Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(31)

His lips form a tight line as he measures my words and their value. Like he has the right to determine if they’re the truth or not. Again, a bunch of bullshit, but after a few seconds, he concedes.

“Maybe, but have you thought about what happens when this doesn’t go according to your perfect little plan?” He steps back into my space, and I swear he’s asking me to deck him. “Because plenty of things can go wrong here. Like, what if you hate having another guy touch you? What if you realize you’re not into it? What if people find out?” he asks, listing off the questions at a rapid-fire pace while ticking off his fingers. “What if we have no chemistry?”

I could laugh at the last one, but him using that as a point is only pissing me off more.

“Not possible,” I growl out, my tone low and angry. “And you know it’s not. Because you’ve felt it, just like I have. In the hotel room when you agreed to this. Outside the locker room where I could feel what I did to you. And let’s not forget the night that started this whole mess to begin with.”

His face is a mask, unreadable when he cuts me deeper still. “I wish I could forget.”

It’s not even a blow to my ego, his words. It’s more like he’s cutting me at the knees before ever giving this a chance.

Because, even though I rationalized this entire plan to make it about hockey and for the good of the team, it’s not just about that. Doing this—us messing around together—was also for all the things I could learn about myself. My sexual preferences, being one of them.

And it fucking sucks, seeing the answers to your questions at the end of a path standing right in front of you, but you can’t take it.

“I don’t doubt it, seeing as you can’t really stand the sight of me. But since that’s not the way the world works, you decide to pull this shit instead.” My lip curls back into a sneer. “Out of spite, no less. Because pretending it didn’t happen and like this doesn’t exist is better than admitting you liked it. Or worse, that you might actually like m—”

I don’t have a chance to finish my thought before the unthinkable happens, and Oakley grabs the back of my neck, slamming his mouth to mine.

A mixture of surprise and excitement courses through me, and it takes a moment for his kiss to register in my frustrated, lust-fogged brain. And once it does?

Hell.

My fingers grip at the collar of his hoodie, wrapping the strings around my fist and yanking him in closer. His tongue spears between my lips to find mine, and the second it does, every little bit of pent-up lust and aggression I’ve been feeling for him ignites.

Because this is it. What I’ve been waiting for. What I’ve been fucking craving since the bathroom at the party.

Him, giving in to me and this chemistry he denied us having.

Admitting to whatever this is between us is real. Tangible.

But admission through action only goes so far. I wanna hear it too, because now? There’s no denying this.

I rip my mouth from his—about to ask for just that—when he cuts me off before I can even start.

“You win,” he half pants, half snarls into my mouth. “Now, shut the fuck up, Quinton.”

Rather than argue, I take a page from his playbook and answer him with another scorching kiss. One to show him there’s no holding back.

Now, there’s only war.

The kind with lips and tongues, rather than shots fired from a gun, but a war nonetheless.

One I intend to win.

He’s not making it easy on me, though, and as we fight for dominance over each other—starting with whose tongue is in the other’s mouth—I’m quickly realizing I might’ve met my match. Hands grip harder than necessary as they slide under shirts, seeking the heat of skin on skin like it’s enough to keep us from annihilating each other. He’s grinding into me, and I’m pressing into him, and we’re clawing at each other like two raging animals.

Pure, carnal need fuels this battle, and it’s one neither of us are prepared to lose.

It’s messy and brutal and fucking addictive, taking all the pent-up aggression and giving him mine in return.

I feel like I could kiss the hatred right out of him.

Crowding further into him, I push and push some more until he’s pressed against the door leading to Coach’s office. He doesn’t let me have the upper hand for long, though, swapping our positions and slamming me back against the wood. Hard enough to leave me breathless.

“Like it a little rough there, Reed?” I murmur, licking at the seam of his lips before he tears them away from mine. “Because I know I do.”

Teeth sink into the line of my jaw as his hips roll into me, eliciting a primal growl from deep within my chest when I feel just how much he likes getting rough with me. The ridge of his erection rubbing against mine sends bursts of adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I could care less about the rivalry, the team, the wins, or this stupid deal we made. All I care about is—

“Don’t fucking stop.”

It comes out as a plea, but it doesn’t matter. Because Oakley presses his hips into me again and again, grinding his dick against mine with the perfect amount of pressure to light my entire body on fire. Or so I thought, but then he slides one of his thighs between my legs, parting them enough so when he lifts my leg to wrap his hip, it—