Page 32 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“Maybe.” Kai pushes through the exit door. “But I’m definitely not stopping thinking you’re a hypocrite. You told me just a month ago thatI’druin the game. Well, congratulations. I did my part.”
“Let me see your shoulder.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“You’re a fucking princess, you know that?” Rykov’s voice is tight, and when Kai glances back, his eyes are flashing with rage. He’s standing very close now.
Then Kai hears voices. Footsteps echoing in the parking garage.
He instinctively moves toward the wall where he can blend into the shadows better. Rykov follows—of course he does—and before Kai can protest, Rykov is dragging him into a utility room, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
“This isn’t funny anymore, Rykov,” he whispers loudly. His eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. “Do you even know where we are?”
“In a storage room.”
“That’s not the point. Half of the hockey world could walk past here and—”
Rykov silences him with a kiss.
Kai’s hand comes up automatically, fingers threading through his wild hair, pulling him closer.
Rykov presses him against the wall, and Kai can feel every point of contact—Rykov’s chest, his thigh between Kai’s legs, his hands gripping Kai’s waist.
“My driver is waiting for me,” Kai whispers between kisses. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“God, you talk so much.”
They rub against each other, kissing greedily. Rykov’s hands are insistent and quick, touching him everywhere, and his brain can’t keep up with the sensation. But through the fog of desire, Kai notices something: Rykov is being very careful with his injured forearm. Not gripping it, not putting pressure on it. Moving around the injury like he thinks about it every second.
The realization causes a strange panic to bloom in Kai’s chest. A chill that runs deeper than the cold of the storage room.
He pushes him away.
“Enough. I’ll go first.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended.
“Let me look at your shoulder. Make sure there are no—”
“Don’t touch me,” Kai says angrily. “You know what? You go first. Since I’m apparently a cripple in your eyes, I need to rest.”
“You’re unbearable,” Rykov replies, but there’s no heat in it. “You were just rushing to feed that cat.”
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
But Kai sees red before his eyes. The anger and the desire mix into something dangerous, something desperate. He kisses him again—fiercely, trying to be seductive, trying to regain control of the situation.
Rykov breathes heavily through his nose, and Kai feels the hard evidence of his arousal against his hip.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The air between them is charged, electric, suffocating.
Then Kai reaches between them. His hand finds Rykov’s cock through his sweatpants, and he grips it, stroking deliberately. Rykov’s head falls back against the wall.
Kai sinks to his knees.
The darkness makes it easier somehow. Makes it feel less real, less terrifying. Makes it possible to do this without overthinking it.
He pulls Rykov’s sweatpants down along with his underwear, and for a moment, Kai just pauses. His chest heaves.
“Damn. Callahan?”
