Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(85)

“Fuck,” he utters on a tortured breath, his head thudding back against the pillow as he reaches the point of no return. Baring his teeth, he strokes faster and harder until cum jets from his cock, covering his hand and stomach. He works himself through the orgasm, his ass constricting around me, sending me into a spiral of my own. Heading into freefall, the tension at the base of my spine builds and builds until it can’t possibly anymore.

And then I shatter.

Break.

Completely fall apart as I lose myself inside him.

My orgasm slams into me at full speed, my cock almost bursting at the seams as I fill him with my cum. He clenches around me, drawing out my climax until I’m left a panting, breathless mess above him.

Exhaustion takes hold of me, and I collapse over his body. Too high on my orgasm and him to hold myself up any longer. His release spreads where our torsos connect, mixing with the sheen of sweat coating our bodies.

I kiss him once. Twice. Three times before dropping my forehead to rest against his, our breaths mixing in the sliver of space between our lips as we float back to Earth.

“You’ve just given me keys to a goddamn kingdom,” I whisper against his lips. “You know that, right?”

A husky laugh comes from him. “Don’t be getting any ideas.”

Oh, but I’m full of ideas now. After that, how can’t I be?

But with all these ideas comes errant thoughts. Ones I know I shouldn’t be having. Not post-sex, not ever. Not when it comes to the way I feel about Oakley. Because I shouldn’t be feeling anything for him. Certainly not the emotion currently cycling through my bloodstream like a drug.

Three naughty words sit on the tip of my tongue, begging to be said. Waiting for me to breathe life into them by letting them break free from the solitude of my brain.

But I can’t do it.

Falling in love wasn’t part of the deal. Hell, I was the one who went and told him not to fall in love with me, yet here I am doing exactly that. Catching feels in a fuck-buddy relationship, like a goddamn amateur.

And while we might’ve tossed out rules left and right, I doubt this is something we can overlook. Not for long, or I’ll risk shattering my own heart for a few minutes of temporary bliss.

So I keep those naughty, errant thoughts locked up tight and do my best to throw away the key before they ever see the light of day.

I place a soft, lingering kiss to his lips before pulling free. It takes an obscene amount of effort to peel my body off the bed and away from him, but somehow, I manage. He’s quick to follow, rising off the bed in search of a towel to clean up.

And I have to admit, the view of my cum leaking from him, dripping down his leg as he wipes off his stomach is…fucking unreal.

“Are you planning to force me into cuddling?” he asks.

When I don’t answer right away, he turns, only to find me staring at his ass. It takes a minute for me to remove my gaze from the creamy white liquid marking his skin, giving him my full attention.

“Absolutely,” I tell him, slipping back into my underwear like I wasn’t caught ogling my handiwork. “There’s no way you’re getting out of it after that.”

He just smirks and rolls his eyes as he continues wiping himself down.

I continue preparing for bed, piling my clothes together and shoving them into my bag before peeling back the covers. The action causes the bottle of lube still sitting on the bed to fly to the floor, and I snag it. The nightstand where he grabbed it from earlier is still partially open, and I’m about to drop it back where it belongs when I notice something inside the drawer.

A pill bottle.

The golden yellow prescription kind, with maybe one or two tablets left inside.

My hand shakes as I lift it from the drawer to read the label.

I find all the usual information on it, Oakley’s name, his doctor’s name—the team doctor, actually—and the name of the drug.

Vicodin.

Which I happen to know is…an opioid.





Thirty

Quinton

My stomach rolls as I read over the label on the bottle once, twice, fifty fucking times. And each time I read the word, the gut-wrenching fear shifts more and more into anger. Swirling and rolling until finally, I can’t keep quiet anymore.

“What the fuck are these?”

Oakley spins around, brows furrowed in confusion when he sees me holding the bottle of pills. And then, for the briefest moment, his face falls. He rights it quickly, almost fast enough for me to not notice the falter in his expression at all. Hell, if I didn’t know him as well as I do now, I probably would’ve missed it.

But I caught it.

I caught him.

“What the fuck are these?” I ask again, more forcefully this time. My grip around the bottle causes the plastic cap to dig into my skin painfully, the same way this discovery is embedding a knife in my heart.

Or in this case, my back.

He crosses the room to where I’m standing and grabs the bottle from my grasp. Swallowing, he reads the label before meeting my gaze. “They’re from when I broke my collarbone. Remember? In the game against Waylon last season?”

Ignoring his question, I ask one of my own. “Why do you still have them?”

“I guess I just never threw them away.”

I guess I just never threw them away.

How fucking convenient.