Page 33 of Poetry On Ice

I keep my eyes open when he goes quiet and the stillness around him sucks the air out of the room. And I keep them open as his slit parts and opens. It’s only when I hear the gruff sound of his pleasure that I tear my eyes off him and let my lids slam shut. I wait for the splatter. The wet burst, the hot spurt of shame.

I wait.

And wait.

It doesn’t come.

When I open my eyes to see what the hell happened, I see him convulsing with both hands between his legs, one hand around his shaft and the other clutching his tip, catching what he made.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask dreamily.

He leans over me, face inches from mine, eyes darker than usual, and shakes his head and smiles as if the joke’s on him.

“’Cause, Princess”—he takes my face in his clean hand, squishing my cheeks so hard my lips climb over each other. It’s a rough action that’s in direct conflictwith the tone of his voice—“this face is too pretty to fuck up.”

“I wanted you to do it.” My voice is still dreamy. So soft and melodious that I can’t tell if I’m more surprised by my admission or how little I sound like myself.

Heat flares in his eyes, a bright flame in a long night. He’s angry. At me, at himself, I can’t tell which. Either way, he dusts my face with his hand like he did that first day on the ice. He does it exactly the same way. Only this time, I’m different. I understand the game now, so I don’t get angry. I get even.

I look him dead in the eyes, dip my finger in the puddle of semen pooled at the base of my throat, and raise it to my mouth.

Decker’s thighs tighten around my ribs, and he lets out a low rumble.

I reach for the pool of cum again, this time with three fingers, scooping up as much as I can.

Before I have time to taste them, he takes hold of my wrist and wrestles it above my head. I let him. I don’t resist at all. Instead, I strain my head toward him and snap at his chin and cheeks until my tongue finds his mouth.

“McGuire,” he growls, “don’t be a slut.”

“Why not?” I pant, lips hot against his.

“Don’t you know what happens to sluts?”

“No, I don’t.” I like this game, this kind of talk. I didn’t think I would, but holy shit, I do. It’s giving me life, and I want him to keep talking. “What happens to sluts? Tell me.”

He moans into my mouth and shifts so his full weight is on me. “Bad things,” he murmurs as he leans in to kiss me.

It’s a hard, bruising kiss that leaves me winded. I wind my free arm around his neck and deepen the kiss. He growls again but seems to catch himself before he lets go completely, pulling away, dragging himself off me like he’s come into contact with a live ember.

“Decker!” I hiss at the back of him as he hurriedly makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t respond or show any outward sign of having heard me. The familiar hot rip of fury flares in my chest and blends with the remnants of lust that still seep out of me. “Get me a warm towel, asshole. I’m drenched in cum.”

He disappears into the bathroom and half of him reappears a second later. A single, scowling eye, a clenched jaw, and a thick, beefy arm appear around the doorframe. A wet, well-wrung-out white hand towel flies through the air and hits me square in the face.

The lights are out and Decker is back in his bed by the time I’ve composed myself. Though I warn myself strenuously not to say anything, I can’t resist the temptation. Maybe it’s because I like winning, or maybe it’s because if I’m really, really honest with myself, I’m as competitive with Decker as he is with me.

I have one up on him now, and I can’t let it go.

“You owe me twenty thousand dollars.”

An exasperated breath fizzles through his teeth. “I know.”

“Good thing you earn almost as much as me, huh? So I don’t have to feel too bad about taking it from you.” He doesn’t reply, but I can tell from the weight of the silence that he’s likely plotting my murder, so to distract him, I hit him with, “Wanna go double or nothing?”

He’s quiet for so long that I think he might have fallen asleep.

“No, I don’t,” he says eventually.

“Cool beans,” I reply, though I’m not sure that’s something people still say, and it’s certainly not something I’ve ever felt the need to say aloud before. “Does that mean I get to blow you whenever I want now?”

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