Page 35 of Poetry On Ice
He closes the space between us in two or three long strides. I step back when he gets too close and connect solidly with the locker behind me.
“There’s no one else here,” he says, smiling at me like he did on the ice. He’s laughing like he laughed on the ice too. A quiet, throaty rattle that shakes the whole room. It’s making it fucking hard to remember what my deal is with this whole being-at-home thing.
Fortunately, it comes back to me in the nick of time, and I put out my hand to hold him at arm’s length. Unfortunately, it means I’m touching him. A searing burn heats my palm and makes me lose my train of thought completely.
“You going to be like that, huh?” His brows raise in a way that gives me the distinct impression he’s not just laughing now. He’s laughing at me. “Are you going to try to deny me again?”
I give a jerky nod and manage to say, “We’re at home,” again.
“I don’t give a shit where we are.”
He moves quickly, placing both hands on my chest and pushing me back. Before I have time to react, his face is in the crook of my neck, lips and nose on my skin. He inhales like a bloodhound.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Oh, you know, just getting a hit of your stank.” He inhales again, and his lips follow his nose, leaving a warm trail along my jugular. He does it like a madman. Like a man who can’t help himself. When he’s had his fill, his eyelids flutter, and he smiles drunkenly at me and says, “You smell like something I want, Decker. Something I need.”
“Jesus, McGuire,” I hiss, pushing him away and spinning him around so he’s no longer facing me. I’m dimly aware that I don’t really have a plan right now, so I pin him against the locker by the back of his neck, buying time for a better idea to come to me. While I wait, I focus all my attention on forcing myself not to look down athis ass. It takes a lot of effort. So much effort, my filter slips.
“Don’t be a slut.” I say it with force, but the second the words leave my mouth, my tone changes. It goes from commanding to raw and pleading. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop being such a slut? Hmm? How many goddamn ti…?”
He hears the shift in my voice and likes it. It makes him giggle. He fucking giggles and squirms in my grip, wriggling until his face is squished against the door of the locker and his ass is pushed out way more than decency and decorum require.
“But, Ant,” he says sweetly, “I am a slut.”
His words land and flick a switch. My vision fades and a bright haze of lust blooms in my groin, rapidly expanding and spreading to every part of my body. I hold him in place with my left hand and step away from him. At first, I think it might be a welcome act of restraint, but then I see my right hand swing back in a broad arc. I bring it down hard. A crisp, tacky slap that makes contact with warm flesh and leaves a perfect imprint of my hand. A palm and five clearly distinguishable fingers. A pink brand on the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen.
He laughs again and maybe moans as well. If he does, he only moans a little. He definitely shakes his assthough. He arches his back slightly, the tiniest, smallest amount, but it makes his spine dip more than it was, and he rocks his hips side to side. Soft flesh and solid muscle quake gently and the haze from before grows thicker.
I try to reason with him. To warn him. To get him to see sense. “Come on, Princess. I’ve told you andtoldyou what happens to sluts.”
“Uh-uh.” His eyelids slide shut briefly, and a couple of shallow lines cut a semi-circle into his cheek near the corner of his mouth. “You haven’t told me, not really. You just keep sayingbad things.”
He has the audacity to mimic my voice. His take on it is deep and gruff. Quite the opposite of intelligent. A caveman at best. I’m already an inferno, a blazing hellscape of flames, and that, along with the sexy lines on his cheek, provide the spark I need to implode.
I shove him against the locker, pressing him against the door roughly before stepping back and letting go of him. He doesn’t struggle. At all. Not even a little. Instead, he stays exactly where I put him and cranes his head back to watch as I reach down to grope his ass. I do it with both hands. I do it hard. Hard enough to force tiny sighs out of him and leave marks on his skin. I grab big, juicy handfuls of flesh and squeeze it in my hands. I squeeze hard. Hard enough to hurt. Far from minding,his breathing quickens, and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, widening his stance by a few inches.
Fuck me sideways. This guy has no survival instinct whatsoever.
“When I say bad things happen to boys like you, McGuire,” I growl, “I mean it.”
“Like what? Tell me. I want to know.”
Jesus. He’s fearless. He doesn’t have an ounce of self-preservation in his whole body.
I lean in and scrape my teeth across those fucking smile lines. I don’t bite him. I just gnaw on him a little. He pushes himself onto his toes and arches his back harder into my touch instead of away from it. I knead his ass again. And again. Pushing his cheeks together and then spreading them until I see what I want. A shadow. A star. It’s darker than the rest of him. Exposed and winking at me.
“Boys like you…” I threaten. And credit where credit’s due because even I have to admit, I don’t sound all that different from McGuire’s primitive impersonation of me. “…find themselves stripped naked.That’swhat happens to them.” I poke at his temple with my forefinger a couple of times to drive my point home. “They find themselves bent over. Folded in half and held down…” I pant in his ear and rub my face against his cheek, biting him again and licking his cheek this time as well. “…with a big dick rammed up their ass.”
I step back and let go of him the second I say it, sobered by the base stupidity of my behavior.
He turns to face me.
Even though nothing McGuire has done so far has given me any reason to think it, a small part of me is hopeful that what I’ve just said may have been enough to rattle loose something sensible.
He’s quiet for a beat, taking his time to arrange his features into something supremely non-threatening. Almost innocent. He knits his hands together in front of his jock-clad cock and he looks down at them demurely.
Sweet Jesus, he’s pretty when he’s not talking.