Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(67)

“More,” I moan, my hand squeezing his thigh. “Fuck, baby, give me more.”

His forehead dips down, brushing mine as a bead of sweat drips from his cheek onto my lips. I’m quick to lick it away, the salt exploding on my tongue as the hand around my cock picks up the pace, jacking me in quick, hard succession.

His thrusts become harder and more punishing, and each time his head swipes my prostate, a tingling sensation works its way through my extremities. I can feel it take over, the impending sign of release, and I welcome it. I need it.

I feel wholly consumed by him.

Owned in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“Just like that, Quinn. That’s it,” he soothes, his hand anchoring on my hip as he impales me with his cock.

My body lights up like the city skyline, release barreling down my spine until I’m helpless to stop it. So I don’t bother trying, instead letting it shoot me into outer space, going higher and higher as the stars behind my eyelids become blinding balls of light.

And I explode with them.

“Ohmifuckinggodyes.” The sentence comes out as a single word of incoherent babbling while I lose myself in rapture. Transcending to a place I didn’t know existed.

He works me through my orgasm with expertise, milking me for all I’m worth. Cum spills from my cock onto my stomach and chest, coating me with the white, sticky liquid as my ass clenches around him. Every pulse and squeeze brings him close to his climax until I finally drag him over the edge with me.

“Yes, Quinn. Yes,” he rasps, sounding just as wrecked as I feel.

I feel his release jet out of him, each thrust he makes into my body filling me with more of his cum until he can’t hold himself up any longer and collapses on top of me.

My arms weave their way around his back, and I cling to him like glue, no part of me willing to let go. The heart pounding in my chest syncs with his as we come down from our high. Exhausted, sated, and wrapped in each other.

We stay there, my fingers dancing along his spine as our breathing slows, for I don’t know how long. Seconds. Minutes. Hours, maybe. But no part of me wants to move and risk popping the perfect little bubble we’ve fallen into.

He lifts his head from where it lay on my chest after a while, those brown eyes damn near unreadable as I stare into them. Lose myself in them and the depths they hide, like every canyon and crack in the Earth’s surface.

And he stares at me too, like he’s seeing me for the very first time.

He bridges the tiny pocket of space between our mouths, his lips brushing against mine in a feather-light kiss. One so soft, it’s barely a kiss at all. And I sink into it. Into the pure innocence of it. Into the intimacy of it, until I’m unable to escape the hold it’s got over me.

But I don’t want to escape. Not now, not ever.

I want to bottle this entire moment up into a single heartbeat and cherish it in all its glory. Because come morning light, one of two things are bound to happen.

He’ll wake up beside me and regret every moment of what just happened.

Or he won’t.

But either way, I need to save it. File it in my memory as something pure and perfect. Something to remain untouched, no matter what happens tomorrow.

And then pretend this doesn’t change anything between us.

Even if I know it’s a lie.





Twenty-Three

Quinton

February

Tonight is the first game since I brought Oakley to my parents’ house and it’s also the first game we’re losing at the start of the final period. And I can’t help but think it has everything to do with the fact that we’ve truly gone and fucked up this superstition beyond repair because we had sex.

Real, mind-blowing sex outside the limits of our superstition.

The worst part is our falling behind on the ice has nothing to do with the way we’ve been playing as a team. This might actually be the tightest game we’ve played as a whole all season. It’s more like every time we score or catch some kind of lucky break, there’s Wynnfield coming right back with one for themselves. Which is frustrating as hell on its own, but even more so when I have to believe this is partly our fault.

“What’re you thinking right now?” Oak asks, skating up to my side as we make our way to center ice for the third period faceoff.

“That we can’t lose this game,” I mutter, my gaze colliding with his. But what I don’t say is that even if we lose—and even if it is because of us—I don’t regret the other night. Not by a long shot.

I just hope he can say the same, if it comes to that.

Oakley nods in understanding, but keeps silent as he moves into position on the opposite side of the circle.

Once the official drops the puck and the game is back in motion, every guy—teammate and opponent—slides into the zone with one singular task on their mind.

Get the puck in the net.

And by some streak of luck, we manage to with three minutes left in the game. All thanks to Oakley’s keen eye, spotting I was open and allotting me the chance to score. Now with the goal tying us up at three apiece, I’m just grateful we’ve got a chance to take this to overtime at the very least.

Now the puck’s live again, and we’re about to do a change on the fly when Oakley skates up behind me, a massive smile screaming of pride and respect plastered on his face. “Nice shot, de Haas.”