Page 143 of On Thin Ice

“Yeah,more,” Finn begged.

Jacob shifted his hand and tucked a third finger in, no longer thrusting, just pressing the pads of his fingers against that place that made Finn shudder.

“Fuck,” Finn cried.

He was thrusting in tiny movements now, rubbing the wet head of his dick against Jacob’s stomach.

“No,” Jacob said, reduced to single words now by the fire pulsing inside his stomach. He curled his other hand around Finn’s hip, stopping him.

Finn’s eyes were wild and he bit his lip. “Close,” he said.

Maybe the savage surge of satisfaction that shot through him was ridiculous—Jacob knew how good it was between them, and how much Finn wanted it—but he felt it anyway.

Reluctantly, he pulled his fingers out and stroked his cock with the excess lube, then pressed into Finn’s hole.

Finn gasped as he slid all the way down, his thighs meeting Jacob’s.

He didn’t thrust right away, just ground against his dick, and he was just as wondrous as he felt around Jacob’s fingers—but so much more.

“Like that?” Jacob managed two words this time, but that was all he had as Finn kissed him, grinding harder, his hips sinuous and so fucking perfect.

Finn gasped into his mouth as Jacob grabbed his ass with both hands, hoping that he’d found the right angle, and thrust hard.

This was going to be over really quick, and he needed to send Finn over the edge first. He’d confessed awhile back that sometimes, the second time he got fingered or fucked, he could come just from that, andGodthat had been the hottest thing Jacob had ever heard and he wanted it so goddamn bad. Notjust for him, not as some kind of badge of sexual prowess, but he wanted to give it to Finn. Give himeverything.

Finn was fucking back down on his dick, now, panting hard, and Jacob thought from the way all his muscles were quivering he was close.

“Come on,” Jacob begged him, “I know you want it, and I want it too. Give it to me.”

Finn arched, his whole body a gorgeous fucking line, and clenched down hard, coming around Jacob.

It was glorious and perfect.

Jacob managed half a thrust more and exploded.

“Fuck,” Finn half-moaned, half-chuckled, as he collapsed onto Jacob. “That was . . .”

“Yeah,” Jacob agreed. Single words were still easier.

“Love you,” Finn murmured into his sweaty skin.

They really needed to move, or the mess would be tremendous.

Jacob’s grip tightened on him, deciding that he didn’t care.

He found one additional word. “Love you more,” Jacob said.

The interview had been going for forty minutes now—thirty-seven actually, if the clock on the wall of Neal Fisher’s setup was any indication.

He filmed his podcast in one of the rooms of his house, two comfortable armchairs in a peaceful, relaxing lavender blue, and memorabilia from his NFL career dotting the walls.

It had been an unsurprisingly effortless conversation. He and Neal had had several phone calls leading up to this podcast recording, and he’d immediately liked the guy. He was easygoing and funny, in a dry, laid-back way, but even more than that Neal Fisherunderstood.

Maybe he’d been a football player and not a hockey player. Maybe he’d been a kicker and not a goalie. But neither of them had gotten to define the terms of their retirement and they’d both struggled with the aftermath.

Neal because, after missing the game-winning kick in the Super Bowl, he had been summarily released from his team. Jacob because his hip had refused to cooperate and his only choice had been to continue playing in a diminished capacity or to not play at all.

They’d talked about retirement at length. Specifically, the lack of support from most—if not all—professional sports organizations post-retirement and how ex-players were largely responsible for their own emotional health once they were no longer signed to a team.

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