Page 14 of Shattered On Ice

Westin turns me, pulling my body into his with a big arm banded around my lower back. His other hand moves to the back of my head, bringing me in until he can trace my lips with the tip of his tongue. The poppers are still lighting up my brain synapses, finally overriding the adrenaline. My awareness of every touch is a torment that’s out of this world. He tastes like tequila and bad decisions. I’m fully aware I’m about to break unspoken rules and do the opposite of what I’ve been telling myself to do.

And I know it’s going to be life-altering.

“Be a good boy and open up those pretty lips so I can fuck your mouth,” Westin demands against my lips.

Holy shit. My shaking hands fly up to his chest, trembling fingers curling into his shirt against the hard wall of his pecs. I need to push him away. If I let this happen, I’m risking Rook’s trust and my sanity. But the poppers are sparking behind my eyes, and Westin’s breath is hot against my mouth. The sheer, gravitational pull of him obliterates my rational thought. I squeeze my eyes shut, blindly seeking his mouth, because if I look at him, I’ll remember all the reasons I shouldn't be doing this.

My lips part against his, and his taste is far more potent, visceral, alive, against my tongue. He takes from me like I’m an unending well of lust. Maybe I am. My brain is being rewired. The chemistry shifts until everything is tinged with the feel, the taste, the smell of him. God, he smells divine. He holds me tight, but reverently, as he kisses the absolute hell out of me. I'm grateful for his strength because I’m a standing puddle that’s melting against him.

A moan escapes my lips as he shifts, his hand running lower onto my ass and squeezing. Hot shame scorches my face as the sound registers, and I pull away with a murmured apology. This is bad. My hands shake as I drop them from his shoulders, pushing against his chest for space as all of the anxiety I just defeated comes rushing back in.

“Don't leave me,” he begs, holding me tight, peppering kisses along my jaw and onto my neck. “I want to hear every one of your little sounds as I make you feel good. Fuck, I need you," he confesses raggedly.

A new heat washes over me with his lust-filled declaration. I know full well he means physically, but a part of me wants him to mean it on a deeper level. To need me for more than a physical release, or to get this craving out of his system. But I’ve been the temporary high before, the experiment for someone who wasn't sure about themselves. It’s a jarring realization to know I already ascribe more intention in the little touches, that I’m already looking for more than he’s likely willing and able to give with his kiss. It provides a shred of clarity when I’ve been living in my interstellar orbit of liquor and bad decisions.

“We shouldn't be doing this.” I hear the half-heartedness of my statement as the words leave my lips. He seems to as well, because he returns to my mouth and kisses me again, as if his life depends on the fusing of our lips and the dance of our tongues. The argument drifts away from my consciousness as he works my mouth over, and I give in. So what if we’re out in public, where anyone can see us? Westin picked me. He wants me. He’s throwing caution to the wind and wants this as much as I do, and that’s enough for now.

The music changes to a sultry club mix, sampling one of Rook’s favorite hype songs, and I regain my faculties in a rush. Fuck.

We’re in public, where anyone can see us, including my brother.

I pull away, putting physical distance between us as my hands shake, and look into Westin’s kiss-drunk face that has confusion chasing away his lust.

“My brother is here. He…he would lose his mind if he caught us doing this,” I admit, my hands gripping Westin’s shirt to stay tethered to the moment and not lose myself to panic. “I don't want to hurt him.” I don't want him to look at me with betrayal and hurt again.

It’s finally out in the open. Westin knows why we can’t do this now. My loyalty belongs to my brother above all else, and I’m acting horribly with my incaution with his best friend. Rook deserves his happiness, and having a friend on his team has been so good for him. This is just lust, and that’s a feeling I’m used to suppressing.

Westin scrubs his face, his chest expanding as he takes in a giant breath before looking me in the eye, his expression distraught. “I know. You’re right.” He bites his lip as his eyes rove over my face before he continues. “I…I just want you so much. I shouldn't fuck things up with Rook by going after you. I’m sorry for making this awkward.”

Surprise slithers through me, widening my eyes. “What? No, I’m sorry. I know better and still gave in. It takes two to kiss like that,” I remind him.

A brief smile lightens his features before he’s serious again. “Let’s go somewhere we can really talk.”

I nod and let him take my hand, leading me off the dance floor, away from the VIP area, into a quieter hallway of the club. He has me against the wall, his body molded to mine, fingers skating up the column of my neck and tracing over my lips before I’ve fully solidified my resolve, and I’m melting again.

“You make it hard to think when you do that,” I say as his fingers brush over my lips. I gently kiss his fingertips to soften the blow.

“Fuck,” he growls, his attention on my lips while his hips roll into mine, and I feel the effect I have on him.

Maybe just a little indulgence will be enough to get him out of my system, I lie to myself.

My eyes close with a flutter, letting the darkness swallow my rational thought as he grinds against me. The past version of me is screaming to run, my hands shaking so I'm barely able to grip his shirt. Yet I shamelessly grind back, opening my mouth to pull two of his fingers inside, consumed by the man pinning me against the wall. I want Westin to feel good and I want to enjoy this before I have to let him go completely. His breath is a rush against my neck. My body lights up at everywhere we touch. Every pass over his bulge builds a pleasure in me that ratchets my sensations again.

He lets out a deep and needy groan as he shudders against me, his hips jerk and he stills, fully pinning me against the wall. My heart slams against the barrier separating us. With a deep, resonant sigh, his hand presses my hips back, stilling my movements so just our chests are rising and falling against each other.

His heart is thumping against my body, the blood whooshing in my ears matching its rhythm until both our pulses slow. I finally let his fingers slide out of my mouth, giving a final, slow flick of my tongue before I open my eyes and meet his again.

The air punches out of my lungs.

Westin’s hazel eyes are burning with heavy, undeniable desire, but at the edges—hidden right at the border of elation—is a flicker of deep, agonizing shame.

The sight of it is a bucket of ice water over my head, snapping me violently back into my body. My hands immediately begin to shake again, trembling uncontrollably where they rest against his chest.

Shame.

The last time I saw that toxic shame in a man’s eyes, it destroyed my life. It was the look that came right before the lies started—before I was turned into a monster so one of Rook’s teammates could protect his hockey prodigy image.

And here is Westin, my brother’s best friend and another athlete with everything to lose, looking at me with that same expression.