Page 71 of Shattered On Ice

Callum stops his fluttery hovering. A slow, victorious smile breaks out over his angular face, pouring pure radiance all over Wilder. He preens, smoothing the front of his sweater and adjusting his posture, transforming instantly from a hurricane into a smug, pacified princess who has just successfully conquered a brand new kingdom.

“Deal,” Callum says, batting his eyes with weaponized charm. He turns toward the dining room, gesturing grandly toward the table. “Now come sit down, sugar. You look positively famished.”

We migrate to the dining room where Callum immediately seats himself dangerously close to Wilder. I spend the first half of the meal running interference, redirecting Callum’s blatant flirting into actual conversation.

“So, Wilder, sugar,” Callum says, resting his chin on a manicured hand, staring at the massive defenseman like he’s a Michelin-star dessert. “Who are we finding the gated fortress for? Just you? A secret wife? A harem of puck bunnies?” He wiggles his fingers and wrinkles his nose with a smirk when he asks the last question, like that’s a silly concept.

Wilder inhales sharply, choking slightly on his chicken. He takes a long sip of his water and brushes his napkin over his mouth as his eyes dart to Westin, looking for help, before he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Just me. And my little sister, Ryiann. And her live-in nurse. She…she needs full-time care. And quiet.”

The flamboyant teasing drops from Callum’s face instantly, replaced by a fierce, genuine softness that always catches people off guard. “First floor primary suite for her,” Callum murmurs, pulling out his phone and typing notes in it with his speeding, polished fingertips. “Zero-entry shower. Soundproofed walls so you boys can be as loud as you want without disturbing her. I’ll make sure the backyard is a private sanctuary.”

Wilder blinks, stunned that Callum didn’t just accept his baggage, but immediately accommodated it. The rigid tension in Wilder’s shoulders finally, miraculously drops.

I look across the table at Westin. He’s leaning back in his chair, sipping wine, completely at ease. Six months ago, the mere mention of Montreal would have sent him into a spiral. Tonight, he’s seated at the head of our table, with a Montreal defender, building a family out of strays. My chest aches with a pride so fierce it nearly knocks the wind out of me.

When we say goodnight to our guests, Wilder is practically running from the house as Callum trails after him, making plans for their house-hunting escapades. I gladly shut the door on the chaos. It’s time Westin and I spent some much-needed time together.

“Callum was on one tonight,” Westin says, running a palm down his face when we move back to the kitchen to clean up.

“He was excited. I don't think he’s found a man that dreamy and the exact perfect representation of everything he’s been looking for just served up to him in an enclosed space before,” I explain. “You know how he is in a normal situation. You basically opened his cage and shook a steak in his face by bringing poor Wilder here.”

Westin turns to me with a dubious expression as he finishes loading the dishwasher. “You think Wilder is dreamy?” he asks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

I snort as I wipe down the counter. “Completely. That brooding, tall, dark, and grumpy thing is hot, and you know it. And Callum was right; he looks like a Greek god vacationing in the South—” I let out a squeal as Westin grabs me around the waist, hauling me up and setting me on the counter. He places his hands flat on either side of my hips and forces my knees to spread wide to accommodate his big body. He leans in until our faces are inches apart.

“Call him hot all you want, but I want to be the only man you're dreaming of, got it, beautiful?” he growls, voice a low rumble that skates over my lips.

A frisson of excitement travels up my spine as I lean into him, allowing our lips to touch. “You will always be my dream man, Westin Dumont,” I remind him before lowering my voice and leaning in. “Possessive looks good on you. Thanks for making it my dessert.”

“Seems like you need a reminder that I’m possessive as hell and want you all to myself.” He drags his nose along my cheek and licks a dimple.

I hum, noncommittal, as I play into his game. “What do you have in mind, sweetheart?” I run my fingers up his arms, looping my arms around his neck.

He glances around the kitchen, a smile curving his lips. “I’m going to eat you up, baby. If you feel like dessert, I’m going to make that happen.”

I can’t help the excited giggle that this idea bubbles up, and he smiles back before pecking my lips and pulling away. Westin is a generous lover, incredibly diligent and focused on my pleasure every time we’re together, but a creative play on things never hurts. He goes directly to the pantry, hunting through the shelves, before he returns with several items that have my mind spinning. Oh, he means actual dessert.

He pops the cap on the chocolate syrup, drizzling a small amount on his finger as he slowly walks toward me. My eyes bounce between his uplifted finger and his eyes that burn with mischief. He stops in front of me, painting my lips with the chocolate before he leans in and licks it off. Okay, this I can get behind.

“Am I going to be your ice cream sundae?” I ask, voice soft and breathy as his hands trace down my sides, grip the ends of my sweater, and tug it up and over my head.

“Even better,” he rumbles, unbuttoning my shirt and pushing it off my shoulders. His fingers are gentle against my skin, but his movements are becoming more hurried. “We’re going to have a Canadian treat. I’m craving s’mores.”

I snort against his neck and roll my head back to look at him. “S’mores originated in America. Canada can’t lay claim to that dessert, even if you enjoy it.”

“I can when I’m using a Canadian maple crème cookie, adding maple syrup, and you’ll be stuffed with a pure Canadian cock before the night’s over.” His smug words are tempered by the huge grin he’s wearing and the unrestrained heat in his eyes.

“I’m not convinced maple syrup is the right addition to elevate s’mores, but I’m willing to put this theory to the test. You know how I love a case study,” I say, trying my hardest to remain serious when all I want to do is dissolve into a fit of laughter.

Westin’s hands span the back of my hips and yank me forward until I’m pressed against the hard bulge in his pants, and he lowers me slowly to my feet. “Experiment one requires you to get naked.”

He drops his hands to my belt, unclasping the metal and working my fly open. His thumbs skim along the soft hair at my waistband, hooking in and pulling my pants and briefs down my legs. I step out of my clothing with Westin kneeling in front of me on the kitchen tile. He looks up at me, eyes reverent as he rises slowly, hands resting on my hips before he spins my body and presses me against the island. My breathing hitches, a gasp slipping out as his rough hand slides down my spine, pressing me over the granite until my cheek is touching the cool surface.

His foot slides between mine, gently nudging them until I’m spread wide, bent over, and at his mercy. He groans as he drags his nails along my thigh. The granite island is smooth and freezing under my cheek, sending a sharp shiver convulsing through me that only magnifies the inferno of Westin kneeling behind me.

“Experiment two requires you to be my dessert plate that I plan to lick clean.” His deep voice vibrates against my skin. His breath skims over my ass, teasing and keeping me focused at once.

I lift my head, trying to look over my shoulder to see what he’s using, but only catch the briefest view. The cool, viscous drizzle of chocolate syrup hits me first, a shocking contrast to the blazing heat of Westin’s tongue gliding along my crack in its wake. My back arches instinctively, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter. This isn't just physical dominance. This is the uninhibited, total surrender of a man who finally knows he’s safe enough to play, to consume, and to claim.