Shattered On Ice Prologue
Westin
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” His voice is desperate, needy, not at all matching the words he’s speaking.
“You still showed up,” I point out with a smirk, closing the door as he hurries around me.
I turn and find him leaning against the wall, limbs tight with tension and desire.
He wants this as badly as I do. We use each other for a physical release, but we have to go through this dance to feel like we’ve covered the bases and established that it’s just a hookup.
I know the score, and I’m right there with him.
I step into his space slowly until our chests touch.
The speeding rush of his heart hammering against his ribs is the softest flutter against mine.
He’s just as excited as he is torn by his guilt.
I hate that he feels guilt at all, but that’s what happens when you pick the last person on earth you should hook up with.
“We can’t,” he breathes against my mouth, eyes roving over my face, pleading for me to stop him.
Yet I can’t stop this any more than he can.
I kiss the words right off his lips, and he goes quiet, submitting for my tongue to sweep in and wipe away the lies we feed each other as his hands fist in my shirt and pull me closer.
We both know this is wrong, yet here we are, his hands slipping eagerly under my T-shirt as mine work the ends of his button-down out of his pants before we’ve even made it out of the entryway.
His skin is warm when my fingers make contact, dipping down into his perfectly pressed slacks to cup his ass.
He moans into my mouth, the sound carnal and jacking up my already astronomical need to bury myself in his willing body.
His nails score my skin as his hands race up my back, finding my shoulders and digging in while his tongue takes the kisses he said he didn't want.
Fuck, he always feels so damn good against me, his body pliant and willing, exactly the right height to fit against me, my broader shoulders and height boxing him in against the wall as I pull our hips closer.
The hardness of his cock pressing into mine drags a growl of longing from my throat.
What is it about the things you know you shouldn't want that become so much more desirable?
We have a steadily declining half-life, our trysts radioactive and bound to burn us both if we keep doing this—an inevitable expiration date set ticking from the very first stolen kiss.
Hell, from the first look when I knew he wanted me, and I was ready to take it.
Yet, we keep giving in, lighting the wick closer to the dynamite that will explode and shatter the fogged glass facade hiding our hasty hookups.
I want to preserve the friendship I have and make his life less fraught with guilt, so I renew my commitment not to reach out again.
Then one of us always weakens in our resolve that the last time was the last and sends the “You up?” or “WYD?” text when we need to get off.
It’s purely physical, both of us trusting the other for the security and safety we both need with our situations.
I shut down my racing mind that’s racked with guilt and focus on what’s in front of me, on him, for the short time he’ll allow it. I have to make the most of the time I’m given, and I sure as shit won’t waste it.
I lift him easily, his legs wrapping tightly around my hips as he circles his arms around my neck and buries his face against my shoulder.
I carry him further inside my house, the performative charade of putting up a fight and telling me we shouldn't over now.
He runs his fingers up my back, curling into my hair as I hurry down the hallway and into my bedroom, the goosebumps he sends racing along my skin matching my pace.
Once inside, I spin us, setting him down in front of the bed, and get to work removing his pants.
“Oh, God yes,” he groans as I sink to my knees in front of him, my hand already steadily pumping his pretty cock.
Everything about him is pretty, all supple lines and skin, light dustings of downy hair, gentle slopes and valleys for my hands to travel.
He becomes unintelligible murmurs and curses—something he only does when he’s lost to the moment—when I suck his balls into my mouth.
I slide my fingers back and touch the plug he’s so helpfully stuffed into his tight little hole and groan around my mouthful of him.
I pull on the flared base while gripping his cock tighter, and he moans, fingers fisting tighter in my hair.
I let his balls pop out of my mouth. “You’re such a beautiful liar, coming over here with a toy in your ass so I can fill you up faster.
” I give the plug a quick slap, and his legs shake, dick jerking in my hand.
“You want this to be over so badly you’re willing to do all the prep for me?
” I tease, twisting the base of the plug and giving it slow, shallow pulses in and out of his ass so his breath comes in gasps.
“Westin, please,” he whines gently, hands coming to my face, thumbs stroking across my cheeks too tenderly for the primal moment.
I abruptly stand, abandoning the toy in his ass and once again towering over him until he curls against my chest, and begins undressing me.
I let him pull the shirt over my head and start on the buttons of his own as I lose my sweats and boxer briefs.
Our clothing pools at our feet, and I spend a few precious moments taking him in.
He’s lean, lightly muscled only because it’s his natural build, not because he works for it.
He’s a long-distance runner, so it’s hard for him to pack on bulk, but his quads and calves are beautiful, and other than his daily runs and stretching sessions, he rarely sees the inside of a gym.
His natural habitat is an office, behind a computer, or lost in a library with the books he loves, and it shows in the soft skin of his fingers that brush over my skin and tangle in my hair.
I’m a bulky mess of muscle beside him, with hands rough and callused from a lifetime of holding a hockey stick, but he looks at me like I’m the prettiest artwork in his favorite gallery, so I’m never self-conscious when we strip down.
That’s not always been the case when I’ve hooked up with men, so this has been a welcome reprieve.
