Page 47 of Poetry On Ice

I hate it.

I hate everything about what happens to me in this guy’s presence. Still, my pet rodent is heavily invested in his response.

“Nah, not right now.” He turns and looks over his shoulder at me, smiling beatifically. “Right now, I’m going to have a leisurely tug and you,”—he points a no-nonsense forefinger directly at my face so I’m left in no doubt whatsoever who he’s talking to—“you’regoing to eat my ass.”

And like that, I’m gone.

Gone.

I’m in the shower, water spraying into my face, with my towel still wrapped around me. I have one arm around his lower waist, holding him in place, and the other between his cheeks, soaping him up. I wash him fast, almost roughly, my hand sliding up and down hiscrack quickly. Dipping a finger into him and swiveling around before unhooking the spout and hosing him down. There’s nothing sensual about it. Only urgency. Only necessity. As soon as it’s done, I slither to the shower floor, knees landing heavily on the cool tile.

I don’t feel it at all.

Now, I’m one of those people who likes fucking. I really do. It’s not complicated. It feels good, so I enjoy it. I like fucking and getting my dick sucked. I like sucking dick and a lot of other things too. But the one thing I love, the thing that grinds my gears harder than anything else, is eating ass. It drives me fucking insane. Ass cheeks in my face. A hole spread open for me. A big hunk of man quivering and losing his mind on my tongue.

Yeah, put a fork in me ’cause I’m done.

Still, there are asses, and then there areasses. Simply put, McGuire’s ass is anass. It’s the ass dreams are made of. Daydreams. Wet dreams. You name it. For me, at least, dreams are made of an ass like Robbie McGuire’s. A perfect peach. Juicy and ripe. A hard, muscle butt with just enough meat to make you want to sink your teeth into it.

I stay like that, kneeling behind him for a beat. A reverent moment where I sit back on my heels and take in the sight. The vast expanse of his skin is slick andshiny. Droplets of water glitter and gather on his lower back, merging together and forming tiny rivulets that run down the curve of his ass.

My hands float up, fingers spread, and I take a full handful of each one. I shake them gently, jiggling until he pouts at me and arches his back impatiently. My cock throbs. Looks like it might have a thing for impatience as well. It seems to like men who don’t have a clue what they’re doing but still somehow manage to be demanding as hell. I keep a firm grip on McGuire and spread my hands. His hole whirls into view. A pretty puckered star. A tight virgin hole I fucked open last night.

I fall on him, mashing my face into him and licking his bud like my life depends on it. I don’t tease him. I don’t make him wait. I don’t have the presence of mind for that. I just lap at his opening until his knees start to shake. The sounds he makes are out of this world. They’re guttural and raw. Sounds that exist only when someone has had layers and layers of their bullshit stripped away from them. When all that’s left is who and what they really are.

I alternate between a broad, soft tongue and one that’s flexed into a point. I circle his hole, laving his rim gently until he’s swearing and almost doubled over, scrabbling at the tiled wall in front of him as he shoves his ass inmy face. When he does, I stiffen my tongue and drive it into him as deeply as possible. I don’t stop until he’s shouting, his hand moving up and down so fast in front of him it’s a blur. I hold his hips hard to stop him from wriggling out of my grip. My mouth is wide open, tongue fully extended, and I use the weight and momentum of my entire head to tongue-fuck him to climax. His ring flutters and clenches helplessly around my tongue. There’s a hard twitch and then a pause. Another twitch, harder this time, and this time, it comes on the back of a curse and a punitive groan.

There’s a subtle shiver in his spine.

A hard arch of muscle and bone.

A deep grasp that hollows out dents on the sides of his ass cheeks.

Then he throws his head back and my name ricochets off tile and glass.

By the time I’ve recovered, he’s dressed, packed, and ready to head to the lobby. He and a few of the guys have a press engagement. Some marketing shit, an interview or a photo shoot, something like that. The kind of thing people tend to leave me out of more often than not.

And thank fuck for that because I could use a little time on my own to regroup.

He drops his bags at the door and checks his pockets to ensure he has his phone and keys. When he’s satisfied his life is in order, he saunters over to me with a mild, non-threatening smile.

It scares the shit out of me.

I’m stooped over my bag, digging around for a pair of pants, but I quickly straighten and tuck the towel around my waist a little tighter.

He puts a hand on my chest. Lightly. So lightly, it feels insignificant. Like something he’s done many times in the past and fully intends to do many times in the future. That scares me too. He pushes himself onto his toes as I stand frozen and kisses me on the cheek. Soft, puffy lips stamp an invisible brand onto the hairless skin over my cheekbone.

“I can feel you when I move, Ant,” he whispers. “I can feel where you were last night and what you did to me. I can feel you when I walk… When I move my legs.” He kisses me again, this time on my neck. And this time, he chases the kiss with a slow stroke of his tongue along my earlobe. A rash of goosebumps erupts and spreads down one side of my body. “I’m going to feel where you were when I’m on the ice later,” he says it like a promise and a threat rolled into one. “And I want you to know that.”

19

Robbie McGuire

We’re in the arena,about to go on the ice. Coach has just finished his pep talk and adrenaline is running high. There’s the usual clatter of skate blades, sticks, and macho bravado as we make our way out of the locker room.

I feel the same way I always do before a game. Feverish with excitement. Hot and compressed in my gear. Leggings, pads, skates, and helmet all contain me tightly, comforting and agitating me in equal measure. Armor that makes me feel safe and want to break free. It makes me long for the puck drop. That first perfect moment. The instant my right skate makes contact with the ice. The slight resistance. The slice and the glide. Force and mass. The explosive reaction that gives rise to motion. The cold blast of wind in my face. The quick shift. The deep click that happens when major muscle groups are activated and spring into action.

The rush of the chase. The crash of the first hit.