Page 64 of The Last Inch Of Ice
The calculated patience, the pretense of indifference, the performance of normalcy—it all shatters.
He pulls out his phone, his thumb moving with a will of its own, muscle memory taking over.
Nazar:end of the main hall. now.
He hits send before he can second-guess himself.
He doesn’t know if Kai will come. Doesn’t even know what he’ll do if he does. But the need to see him—to touch him away from all these prying eyes, away from the performance and the masks—is overwhelming.
He walks to the back of the venue, past the main ballroom into a dimly lit corridor that leads to private event spaces and service areas.
There’s an alcove behind a display case of retired jerseys from various teams, and he positions himself there, his back to the wall, waiting.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Nazar is about to give up, to accept that Kai isn’t coming, when he appears around the corner.
His face is carefully neutral—that cool mask of indifference he wears so well—but there’s something reckless flickering in his eyes.
Nazar braces himself for the inevitable outrage. For the sarcastic tirade about the risks, about how stupid this is, about how they’re going to get caught.
Instead, Kai grabs his wrist and pulls.
They move fast, Kai leading him down the corridor past closed conference rooms and storage closets. Then Kai shoves open the door to the nearest men’s restroom, pulling Nazarinside. The heavy door swings shut behind them with a soft whoosh, and Kai immediately tries to lock it.
“Are you insane?” Nazar grunts, his tactical mind already cataloging the problems. “The utility room is two doors down. There’s no real lock on these stall doors. Anyone could—”
“Too far,” Kai says.
And then his mouth is on Nazar’s.
It’s desperate and everything Nazar has been trying not to think about for weeks. Kai tastes like champagne.
Nazar walks him backward until Kai’s back hits the cool tiled wall, then cages him there with his body, one hand braced against the wall beside Kai’s head.
Nazar trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of Kai’s neck, and Kai lets out a soft, pleading sound that goes straight to Nazar’s cock.
“Yes,” Kai whispers, his head tilting back to give Nazar better access. “Yes.”
Nazar’s hands slide under Kai’s suit jacket, under the crisp designer shirt, finding skin that’s fever-hot. He finds the hard points of his nipples and rubs them with his thumbs, feeling them stiffen under his touch. A dizzying wave of heat washes over him.
His cock is painfully hard, aching against the confines of his dress pants.
“I like your skin,” he says, the words rough and absurd even to his own ears. He feels like a complete idiot. It’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever said, but his brain has short-circuited, overridden by sensation and want. “How it feels. I think about it all the time.”
Kai’s hand finds his cock—a firm, knowing grip through the fabric of his pants—and Nazar groans, pressing his face into the curve of Kai’s neck, breathing him in.
“Come on,” he rasps against Kai’s skin. “Work your hand.”
“You want to come?” Kai’s voice is low, teasing, his breath hot against Nazar’s ear. “Already?”
“When your hand is on me? Always.”
The small space fills with the harsh sound of their breathing. It feels impossibly intimate—a secret world carved out of the noisy, glittering illusion of the party happening just beyond the door.
Nazar is losing control, the pleasure building with brutal, unstoppable force. He bites down gently on the sharp line of Kai’s jaw, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality.
Kai moans—soft again and broken.
