Page 94 of Hearts on Ice
He twisted his wrist on my cock, driving into me until I shattered, my body seizing, my hole clenching tight as release tore through me, spilling hot across his hand and the sheets.
“Fuck, yes. Dios, take it all!” He buried deep, his grinding erratic, flooding my inside with a shuddering groan, his release triggering aftershocks in me.
We slumped, him collapsing over me, cock softening inside before he eased out. My body ached in the best way, raw and loose, every nerve still humming.
Sticky and spent, he rolled us to our sides, his arm banding my waist, his lips pressing soft kisses to my neck. The room quieted—just our ragged breaths, the cooling air, the faint pulse still beating behind my ribs.
I slipped free, padded to the bathroom for a warm cloth, and came back to find him sprawled on his back, eyes heavy but watching me. I wiped us both clean—slow strokes over his skin, tender where the muscles trembled from overuse.
When I slid back under the sheets, he pulled me in close, his head settling over my heart. My hand found his hair, damp and soft between my fingers.
For a while, neither of us spoke. We just breathed together, skin to skin, the world outside falling away until it was only this: thequiet, the warmth, the certainty that we’d both been seen and cared for.
“That was… incredible,” he whispered, fingers tracing the dip of my hip.
I turned toward him, brushed the damp hair from his forehead, and kissed him slow. “You were incredible. A win feels better with you.”
Chapter 34
Miguel
Chicago’s arena throbbed like a living thing—forty thousand voices pounding the glass, chanting for blood. The air was sharp with cold and sweat and something metallic that lived in every rink. My mask pressed tight against my face, the hum of the crowd vibrating in my chest.
Game Five. Series tied 2–2.
One more win, and we’d break through to the conference finals. One more loss, and it was over.
I looked down the ice, caught sight of Drew behind the bench—arms folded, jaw set, the same calm that had steadied me all season. He nodded once when my eyes found him. That was enough.
The puck dropped.
First period. Chicago came out flying—fast, mean, hungry. I tracked every movement, every flicker of their team jersey cutting across my crease. My pads slammed shut on a rebound, glove flashing high to snatch a wrister headed top corner.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then a roar ofbooos.
“Nice stop, Maestro!” Tank barked, slapping my helmet with his glove.
We weathered the first ten minutes, and then our chance came. Justin stripped a defenseman at center ice, fed Devin streaking down the wing. One perfect deke.
Goal.
1–0, Grizzlies.
The bench exploded, sticks tapping against the boards. I punched the air with my blocker, the sound lost in the noise.
But Chicago didn’t crumble—they sharpened. They cycled the puck around our zone, wearing down our defense, and peppered me with shots that came like bullets. One hit the post. Another caught my shoulder so hard my arm went numb for a second.
When the horn finally blew for intermission, we were still ahead.
Second period. The Knights came back meaner.
Tank got called for tripping on a play that should’ve been a dive. Drew yelled something at the ref, low and sharp, but the whistle stood. Power play.
The puck never left our zone.
A screen. A deflection. 1–1.
The crowd went wild.
