Page 103 of Craving Poison Ice

He kissed me, and he tasted of himself, and his hands slid down my back and gripped my ass and squeezed, and then he flipped us so smoothly that I didn’t see it happen. It was his turn to look down at me, and I lay there wrecked and breathless with my heart in my throat and my cock leaking against my stomach.

“May I?” he said.

“God, yes.”

“Tell me what you want.”

I told him. I said it in words I had never spoken aloud in my life, in a shaking voice, with my face on fire, and he listened with his whole body and nodded, and when I finished he said, “Thank you,” in a low, reverent voice, and did every single thing I had asked. The bottle of lube was where we had left it. He slicked his fingers and pushed one inside me, and then two, scissoring them open and curling them until I was pushing back onto his hand and begging. Then he bent his head and ran his tongue over my hole, slow and wet, and I swore and grabbed the headboard because I thought I would come apart right there. He licked me open while his fingers worked in and out of me, and I heard myself babble that I needed him, that I needed his cock, that I couldn’t wait any longer.

When he finally lined himself up and pushed inside, I gasped his name and felt the world drop out from under me and rise again, warmer and brighter and a hundred times better than the first time. His cock filled me, thick and hot and certain, stretching me around every inch of him, and he pinned my wrists above my head and began to move in me with a deep, steady, driving rhythm while I wrapped my legs around his waist and met every thrust.

“Look at me,” he said.

“I am.”

“Say what you feel.”

“Everything. I feel everything. You’re so deep, Maksim, God, you feel so good.”

“Good.” His forehead came down against mine. “So do you.”

He fucked me harder, and the bed hit the wall in a steady knock, and I did not care who heard. He reached between us and wrapped his hand around my cock and stroked me in time with his thrusts, and I came first, with a shout, arching against him, spilling hot across my stomach and his fist as the room went white. He followed a moment later with my name a groan in his throat. I felt the throb of him deep inside me and held him through it with my arms locked around his back. His teeth came down against my neck, cool and sharp, and I felt him hold himself there, trembling, not biting, not biting, not biting.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I know you won’t.”

“I know that you know.”

“Thanks for not.”

He laughed, weakly, into my neck. “You are welcome.”

Afterward we lay in the dark, and I noticed for the first time that he was too quiet.

Not the ordinary quiet. His usual stillness has a shape I know by now, a settled, watchful calm. This was something else. He had one arm around me and his eyes on the ceiling, and every so often his hand tightened on my shoulder, like a man testing that I was still there.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Nothing.”