“I want you on the bed on your knees,” I command, turning for the nightstand without looking to see if he’ll follow my order.
I know he will. When I turn back, condom on and lube in hand, he’s presented me with his ass, the round globes in the air as his chest presses into the dark navy of my duvet.
The black silicone plug in his ass is on full display now, and I know exactly how desperate he was for this hookup.
He went for a bigger plug. Maybe he went through a few to get to that one, or he’s been wearing it for a while, but he wanted this badly enough to fuck himself on a toy beforehand, so I could immediately fuck him when he got here, even if he wanted to go back and forth with the we shouldn't thing again. We both know he’s right, even if we talk ourselves out of it every time.
“Westin,” he murmurs, turning his head to look for me as I stand at the side of the bed, stroking my cock at the sight of him. “I need you now. Hurry.”
“I know, baby,” I tell him, allowing myself a small endearment when I’ve said I would refrain so I don't get attached, and popping the cap on the lube and slicking it over my cock. “I’ll fill you up better than that toy can.”
I climb onto the bed behind him and gently work the plug out of his ass, marveling at the way he gapes open for me.
I like it when I get to prep him, opening up his tight little hole and getting him ready to take my cock, but this satisfies the urgent, less civilized part of us both that wants to fuck like animals immediately.
Lining myself up at his hole, I press forward, his tight heat still having to stretch around me despite his valiant efforts to do all the work for us.
He grunts, back arching as his hips surge toward me, taking my length in one quick rush that leaves me breathless and holding onto his waist. I draw back and roll my hips, setting a pace that’s a little too good, and have to think immediately of something other than how his ass grips my cock like he’s personally trying to drain my balls dry.
It’s maddening how good he feels. I wish I didn’t enjoy this so much, because it makes me want him more.
It makes me want more with him.
But I can’t. That’s off the table. Off limits.
Not up for discussion. For one, this is purely physical.
We scratch an itch for each other and go on with our lives.
He wants to be fucked by a big, strong hockey player, and I get to fuck a beautiful man who looks at me like I’m more than just my profession and knows how to separate my feelings from the physical.
Secondly, we both know how badly it would fuck up everything if it got out that we’ve been hooking up for months.
He’s my best friend’s brother.
Not only would that jeopardize my friendship with Rook, but I’m not out to my team, or anyone, really, so I have to keep a low profile when it comes to who I want in my bed.
I like to think that I'm pretty good at hiding my preference for men. How Knight could have known the very first time he met me is still a mystery to me, but it’s been an insane pull to each other ever since, and we can’t stop even though we know this is bound to blow up in our faces.
Yet every time I kiss his smirking lips, press my fingers into his dimpled cheeks, bury my cock into his ass, or fit my body against his, I forget every rational thought and reason that should keep us apart.
I’m addicted to the thrill and feel of him.
It’s been that way for almost three months.
We try to stay away from each other, promising it’ll just be the one time, the last time, that we know we shouldn’t do it.
If we get caught, whether by Rook, one of my other teammates, or by someone who releases the news to the press and outs me before I’m ready, it’ll be bad.
Once again, tonight as he rolls his hips and cries out my name, our slick bodies slapping together with the force of my thrusts and his ability to take everything I give him, I forget our reasons for needing to stay away from each other.
His ass clenches around my cock, and he guides my hand to his rock-hard dick as I fold my body over his, relishing the feel of him growing harder in my palm.
I bite into his shoulder as the pleasure of his tight hole washes over me, my vision blacking out until all I feel is Knight beneath me.
I have a hard time remembering my name, let alone who we’re protecting by hiding our hookups, then he’s chanting my name as he comes in hot pulses.
He fits so perfectly in my arms when we fall to our sides, my cock still throbbing inside him as his cum cools on my fingers, our breaths synching and chests heaving together.
We stay like that until our sweat has cooled, and we no longer have an excuse to be joined so intimately.
It always feels like I’m leaving home when I pull out of his ass, but I’ve never said that to him.
It’s not the kind of thing you say to a hookup, especially when you’ve established rules and know this can never go anywhere.
We use each other for the physical release, I repeat like a mantra.
I have to remember that whenever the romantic in me that loves a good rom-com and believes in a happily ever after wants to sink its teeth into the closest thing I’ve had to consistency and never let go.
Instead, I tie off the condom and head into my bathroom, washing up and bringing back a warm, wet washcloth for Knight.
I let him clean up before he hands it back, and I return to the bathroom.
When I come back, he’s dressed, and I have to say goodbye without hinting that I’d rather he stay for a bit, or the entire night, so we can wake up next to each other for once.
That’s not what this is.
Instead, I walk him to the door like the gentleman he wants me to be, despite just being deep in his ass and pulling his hair like a goddamn caveman.
“This is the last time,” he insists. “It won't happen again.”
“Of course,” I agree, trying to hide my smile. We both know that’s a lie. “You were still tight as fuck even with the plug. I loved it.”
He grins as he turns away and leaves me with the image of his dimples, and then his ass.
Fuck me. Why does he have to be my best friend’s brother?