Page 73 of Hearts on Ice
He eyed my hand like it was a trick play, but after a beat, he took it. His grip was firm, callused from gripping sticks and weights, and as I pulled him toward me, I felt the heat of him, all six-foot-three of solid man, his crotch brushing mine just enough to make my pulse spike. We faced each other in the open space, the music pulsing low: guitar strums and that driving beat that made your body sway and hips roll.
"Alright, the basics," I said, stepping closer, my hand settling on his waist. Dios mío, he was warm through his shirt, his muscles shifting under my palm. "Right hand here," I guided his hand to my shoulder, "left on my back. Follow my lead, step back, side, forward, hip snap. Like this." I demonstrated, my feet moving in time, pulling him with me, our bodies syncing until my thigh pressed between his legs, rubbing against his growing bulge.
“You really expect me to remember all that when you’re this close?” he muttered, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice, the kind I lived for.
I chuckled as I pressed closer so our chests nearly brushed, the friction of our hips making my dick throb. "Nah, it's fun. Loosen those hips, man. Feel the rhythm."
The dance brought us body to body, my thigh slipping between his as we turned, the friction sparking something low in my gut, pre-cum leaking into my jeans.
Drew’s breath caught; his hips jolted before he steadied himself, muttering, “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
Bachata was intimate like that; it was designed to tease, to build heat without saying a word, our crotches bumping with every sway. His hand tightened on my back, and I caught the way his eyes darkened, his breath quickening as our hard-ons nudged together.
We moved through the steps, me guiding, him following better than I expected. A sheen of sweat started at his hairline, and hell, it looked good on him. I could smell his cologne mixed with the faint salt of his skin; it was musky and intoxicating.
"See? You're a natural.”
“Natural disaster, maybe,” he said, his voice thick.
“You know that’s not true,” I gently chided. “Now, add the turn, spin me out." I twirled under his arm, coming back flush against him. My free hand landed on his chest, and I felt his heart hammering.
He let out a quiet, helpless sound—a cross between a laugh and a groan—as if surprised by his own reaction. “You don’t play fair.”
Our hips aligned, rocking together to the beat, our cocks straining through fabric, and fuck, it was electric. My dick ached, pressing against him, and from the way his breath hitched, histhick shaft was doing the same, the outline clear against my thigh.
The song shifted to a slower track, the lyrics crooning about desire and touch, our hips undulating like lovers in heat, and I didn't let go. I couldn’t help it; my hand found his jaw, my thumb dragging slowly until I had him close enough to taste. "You feel that?”
“I’ve never felt anything like this,” he whispered.
“That's the point, your dick's hard as fuck against me, Coach. Makes me wanna drop to my knees right here." Our faces were inches apart, breaths mingling, hot and ragged.
"Drew," I whispered, dropping the Coach.
His eyes locked on mine, vulnerable for a split second, before he closed the gap. Drew exhaled hard, voice cracking. “Say it again.”
“Drew, kiss me.”
His lips parted, his tongue sliding against mine, and I groaned into his mouth. My hands fisted his shirt, yanking him harder against me so our cocks ground together through our jeans.
We stumbled back toward the couch, but I broke away just enough to tug him toward the hallway, my voice rough with need. "Bedroom?"
He nodded, that control fraying as he followed, his hand in mine like a lifeline, his free one palming his bulge like he couldn't wait. The air went heavy, full of heat and the kind of silence that begged to be broken. I kicked the door shut and we crashed together again, kissing fiercely and hungrily; our teeth clashed, our tongues fucking mouths. My fingers worked his shirt buttons, peeling it off to reveal the expanse of hischest, dusted with dark hair, muscles etched from endless gym sessions, nipples pebbled and begging.
"You're built like a fucking god," I murmured, my palms sliding over his pecs, my thumbs circling his nipples until they hardened, pinching hard enough to make him hiss. He shivered, a low sound escaping him, unraveled already, and we hadn't even gotten naked.
His hands weren’t idle; they yanked my tee over my head, calluses scraping skin in a way that made me hiss, and my cock jumped. We stripped fast after that; jeans hit the floor with a thud, boxer briefs followed. We were both standing there naked, both cocks hard and bobbing, mine curved up against my stomach, thick and veined, pre-cum glinting at the tip; his was longer, thicker, the fat head slick and purple, balls heavy below.
“Mierda,” I muttered, breath catching. “Look at you.”
I pushed him back onto the bed and climbed over him, our bodies aligning, skin to skin. The heat of him made my pulse stumble. I kissed down his throat, nipped the pulse point, sucked hard enough to mark him, then moved lower, tongue dragging over a nipple, biting just enough to make him arch.
“Fuck, Miguel,” he breathed—my name sounding like a prayer, like surrender.
Those two words flipped something in me. My control was a live wire, sparking. I wanted to sink into him, all of him—but I stopped, hand on his chest, heart hammering beneath my palm.
“Hey,” I said softly, still half out of breath. “Before we go there—”
His eyes flicked open, dazed, pupils blown.
