornings when he left before sunrise, quiet and careful, as if staying any longer would rewrite whatever we thought we had agreed on. I always found something of him left behind. A scarf. A half-finished tea. A scribble of a note telling me to eat something before practice. And I kept those things longer than anyone would think was normal. Other mornings, he would stay until noon. And the same happened when I spent nights at his place.

All of that lived in me tonight, humming under my ribs while the whistle blew and we lined up for the faceoff.

We were playing the Breakers. Nick’s team. I kept telling myself it was just another game, but that was a lie from the first drop of the puck. Nick skated like he had something lodged in his chest that he wanted to beat out of himself. Every shift brought us closer.

The crowd was loud. Students, locals, alumni, everyone mixing into one restless sound. I caught a glimpse of Seth in the stands during warm-up. He sat with Silas, who waved his arms around like he was trying to flag down a plane. Seth did not wave. He just watched the ice, steady and focused, the way he used to watch me in the cabin when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I should have looked away sooner. I did not.

The game tightened. The Breakers boxed us in along the boards. Keiran barked orders from the center. I felt the old heat in my blood, the satisfying weight of my stick in my hands. And then there was Nick. Always Nick. Cutting across my line, throwing his shoulder into mine just hard enough to make a point.

Fine. I could do this the old way.

We fought for the puck near the corner. Sticks clashed, gloves scraped, blades screeched against the ice. He leaned into me, and I shoved back, the boards trembling under the impact. The ref watched closely but didn’t blow the whistle. Not yet. Not when both of us pretended this was standard play. It was not.