Page 55 of Iced Out

After he’s finished, I lick him clean, my tongue swirling around his softening cock before popping off. But I’m not done with him yet.

When he goes to lift off me, I grab his wrist and drag him until he’s facing the same direction I am. His body now layered to my side, I spear my tongue between his lips, tasting my own cum along with his.

The mixture of our essence is intoxicating. Fucking euphoric.

“Holy fucking shit,” he mutters into my mouth. “That was…”

He doesn’t even have to finish the thought for me to know what he’s trying to say.

“I know,” I whisper back, doing my best to catch my breath as we break the kiss.

Shifting, he curls into my side, his forehead pressing against the side of my throat as we take our time coming down from the orgasm high that launched us straight into the stratosphere.

“I think I’m addicted to the taste of your cum,” he says on a heavy exhale.

I laugh. “Not something I’ve ever been told before.”

“Hmm. Well, all those other guys are either stupid or tasteless. Literally.”

Another chuckle leaves me, and I wrap my arm around his shoulder, holding him against me. “You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

He yawns then, nestling his entire body against mine as our heart rates return to normal.

My arm slides beneath his pillow, and I’m surprised to find nothing beneath it. No lucky puck, and I realize it’s because we went at each other the second we entered the room. He never had a chance to put it there.

I try to slip out from under him, but the arm he draped over my stomach tightens in protest.

“Where are you going?”

“Your puck,” is all I say.

Bleary eyes meet mine, a softness around the edges, almost childlike, and he releases his hold on me. “My duffle. Inside pocket, on the right.”

I shift out from under him and find his duffle, redressing in my underwear along the way. The puck’s exactly where he said it’d be, and I grab it before bringing it back to where he’s sprawled across the mattress.

Doing my best not to startle him, I shift the pillow until I’m able to slide the puck into place, exactly where it belongs.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice all cracked and graveled from exhaustion, and I must admit, even that’s sexy.

“No problem,” I murmur back, the little knot in my throat keeping me from speaking much louder.

“Are you coming back?”

I know I shouldn’t. Just like I’m positiveheknows I shouldn’t either. Post-sex cuddling isn’t something we’ve ever done before. Basking in the glow beside each other, sure. But this is uncharted territory we’re about to cross into.

Yet with every inch of my brain telling me this is a bad idea, I still crawl back into the space beside him.

He nuzzles back into the crook of my shoulder, our bodies plastered to each other from shoulder to our knees. The heat from his forehead radiates against my throat, causing my pulse to race beneath the surface.

Not to mention what this little encounter does to the slab of muscle struggling to beat evenly within my chest cavity.

He falls asleep like that, naked as the day he was born, with an arm draped over my chest. I let him stay there for a while, allowing him to fall into a deeper slumber while I study the patterns in his breathing.

It’s my every intention to move to my own bed once I know he won’t wake again.

But my intentions are damned to hell when the warmth of his body pressed to mine sends me off to sleep too.

Seventeen

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