Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(37)

Fourteen

Oakley

December

So, despite the way I bolted like a dickhead after our first hook-up...Quinton’s theory actually works.

I shouldn’t be surprised, seeing as I’m also a firm believer in superstitions—at least when it pertains to hockey. But I’m still in complete shock when the scoreboard at the end of the game against Fall River shows we won. In a shutout.

And then later the same night, after I apologized quite a bit for my hasty exit the night before, we went for another round testing this superstition. Only this time, I took my turn learning every inch of Quinton’s dick with my tongue.

We won the game the next day, four to one, and I got a fucking hat trick out of it.

At first, I thought it was coincidental—maybe the team was finally starting to form into a cohesive unit and play well together—and had nothing to do with this little arrangement Quinton and I created. But as more time passes and we keep winning, I know it’s time to put some stock in this little superstition.

We’ve racked up six more wins in the past three weeks, and it’s safe to say our plan has turned the entire season around. We even have the eyes of the entire NCAA on us, and thankfully, it’s got nothing to do with PED or steroid use anymore. Nope, we’re being called the comeback kids, and the whole team is eating it up, using it as a driving force to continue competing at an elite level.

Now we’re to the point in the season where we only have a few more games before winter break starts, and it might be strange to admit, but I’m kind of worried about it. With the roll we’ve been on, I’m terrified we might lose this momentum going into the new year and the second half of our season.

But we still have another week and a half of classes, practices, and games to go, so I’m refusing to let my thoughts linger on it.

Instead, I shift my focus to the present and the naked man in front of me, about to redress after our latest roll in his sheets. My eyes trace over the sculpted muscles of his back, covered in intricate artwork, until I reach his smooth, bare ass. I can still see the faint imprint of my palm from where I was squeezing one cheek earlier while he fucked my face.

Yeah, I’m definitely gonna miss this view.

A classic side effect of really good sex. The top-tier, mind blowing kind of sex that can only happen when the chemistry between two people hits just right. Everything about the person becomes addicting.

Plus, this little theory has made us a lot more fluid with each other—both on and off the ice. It’s like we thought; we’re literally fucking out our aggression with each other, and now we can sort of get along.

But only sort of.

“I can feel you staring at me like a piece of meat,” Quinton chides, not even sparing me a glance as he slides a pair of athletic shorts on, sans underwear. Something he does a lot, and it’s far sexier than it should be. Or is fair, when he turns, and I catch the way the waistband hangs low on his hips, revealing the damn V that never fails to get my dick stirring.

And the tattoos.

Those. Fucking. Tattoos.

I’ve never been into tatted guys, at least to the extent Quinton has covering his body. In fact, I used to think they made him look like a delinquent, only adding to his reckless attitude and persona. Now, after getting to see each piece of art up close and running my tongue over each line inking his skin, I realize I was wrong, and tattoos are now my new kink. At least with him.

The ram’s skull across the top of his back and shoulders is sexy as hell. It’s more of a sketched style of artwork, the linework messy but the shading and depth created in it is impeccable. And as for why a ram…well, it’s because he’s an Aries.

Sometimes it really is that simple.

Maybe it’s why I like them, though. Because I can see little pieces of who he is through the artwork painted across his body. Tiny snippets into who he is inked on his skin for the world to see.

Out of them all, my favorite is the piece on his thigh. It’s a fractured old-fashioned clock—the kind with Roman numerals for the numbers. All the inner workings, the gears and mechanics hidden within, peek through the gaps of broken pieces, and the little shards were made to look like they’re piercing his skin.

I’ve never asked him about it, but I can tell there’s a meaning to it every time I touch or trace over it.

A sock hits me in the face out of nowhere, interrupting my eye-fucking session.

“I’m not a piece of meat,” he says again, but the playfulness in his voice tells me he doesn’t give two shits about me ogling him. From the way I see him flex his ass, he’s actually enjoying it.

“Mmm,” I hum, the rumble coming from deep within my chest. “Disappointing because you look good enough to eat.”

“Glad to know you really are attracted to me.” He chuckles. “I was worried there for a second.”

My brows knit as I continue to watch him move around the room. “What? Of course I am. Why would you think I wasn’t?”

He glances up at me from where he was bending to grab a shirt off the floor, giving me one of those get real, Reed looks. Brows raised and all.

“It’s not like you made this whole”—he waves his arms around—“situationship easy. If anything, the roles should have been reversed and you should’ve been the one chasing me, since you knew you were into dudes. At least, that’s the way it happens in the movies and shit. The gay guy falling for his straight friend—”