Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(19)

His thumb brushes over the corner of his lips, collecting a stray bit of cum—my fucking cum—before sucking it into his mouth. The sight has my dick twitching, stirring back to life against my brain’s better judgment. Which is horrifying enough without adding the fact that it’s still out and shiny from his spit, right there for him to see.

This actually might be my worst nightmare.

His eyes lock with mine as he rises to full height before me. When he does, I’m reminded of just how small this bathroom is, especially with a couple six foot plus hockey players inside it.

He steps forward, keeping me crowded against the sink the way he did earlier. Nowhere to go but through him. Which is what I should do, considering the amount of ammunition he has now. Garner some much needed space between us and get the hell out of here.

Too bad my brain is firmly locked on the feeling of his erection against my thigh, begging me to return to favor. And God, how I want to.

Fuck, no. Stop that shit.

The heat from his body radiates through his clothes and mine, only getting worse when I press my palm to his chest to push him away. Animosity licks at my skin like scorching flames until I’m enveloped in them.

But what’s simmering beneath the surface is something far more dangerous.

Attraction.

One I’ve never allowed myself to place on him before, or at least notice. But now it’s at the forefront of my mind, and I can’t unsee it.

Clearing my throat, I say the four most important words I’ve ever said to him.

“This never fucking happened.”

His tongue swipes out over his bottom lip, a small smirk curling into place there. “At least we can agree on something, Reed.”

While I’m sure this’ll be the end of it and he’ll back away to leave, my world is flipped further on axis when he leans in, mouth mere centimeters from mine, and whispers, “But get your head on straight for tomorrow’s game, and maybe you’ll get a repeat.”

And though I know I shouldn’t, I want his taunt to be an offer for another round of the best head I’ve ever received.





Eight

Quinton

There are days I really wish I was less of a manwhore.

It’s not often, seeing as the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks when everyone involved is on the same page.

But today?

As I’m shoving my way out the door of the frat house?

Well, let’s just say I wish I would’ve mastered the art of self-control. And willpower.

My only saving grace in this whole scenario is that I bolted before Oakley had a chance to: A, make himself presentable again. And B, follow me. Not that I think he’d follow me, necessarily. From the way he stared at me—somewhere between pure bliss and abject horror—when I told him he could get a repeat if he played well tomorrow, I don’t think following me would’ve been high on his list of things to do.

Unless it were to kick my ass for the stunt I just pulled. Either way, I wasn’t about to stick around and find out once his orgasm high wore off.

Fuck, what the hell was I thinking?

I wasn’t. That’s the problem.

My brain was all over the goddamn place. The shit with my parents after the game hung over me like a storm cloud, souring my mood, even when I was doing my best to let loose before heading home and sleeping the shitty day off.

But then finding Oakley at the party after he’d bore witness to it all only made it worse.

The verbal smackdown between us was the fucking cherry on top of a shit sundae.

And that only led my instincts in the exact wrong direction. The one where the obsessive need to prove him wrong took over, feeding this stupid competitiveness I have with him. Building inside me more and more until I just...snapped.

Or blew, considering the circumstance.

I don’t know whether I’m proud of the way I got him to lose his mind with my mouth or if I’m terrified about what this means going forward in this so-called rivalry we have. Because I can only imagine that licking him like a lollipop will make things much, much worse between us.

I round the corner of the house and take off at a jog down a couple blocks, making a beeline for my Indian Scout. Not bothering to throw my helmet on, I bring the bike’s engine roaring to life and hightail it toward my apartment.

Normally the wind whipping around me while I ride is enough to cool any building anger or tension within me, but nothing is enough to get me out of my head right now. Not for more than a minute or two at a time. All my brain seems to want to do is replay what happened in the bathroom.

My dick twitches at the thought of tasting him again, and I’m floored by the realization I wasn’t kidding when I offered a repeat. I mean, sure, it was said as a taunt—half the things I say to him are—but I’d do it again without thinking twice.

And I’m not even into dudes.

Right?

After pulling into the garage at my apartment, I burst through the front door, so caught up in my tormented thought process, I don’t even notice Hayes sitting on the couch in our living room.

“Jesus, where’s the fire, Q?”

The sound of my roommate’s voice momentarily causes me to halt in my path toward my bedroom, and I turn to him. “What?

His dark brows hitch up, and he motions to me with his chin. “You seem a little out of sorts. Everything good?”