Page 28 of On Thin Ice

Bell blinked, his eyes flashing with something I couldn’t name. “I’ve been giving you space.”

“Space?” I laughed, the sound sharp and ugly. “You didn’t seem all that worried aboutspacewhen you were talking about how you like to fuck. When you were pushing every damn button of mine you could find.”

He didn’t defend himself or try to explain why he’d done what he did. Just sat there, looking up at me with those clear, steady eyes like he wasn’t afraid of what he’d unleashed.

And that pissed me off even more.

“Was this some sort of joke to you? Fuck with the gay guy to see what sort of reaction you’d get?”

CHAPTER7

Bell’s expression didn’t immediately change, but then something flickered behind his eyes. His shoulders drew back as if pulled by invisible strings, and his lips parted silently. He blinked, his chest stilling mid-breath, as if my confession had knocked the air from his lungs.

Shock.

That’s what his reaction was.

He hadn’t known. Not really.

He had to have at least suspected, though. If he’d thought I was straight, he wouldn’t have said those things to me. Bell was a hell of a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid.

His throat bobbed on a deep swallow. “No, Ethan,” he said hoarsely. “That’s not what this is. Not at all.”

“No?” I took another step forward, until I was crowding him. Close enough to see the flicker of uncertainty flash in his gaze.

“Say something,” I demanded, my voice rough. “Tell me what this is then, goddamnit.”

Bell’s throat worked like he was trying to find the words, but nothing came out of his mouth. His hands curled into fists against the mattress, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine. His gaze probing, questioning.

I didn’t know how I expected him to answer.

I didn’t even know what I wanted him to say.

All I knew was that if he kept looking at me like this—like he could see right through me, like he knew every damn thing I’d spent my entire life trying so fucking hard to bury—I was going to lose it.

Hell, I wasalreadylosing it.

Before I knew what I was doing, I lurched forward, stepping between his spread legs, and twisted my hands into his shirt. When he didn’t fight me, didn’t so much as flinch, I hauled him closer and crashed my mouth down against his.

He froze, his lips completely still against mine.

A heartbeat passed.

And another.

Then, with a rough, broken sound that tore from somewhere deep in his chest, he kissed me back.

It wasn’t careful, and it certainly wasn’t sweet.

It was a violent, desperate meeting of mouths, all teeth and heat and need.

His hands scrambled for purchase, fisting in the front of my shirt and hauling me closer until there wasn’t a sliver of space left between us.

He tasted like want and need and every damn desire I’d spent years bottling up. I chased the taste greedily, angling my head to deepen the kiss, gasping when he met me with just as much hunger.

I let go of his shirt long enough to bury my hands in his hair—so soft and thick—and tugged hard enough to pull a groan from him.

Jesus. That sound.

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