Page 39 of The Last Inch Of Ice
The silence that follows is heavy. Wrong.
Rykov suddenly pulls away, his expression darkening.
“I just haven’t had sex in a long time,” he says flatly.
Just.
The word sits between them like a bomb.
Kai understands perfectly. Rykov saw him at the club, saw him looking available, accessible, easy, and decided he would be convenient. A way to scratch an itch he couldn’t address elsewhere. Without risk to be exposed.
Not that Kai has any room to complain. He wants him too. Has wanted him with an intensity that scares him. But having Rykov serve this explanation up on a silver platter— like Kai needs to understand that this doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just physical necessity—infuriates him.
“It’s not even sex, Rykov,” he says, standing and creating distance between them. His legs are unsteady but he forces them to work. “Thanks for the favor, though. Very charitable of you.”
Rykov’s dark eyes fix on him with an intensity that makes his chest tighten painfully. He hates how Rykov sometimes looks at him like he can see through every defense, every carefully constructed wall. Like Kai is transparent.
It should be the other way around.
Kai is the one who reads people, who understands social dynamics and hidden motivations. Rykov only understands force and collision and straightforward aggression.
“Are you going to say nasty shit every time after it’s over?” Rykov asks, his voice rough.
“Every time?” He moves toward the minibar with deliberate casualness. He pulls out one of those small bottles of champagne and pours it into a glass.
He takes a slow sip, knowing it will irritate Rykov. Knowing Rykov will probably lecture him about alcohol and hydration and professional responsibility.
Knowing that Kai will enjoy the lecture because at least it means Rykov cares enough to argue.
“Let this be the last time,” he says, keeping his voice light and careless. “No more ‘every time.’ Easy.”
Rykov stands abruptly, his jaw clenched so tight Kai can see the muscle jumping. He looks at Kai with an expression that’s almost angry and—something raw that Kai has never seen before.
Then Rykov grabs his jacket and walks toward the door.
“Rykov—” Kai hears himself say, but he doesn’t know what comes next. Doesn’t know what he wants to say.
Rykov pauses with his hand on the door handle. For a moment, Kai thinks he might turn around. Might say something that makes this all make sense.
Instead, he opens the door and walks out, closing it behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.
Kai stands alone in the hotel room, champagne glass in his hand.
Bonifazio opens one eye from his spot on the bed, regards the owner with what might be sympathy or might just be cat-like indifference, then closes his eye again.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kai tells him. “I know what I’m doing.”
Bonifazio’s tail twitches. Even the cat doesn’t believe him.
Kai drains the champagne in one gulp and immediately pours another glass.
Everything is fine. It’s all wonderful, actually.
It’s especially wonderful that Kai ended it. Not Rykov. He made the decision. He maintained control.
He takes another sip of champagne and tries not to think about the look in Rykov’s eyes when he left.
Tries not to think about what he just threw away.
