Poetry On Ice (Totally Pucked, #1)

by Jesse H. Reign

Ant Decker. Number eight. The Vipers’ first-line right-wing and asshole extraordinaire. And when I say asshole extraordinaire, you better believe I mean it. The man is a total dick who, for reasons I’ve always struggled to understand, decided to make me his archrival when we were little more than kids.

“Talk to him, but be nice ’cause he’s the babiest babygirl in the whole wide world, so make sure he gets special babygirl treatment.”

As if it’s nothing. As if it’s perfectly legal to have an ass like that. As if it’s not in the least bit problematic to be standing in the middle of a room, cavalier as you fucking please, with a jock strap cutting fine lines into your flesh.

“I’d like an apology,” I say when I’m able. Decker blinks twice and his lips quiver with the effort it costs him not to laugh. “I’m sorry I made your dick hard, Princess.”

His beard is thick and soft. Softer than I thought it would be. I mean, softer than I’d have thought it would be if I was the type of guy who thought about things like how a man’s beard might feel.

“You fuck!” I hiss. “You bit me! What’s wrong with you? What the hell did you do that for?”

“I’m going to kiss you, and”—he takes my head in both hands and holds me firmly in place as he closes the space between us—“I want it to hurt you as much as it’s going to hurt me.”

He kisses me hard, sweeping his tongue against mine with a force that leaves me gasping around it.

“Careful, Princess. Keep this up, and you’ll end up on your knees with my dick in your mouth.”

I have options. I do. I know that. I can do this. I can open my mouth and let Decker slide his dick into it. I can suck him off. I can taste him. Make him come and swallow his load. I can do that. It’s a definite option. Let’s call it option one. I have other options too. I’m sure of it. I must. It’s just that I can’t think of any. I wrack my mind, searching every recess of a vacant lot, a tumbleweed street in a ghost town. I come up with nothing. By that rationale, going with option one seems like the only sensible thing to do.

I touched a man. I finally, finally did it, and holy shit, I loved it.

You know what, maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe in the long run, it’s best that this happened. Sometimes, the only way to get someone out of your system is to shove your dick in their mouth.

Long story short, I owe Robbie McGuire ten thousand dollars. I’m not happy about it. Not to sock shame anyone, but if you insist on walking around hotel rooms in nothing but boxer briefs and the sluttiest socks known to man, this is the kind of shit that happens.

I know what I want. I know who I want. I want Ant Decker. My dick doesn’t care that he is a dick. It wants him.

“Relax, Princess.” There’s a smile in his voice. A dark smile buried under a threat. “I know what you need, and I’m gonna give it to you.” He leans in and kisses my cheek, scraping my skin with coarse hair and teeth. “Imma make you into the perfect pussy boy you were born to be.”

“D’you want a memento, Princess? “Mmmemento of what?” I slur. He smiles into my neck. A sweet smile and a quiet hum that almost lulls me into a false sense of security. Almost, not quite. “A memento of the first time you got cunted, Pussyboy.” The word shocks me. Offends me. Ravages me. Turns me on so hard that I turn inside out and there’s nothing hard left to protect me. Nowhere to hide. “Yeah,” I reply from a faraway place.

“Just so you know, it’s casual,” I tell him. “This thing between us, it’s just fucking, okay? I’m not a relationship guy, and I’m not saying you are or anything. I just want to be super clear about who I am so we don’t get our wires crossed.” His eyes darken and his bottom lip narrows till it’s little more than a dot. He raises his mug to his lips and takes a spiteful sip of coffee.

I’ve seen it before. I saw it when I told him he couldn’t blow me anymore, and just look how that turned out—I’m twenty grand in debt to this man, and his mouth is practically my dick’s holiday home. “We’ll see about that,” he says.

If he needs to sit on something that badly, he can sit on my fucking face.

“I’m not jealous,” he hisses. I can tell he’s trying to convince himself more than me, and he’s not doing a great job of either. “I’m not. But, but, don’t call her, okay?”

I like Ant Decker. I like him like crazy. I like him in a big, scary way that I know in my bones is a big deal. A big thing. The next big thing in my life.

“Tell me you’re happy.” He goes stock still in my arms, not moving a muscle except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, his voice is so soft and far away that I almost think I’m imagining things. “I’m happy, Robbie.”

“I know I’m in love with you, Ant. I know it, like really know it.” He sighs gently. He looks intensely vulnerable, heart open and exposed, beating in his chest cavity with no protection, but he doesn’t look weak.

Cause I know you love me too, Decker.” “Goddammit, Robbie,” I cry. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to say I love you from you to me and also from me to you. That’s not a thing. Everyone knows tha—” “Oh no? How’s it supposed to work then?” “You’re supposed to say you love me, and then you’re supposed to let me say I love you.”

“I love you too, Princess. I tried not to fall for you. I really did. But I couldn’t help it.”

I recognize it immediately. I should because I’m the original artist. It’s the image I drew in the steam on his vanity mirror months ago. A tiny, wonky heart and a badly drawn ant.

“I did it, Ant,” he says. “I found something I’ll love forever.”