Page 19 of Iced Out

He wets his lower lip before running his teeth over it. “I could, but I think you’d like it too much.”

Yeah, that’s probably true.

I might hate the guy on principle, but he’s a sexy motherfucker if I’ve ever seen one. Believe me, I’ve done my best not to notice too. Being openly gay on an athletic team means I already keep to myself more in the locker room than I did while I was still closeted. I’d never want to make any of my teammates uncomfortable, and thankfully, they don’t do it for me anyway.

Of course, because God hates me, the one exception would be Quinton.

My eyes avoid him as much as they can, above everyone else, because of it. Like they’ll continue to, because he is straight and the world’s biggest asshole.

But I have to admit, seeing him deep-throat my cock would be—

Stop thinking about it. Stop, stop, stop.

Thankfully, my brain gets the memo and halts all immediate thought about the jackass in front of me. Allsexualthoughts, at least. And it’s quickly replaced, yet again, with a flicker of fury when I notice a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“I severely doubt I’d enjoy it,” I bite out.

The way his brow arches signals his surprise at my response. Almost as if he’s in disbelief I wouldn’t be jumping at the opportunity to have him on his knees, mouth wrapped around my dick.

Abruptly, Quinton’s fist leaves its place on my shirt and latches onto my shoulder. Mybadshoulder, and I barely have the chance to register the pain shooting through the joint before I’m being hauled from our spot against the railing.

A slight fear that he’s about to do something insanely reckless—like maybe tossing me over the damn bannister and into the mass of bodies below—zips through me.

But fortunately for me, he makes a quick detour about halfway to the stairs, yanking me through a door after him.

Seven

Oakley

“What’re you do—”

The sudden shove he gives me after the door falls closed behind us sends me stumbling backward blindly. My heart damn near leaps out of my chest while I try to stabilize myself in the dark, nameless room. Which becomes infinitely harder to do when the light is flicked on, blinding me altogether while I grab on to the edge of something.

A sink.

Bathroom. We’re in the fucking bathroom.

Fantastic.

“What the hell, de Haas?” I snap, blinking to help my eyes adjust. When I look over toward the door, I’m even more irritated to find him leaning against it with a smug smile on his face. He says nothing, just keeps on fucking grinning. Like he’s enjoying this.

But that can’t be right, because Quinton doesn’t enjoy anything unless it involves a fist fight, puck bunnies, or his stupid fucking motorcycle.

None of those things are involved while he’s locked in a bathroom with me.

Unless…

“This isn’t about to turn into a bathroom brawl, is it?”

His brow quirks slightly, his head cocking to the side while he studies me. “Just how hammeredare youright now?”

I frown. “I’ve had less than one beer.”

He continues staring for a second, those damn eyes as incinerating as ever. “Then why the hell would you think we’re about to brawl in a goddamn bathroom? Quality party entertainment should happen”—he taps the door behind him—“out there. You know, so everyone can cheer me on while I kick your ass.”

The argument is solid enough to believe. Even the part of him kicking my ass, since the douchewaffle never seems to back down from solving his problems with his fists. But it doesn’t explain why…

“Want to tell me why we’re locked in here, then?”

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