Page 67 of Hearts on Ice
I worked him with my hand and mouth together, finding a rhythm that made his abs tighten and his thighs shake. Every sound he made wound the dial higher—those rough little gasps, the low groans, the way he said my name like prayer and profanity at once.
“Miguel—fuck—Miguel, I’m—”
“Yeah,” I breathed, stroking him faster now, my lips at the base of him, my free hand splayed wide on his stomach to feel it jump. “Quiero verte. I want to see you. Come for me, Drew. Dame eso. Give it to me.”
That was it.
His whole body went tight under my hands. His jaw dropped. A sound tore out of him—raw, helpless, broken open. Heat spilled over my fingers, over his stomach. His back arched off the mattress, muscles standing out in his neck and shoulders, and for a second he looked young and wrecked and gorgeous, and I swear I fell a little in love with him right there.
I stroked him through it, slowing him down, whispering into his skin. “Eso. Bueno. Just breathe. Lo hiciste tan bien. You did so good for me.”
Little tremors ran through him as he came back down. His grip in my hair softened, then slid, then dropped, his arm flopping back against the sheets like he’d lost the ability to hold it up.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was his breathing. Deep. Shaky. Real.
“Holy shit,” he finally rasped, voice wrecked. His eyes were still half-lidded, dazed, watching me like he couldn’t process me. “Holy… shit.”
I couldn’t help it. I grinned.
He let out this rough, breathless laugh. “You’re very smug right now.”
“A little,” I admitted.
“A lot,” he corrected, still gasping air. “Jesus, Miguel. I— I haven’t—”
He stopped. Swallowed. Looked at me.
I crawled up onto the bed, settling on my side next to him, one knee bent against his thigh. His skin was still warm, a little damp. I swiped my thumb gently through the mess on hisstomach, wiped it absently on my own hip, then leaned down and pressed my mouth to his shoulder.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
He turned his head and looked at me without hiding the way he felt.
“I’m… yeah,” he said, and it sounded like the truth. His voice dropped even lower. “More than okay.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“Porque te deseo, Drew,” I said, brushing my knuckles over his jaw. “I want you—bad.”
Then, finally, like he was just remembering I existed from the neck down, his gaze slid down my chest, over my stomach, and lower—to the obvious outline straining my sweats. His breath caught.
“Oh,” he said, a little hoarse. “That’s… still a situation.”
I laughed under my breath. “Sí. Es una situación.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow—still a little shaky, which made heat punch through me all over again—and reached for me. His hand settled on my stomach first, curious, then slid lower. When his fingers traced the line of my cock through my sweats, I had to suck in a breath.
Drew looked up at me, eyes darker now. “Teach me?”
My control nearly snapped.
“Anything you want,” I said, honestly.
His smile tilted, slow and wrecking. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I want to make you feel like you just made me feel.”
Yeah. I was done because this was the kind of honesty that made your chest ache.
I let out a rough laugh and tipped my forehead to his. “Careful, corazón,” I whispered. “Talk like that and I’m never letting you go.”
