Page 98 of The Last Inch Of Ice
Rykov’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “You sure about that?”
“I’ve never been sure about anything involving you. But I’m asking anyway.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
Rykov’s apartment is in a newer building near the waterfront. Expensive but not showy.
“You want something to drink?” Rykov asks, shrugging off his jacket. “I have water. Beer. I think there’s juice—”
“No.” Kai moves closer. “I don’t want a drink.”
“Kai—”
“You climbed a building that day.” The words come out accusatory rather than grateful. “You could have died.”
“I know.”
“That was insane. You realize that was completely insane?”
“Yes.”
“And then you left. Because I asked you to.” Kai’s voice breaks slightly. “No one ever just leaves when I ask them to. People always push. They always think they know better than me. But you actually left.”
Rykov’s jaw tightens. “It killed me to leave.”
“Good.” Kai doesn’t know why he says it. “Good. You should have—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence because Rykov is desperately kissing him, and for once Kai doesn’t have the energy to analyze it or deflect it or turn it into something else. He just kisses back.
“Nazar,” he whispers in his mouth.
“When I got your text, fucking dropped the weight on my leg… then thought I’m dreaming again,” Rykov rasps, cupping his face the same way he had held Kai in the shower.
The sex is different this time.
It’s not the frantic, desperate grappling of stolen moments in storage closets and hotel bathrooms. Not the angry collision of bodies in LA where they couldn’t get close enough fast enough.
Kai finds himself on his knees without consciously deciding to move, his hands reaching for Rykov’s belt, falling into the familiar pattern. This he knows how to do. This he can control.
But strong hands are on his shoulders, pulling him up before he can even start.
“No,” Rykov says, his voice rough. “Not like that. Not today.”
“I want to—”
“I know what you want.” Rykov cups his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “But I’m not letting you hide right now.”
The words should make Kai angry. Should make him defensive. Instead they just make him tired.
Rykov pushes him onto the bed — gently, carefully, like Kai might break. Maybe he will. He stretches him with slow, painstaking patience that borders on torture. His fingers are sure and strong, and he talks to Kai the entire time. Low, quiet reassurances that Kai barely processes but feels in his bones.
“That’s it. You’re doing so good. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
Kai comes from his fingers alone, a shuddering orgasm that leaves him boneless and gasping and somehow more vulnerable than anything that’s happened before.
And then Rykov is inside him.
