Page 65 of Shattered On Ice

“Even if I’m a mess?” he asks, voice gravelly as he speaks his fears into the bedroom lit by soft ambient light.

I take a deep breath and nod once. “I want your good days, and your bad. I want you when you're winning, and when you're fighting just to get through the day. I want to watch you soar and know you’ve overcome so many things to fly that high. I want you when you're hurting, when life is hard, and you have to dig in and fight extra hard. I want you, Westin Dumont.” I turn my face into his palm, kissing my promise into his rough skin.

Westin’s breath hitches, a jagged, tearing sound in the quiet room.

“Tabarnak,” he breathes before dropping his head heavily against my shoulder, his massive frame trembling for a split second as the weight of my absolute acceptance crushes the last of his fears. When he lifts his head, the vulnerability has ignited into a dark, consuming fire.

“Mon ange,” he whispers, voice dropping into a ragged, guttural rasp. “I need you. I need to be inside you. Right fucking now. You’re better at words and I…I just have to show you.”

I nod, and he rolls off me, reaching for his nightstand and the lube before he’s back, kneeling between my knees, pushing my thighs wide and bending to drop kisses across my hipbones, nuzzling against my straining dick. I’ve missed him so much. What began as a purely physical release between two strangers took on an emotional life of its own and transformed into this. It’s beyond my wildest dreams.

Every brush of his fingers, kiss of his lips, flick of his tongue as he works me open is a love letter to my body. He eats me like a starving man at a buffet, enthusiasm and skill leaving me leaking precum and clutching the sheets. His hot mouth moves up, sucking and licking until he’s cleaned up the mess he’s made of me, and then he swallows my dick, tongue swirling around my sensitive head as my back bows off the bed. He lets his saliva pool and trail from his lips as he slowly rises, popping off and replacing his mouth with his hand.

He strokes me slowly as he moves onto his knees, angling himself to align perfectly with my very happy hole. My eyes roll back as his thick cock slowly stretches me open, nerves firing up my spine, fingers and toes tingling as he rocks his hips another inch. The care he takes to ensure my pleasure as he enters me, with his fist steadily pumping my dick, and the perfect, shallow thrusts as he rolls his body against mine, say more than words ever could.

I feel revered. Respected. Loved. Seen.

I clutch his broad shoulders, my fingers clinging to the dips and valleys of his muscles and marvel that his man is mine just as much as I’m his. After so long apart, it would be natural to have some hesitation, or need a moment to reacquaint ourselves, but we’ve always had a magnetic pull that can't be denied, and every movement is met with its match. His thumb strokes over the broad, wet head of my cock as he holds himself above me on his forearm. Our noses brushing and breaths mixing as we gasp, moans swallowed when our lips collide in another frenzied kiss that can't be denied. The perfect way my leg hooks over his hip, pulling him in deeper, hitting that spot just right.

My release comes on swiftly, the building pleasure spiraling through me until I’m clutching Westin’s shoulders and whimpering with relief. He’s completely in tune with me, his cock swelling and spilling into me a moment later as he gasps my name amongst a muttering of French.

I stay wrapped around him, our sweat mingling as our hearts and breathing slow.

“This is it. What I’ve always wanted. You're my home,” he murmurs dreamily against my ear. He pushes up on his hands, my cum smeared on his chest, and slowly pulls out. I can't help the whimper that leaves me when he does, and he smiles. “I know you want to hold onto that cum. Don't worry, baby, I’ll fill you up whenever you want. Now, unclench that beautiful ass and show me what kind of mess we can make.”

My cheeks heat, but I do as he commands and relax, feeling the slow trickle of his cum as it vacates me. He watches proudly, then swipes a finger through the mess and holds it up.

“Suck it clean, mon ti’ démon.” His voice is a gravelly caress that leaves me shuddering from another wave of pleasure at his filthy demand.

I open my mouth and let him feed me his cum, embracing the basest part of me that wants every part of him I can have. I suck his fingers, swirling my tongue around to catch every drop before he pulls them from my mouth and replaces them with his lips. He kisses me with a devotion and reverence that’s only matched by the depravity of the situation. His tongue tangles with mine, tasting of salt and musk and me.

I’ve met my match, and he’s perfect in every imperfection.

Falling asleep in his arms, knowing there’s no limit on our time together, no secrets we’re keeping from anyone, makes it easier than ever. I sleep deeply, only waking once for Westin to take me slowly in our spooned position, falling back asleep before we can even be bothered to clean up.

Sunlight streams through the curtains, painting warm, golden stripes across the duvet when I slowly open my eyes. I’m momentarily disoriented by the heavy weight thrown across my chest. It’s Westin’s arm. He’s sprawled on his stomach beside me, his face buried in the pillow, completely dead to the world. I smile at how soft and unbothered he looks. He’s utterly at peace.

I don't have the sudden, panicked urge to check my watch. I don't have to do the math to decipher how much time I have to shower, get dressed, and disappear before anyone realizes I was here. I don't have to fortify a clinical boundary for our next session. I shift onto my side, tangling my legs with his under the sheets, and press a kiss to his bare shoulder. He groans, pulling me closer in his sleep.

I close my eyes, snuggling deeper into Westin’s side and letting the quiet, beautiful reality wash over me. We survived everything that was thrown at us. We’re finally home.

Twenty-seven

Westin

The glare of the camera flashes and recording devices ticking into action in the Hydras’ media room are a full-blown assault on my senses.

I’m sitting at a table in the front of the room filled with reporters, Monty anchoring me on my right, and McKenna Kresley, the Hydras’ head of PR, standing sentinel on my left. McKenna looks like she’s ready to go to war. Her clipboard is clutched to her chest like a shield, red hair in a high, bouncy ponytail that she takes a moment to tighten now. Her Hydras’ neon green sneakers are the only softness to the corporate armor she’s donned. Her sharp eyes scan the sea of reporters, daring any of them to step out of line. She prepped me for thirty minutes in the hallway before this, running through every possible trap the media might set for me. But the truth is, my chest feels incredibly light.

I’m not hiding anymore. They can't weaponize a secret that I’ve already happily given away.

The questions are expected. Everything from “Where did you meet him?” which I kept simple, sharing that Knight is the brother of one of my closest friends, to “Will you be an active member of the Atlanta LGBTQ+ scene?” to which I heartily agreed. It’s easy enough to answer each one with my feet planted firmly against the floor, and Monty taking some of the questions for himself as the other Hydras’ member who came out this season.

“Alright, let’s keep this moving,” McKenna projects over the hum of voices in the room, tapping her pen against the microphone stand. “We have time for two more. Garren, go ahead.”

Garren Thomas stands from the second row. He’s an old-school hockey purist, the kind of reporter who writes regular op-ed pieces about how the league is getting “too soft”, and how enforcers are a dying breed. He’s obviously not paying attention to Campbell’s penalty minutes when he writes those last ones. Our enforcer is a legend for his aggressive playing style, and it’s only our second season.

“Garren Thomas, Southern Sports Network,” he barks, a condescending edge to his voice. “Dumont, you’ve always been a traditional, physical player. A real meat-and-potatoes center we can count on to score goals and lead the front line. But with this sudden…public lifestyle reveal after the last game, there’s a lot of talk about locker room chemistry. How is the team handling this distraction? And should the fans expect a dip in the Hydras’ playoff push now that your focus is clearly off the ice?”