Page 35 of Shattered On Ice

I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life, but as I wrap my arms tightly around Westin’s solid waist and press my chest flush against the leather jacket covering his back, I realize I’d ride this Hayabusa to the ends of the earth if it meant I could always hold him like this in broad daylight.

The roar of the engine vibrates through my thighs and echoes in my chest as we tear down a two-lane highway outside of Atlanta. The tinted visor of my helmet offers a brilliant, intoxicating anonymity. To the cars passing by, we’re just two faceless riders. They can't see that I’m a man clinging to his twin brother’s best friend. They can't see the way I bury my face between his broad shoulder blades, inhaling the hot leather, exhaust, and his signature cedarwood cologne mixing with his perspiration and transforming into an intoxicating scent branded on my brain.

For the first time since we started this, I don't have to scan the shadows. I don't have to monitor my proximity or force a polite, platonic distance. Hidden beneath the sleek black helmet, I am completely, shamelessly, his. I squeeze my arms tighter around his midsection, and Westin reaches down with his left hand, his thick, gloved fingers covering mine and squeezing back before returning to the handlebars.

It’s a tiny gesture, but it makes my heart soar. The comfort and familiarity we’ve so easily fallen into with Rook away in Italy has been a revelation. Without the constant threat of discovery looming over our every interaction, Westin has unfurled. The hyper-vigilant, carefully masked All-Star has vanished, replaced by a man who cooks me dinner in just his sweatpants, argues playfully over what movie to watch, and kisses me softly in the morning before either of us has even brushed our teeth.

Westin downshifts, the bike letting out a throaty growl as he turns off the pavement onto a packed dirt road. The dense treeline swallows us, the temperature dropping a few degrees as the thick canopy of towering, ancient oaks and the broad, heart-shaped leaves of the redbuds block out the brutal late August sun. We navigate the winding road until it opens onto a secluded cove of a lake, the water sparkling like scattered diamonds through the trees.

He cuts the engine. The sudden silence of the woods rings in my ears, broken only by the crunch of gravel as he kicks the stand down.

I slide off the bike, my legs a little shaky from the vibration, and reach up to pull my helmet off. The humid Georgia heat immediately clings to my skin, but before I can even run a hand through my helmet-mussed hair, Westin is there. He casually sets his helmet onto the ground and crowds me against the bike’s side.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to do this for the last fifty miles,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Having you pressed against me, feeling your hands all over me was driving me insane.”

He doesn't wait for a response. His hands cup my face, pulling me in for a kiss that’s completely devoid of hesitation. It’s a claiming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and demanding, stealing the breath from my lungs. I melt against him, my hands finding the lapels of his leather jacket to keep myself upright.

When he finally pulls back, his hazel eyes are dark, blown wide with a desire that leaves me feeling scorched.

“Come here,” he growls softly, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the bike.

He leads me a few feet away, gently pushing me backward until my spine is up against the rough, sturdy bark of a massive oak tree. The shade is deep and cooling here, completely shielded from the road and the water. It’s just us surrounded by nature.

“Wes,” I breathe out, my chest heaving as he steps into my space.

“I need to taste you,” he says, the absolute devotion in his voice sending a shiver straight down my spine. “I need to show you exactly what you mean to me.”

He doesn't kiss me again. Instead, he drops to his knees in the dirt right in front of me.

My breath catches, hands flying out to brace against the rough bark of the tree as he looks up at me. There’s no shame in his eyes. There’s no rushed, frantic panic. Westin Dumont, the massive, impenetrable NHL center, is kneeling in the dirt in his expensive leather jacket, looking up at me with sheer reverence.

He reaches up, his hands deftly undoing the button of my pants and pulling the zipper down. I tremble as he pushes my pants and boxer briefs, down my thighs that are already trembling with anticipation. The humid summer air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fiery warmth of his breath as he leans in.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin, his hands gripping my hips to hold me in place. Then, his mouth closes over me in a smooth caress that leaves me breathless.

I throw my head back against the trunk of the oak tree, a ragged, embarrassingly loud moan escaping my throat. His warm mouth takes me deep, tongue swirling with an expert devotion that instantly clears my brain of any thought. My hands drop from the tree, fingers burying in his soft, thick hair. I don't try to pull him closer, or push him away. I simply hold on for dear life.

Every slide of his mouth, every wet, dragging pull, is a deliberate eradication of my past. Aaron made me feel dirty, like our intimacy was a shameful secret from which he had to come clean. But Westin is worshipping me. He’s taking his time, humming his appreciation against my skin, completely committed to my pleasure in the middle of the secluded forest. He’s proving, without a single word, that I’m not a mistake to be hidden, but a prize to be savored.

“Wes,” I gasp, hips involuntarily surging forward as the pleasure spikes into something blinding. “I’m going to—”

He doesn't stop. He tightens his grip on my hips, his mouth working faster, swallowing my desperate pleas. My release hits me like a freight train, a bright, shattering wave of euphoria that bows my spine and pulls a cry from my lips. My knees threaten to give out, going completely liquid under his ministrations, but Westin’s strong hands keep me pinned safely against the tree until my tremors finally subside.

I’m panting, my eyes squeezed shut as I attempt to find my bearings after that epic climax rocked me to my core. I feel the soft press of his lips against my hip bone, a final, tender kiss, before he stands.

I open my eyes to find him looking down at me, a fiercely satisfied, breathtaking smile spreading across his face. He runs his thumb across his bottom lip in a devastatingly sexy manner that sends another wave of pleasure rushing through me. He doesn't look away, hurry to clean up, or hide. He simply reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair off my sweaty forehead and cradling my cheek reverently in his big hand.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word a heavy, irrefutable truth settling between us in the quiet of the woods.

My heart races against my ribs, filling me with an emotion I’ve tried to keep in check, but is now spilling into every cell of my body.

“Yours,” I breathe, voice nearly silent for the reverence I give the word.

He gently helps me put my clothes back into place, his hands lingering on my waist. “Think your legs work well enough to hold on for the ride back?” he asks, a rough, teasing edge to his voice that makes my pulse spike all over again. “Because I plan to worship you even more when we’re home.”

Home.

The word hangs in the thick Georgia air, heavier than the summer heat. I know what Westin’s house looks like—stark, gray, and completely devoid of anything personal. He’s told me he doesn't have a home, just a place to land between games and practices. To hear him use that word now, so casually and easily, to describe what we are doing together…