Page 79 of Ice Dance

My own dick wept precum, leaving damp trails. He must have felt it, because he reached down and wrapped his fingers around me. A gasp shuddered through me. His gaze came back to mine, but instead of getting me off with his hand, he rolled away briefly, reached into the bedside drawer and came back, his hand slicker than before. He stroked down, over me. I thrust, always wanting more.

He shifted me, pressed close, and took my dick into a tight, slick press between his thighs.

I rolled my hips, sinking deeper, and a bolt of pleasure shot straight to my lower back, stealing a gasp from my lips.

“Fuck me right here, like this,” he whispered.

I pushed deep between his thighs, and eased out, moaning low. His hand came around, clutched my ass, and held as I found a slow, sinking rhythm. Like our slow dance, I ground against him, thighs to thighs, but now my dick was between his, the friction driving me wild.

I kept my eyes open. So did he.

I held him close, close as any dance, and worked my hips, sinking myself deep then easing free, deep, easing free. Slow, to the sounds of our breathing. Heat built between us.

The sounds of our rapid breaths filled the room, and the slick beat of my dick fucking his thighs. I’d planned to go slow, to keep it sensuous, but the quickening pace had me.

His lashes fluttered. He bit into his bottom lip, and his fingers dug into my ass, urging me on.

I couldn’t resist and couldn’t slow down. Not close like this. He was so beautiful.

“You gonna come, Ren? Huh? You want to come, baby? Yeah, you like fucking me, huh. Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels like . . . Fuck . . .” He couldn’t speak either, not anymore.

My hips hammered. I fucked him deep, grunting, and he held on, blunt fingernails digging in, breathing fast with me. The pleasure built, pulling me tight. I broke, and came with a stuttering cry, spilling between his thighs in staccato, jerking motions, losing myself completely to him.

Coming down, I buried my face in his neck, and breathed him in, shaking and spent. He held on, his embrace carrying me through it. Nothing came close to sex with him. Not my hand, not our past blow jobs or getting each other off with our hands. The intimacy of this—facing him, watching him—it had cracked open my heart.

His fingers moved from my ass and began to trace slow, lazy lines down my spine. When I was done unraveling in his arms, I sighed and dropped my head back on the pillow, reluctantly pulling out.

He grinned, clearly satisfied with himself. My heart did a little skip.

He thrust his hand into my hair, sweeping it back, and chuckled, as though amused by the mess he’d made of my appearance.

I smiled back, reached up and flicked his ridiculous bangs out of his eyes. “You need a haircut.”

He laughed harder. “That’s what you say after fucking me like that?”

“It’s true⁠—”

He kissed me, then pulled back and shuffled close, tucking himself into the curve of me.

I hadn’t known it could be like this. The two of us, entwined so thoroughly that I no longer knew where I ended and he began. I teased my fingers through his hair, and listened to his breathing slow. We should probably clean up, but I had no inclination to move, and as his breathing grew even heavier, clearly neither did he. I tried to stay wake, to absorb the moment fully into my body and mind forever, but exhaustion tugged me down hard.

I didn’t know what out futures held for us, but we’d always have this.

I woke alone and tried to remember when Navarro had left. The bed had shifted and the door clicked sometime around three a.m. I glanced at the time on my phone. Almost five. He could have stayed. He’d need the rest.

I let my eyes fall closed, waiting for the alarm in a few minutes. I could still feel his touch on my skin. Hear his laugh in the room, as though he were still beside me.

I rolled onto my side, arm bent under my head, and stared at the pillow that still held the dent from where he’d slept. I missed him and it had only been a few hours. Missed the feel of him pulled close, the way he smelled, the micromovements as he’d slept against me, and how his smile lit up the whole room.

This was dangerous. Feeling like this. Feeling good. It felt good now, but what about later? What about the competition? And next year? My life revolved around England. His was in Montreal, teaching kids to skate, doing whatever he wanted. If—when we won, he’d have more opportunities to show the world he wasn’t the underdog they kept making him out to be, that he was worthy of so much more. Worthy of respect. But his life didn’t have me in it. And mine could definitely not accommodate Navarro.

I rolled onto my back.

This couldn’t ever be more.

My phone alarm sounded. I swiped it off.

None of that mattered today. The feelings, the future . . . those were tomorrow’s problems. The only thing I could keep in my head now, until after the preview panel, was the battle sequence and proving we had every right to skate the gender open at the Meridian Cup.