Page 59 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Nazar’s entire body locks up, pleasure detonating like lightning through his veins, sharp and blinding. His vision whites out. For a moment, he’s sure his knees will give.
When he can think again, he’s still standing—but barely. His chest is heaving. His hand is still tangled in Kai’s hair. And Kai is still kneeling in front of him, lips swollen, breathing hard, eyes dark and unreadable.
Nazar doesn’t give Kai time to think. He pushes him back toward the sofa with uncompromising pressure, like this was always inevitable and they both know it.
Kai lets himself fall onto the cushions, but there’s defiance in the tilt of his chin, like he still wants to pretend he has a say in this.
Nazar’s hands are rough when he drags Kai’s jeans down. He takes his time. He wants Kai to feel every second of it. He uses his mouth slowly. Kai’s fingers dig into the sofa, thighs trembling, breath stuttering out of him in broken little gasps he can’t swallow down fast enough.
It only takes a few minutes.
Kai breaks. Loudly. Head thrown back, throat exposed, voice hoarse with helpless pleasure.
And still—still—Kai tries to turn away. To hide. To act like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just fall apart in Nazar’s hands.
Nazar snaps.
This is what drives him insane— in these moments, Kai gives him everything with his body. And then he tries to take it all back by looking away, by not letting Nazar see how he looks when he comes.
Not tonight. Nazar won’t let him.
His hand catches Kai’s jaw, firm, making him look.
Afterward, when they’re both breathing hard and reality starts creeping back in, Nazar’s hand wraps around him again, still stroking with focused intent, watching Kai’s face, watching the way his eyelids flutter, the way color floods his cheeks.
“You’re very mediocre at that,” Kai chokes out, his voice hoarse, his armor already reassembling itself piece by defensive piece.
Nazar lets out a short, rough laugh. “Well, I’m not gay.”
Kai actually rolls his eyes—a gesture so quintessentially him that something in Nazar’s chest tightens. He leans down, his lips brushing Kai’s ear. “But your mouth takes me so well,” he whispers, “I might not criticize how you handle passes on the left side for a couple days.”
A faint blush dusts Kai’s cheekbones.
He stays silent for a beat too long before recovering. “You think too highly of your hockey skills. You don’t even know how to criticize properly.”
Nazar just stares at him, the want still thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat. He wants more. Needs to move past this—these frantic, stolen moments in storage closets and hotel rooms. He hates uncertainty in anything.
As if reading his mind, Kai’s expression hardens. “Don’t mix hockey into this,” he says, his voice suddenly cold and distant. “This is just sex.”
Just sex.
Kai straightens, reaching for his sweater that got pushed up during everything. Nazar’s hand shoots out, stopping him. He holds Kai’s wrist, his thumb finding the pulse point, rubbing circles over the frantic rhythm there.
Kai looks at him. Really looks at him for the first time since arriving. And something in his expression shifts. The defensiveness recedes.
“You know I didn’t ask my father for that draft spot, right?” The words are quiet, stripped of all of Kai’s usual irony and performance. “Back then. I didn’t ask him or anyone else to manipulate things to get me into the top five.”
Nazar’s grip on his wrist loosens slightly. He just stares, his mind going blank.
“Maybe someone included me to suck up to him,” Kai continues, his gaze unwavering. “Without his knowledge. People do that—make decisions they think will please the boss. But my father hated that I was playing hockey. He put up obstacles every chance he got. Refused to help with training costs. Wouldn’t let the family name be associated with my junior teams. But I never asked anyone to put me anywhere.”
Nazar searches his face, looking for the lie, the performance, the manipulation. He finds nothing but tired honesty.
“Are you telling the truth?” The question is barely a whisper.
“Yes, Rykov. I’m telling the truth,” Kai says, and there’s a world of weariness in his voice. “I know everyone thinks I’m a nepotism case. That I bought my way in. But I wasn’t worse than the other guys in that draft class.”
Nazar thinks about it. Really thinks about it for the first time in years without the filter of rage and resentment.
