Iced Out (Leighton U, #1)

by C.E. Ricci

To the ones who broke the mold and wrote their own stories: Continue chasing your most authentic self.

“The world’s perception of you exists only in memories. Give them new ones.” — Atticus

“Oh, suck my dick. Fucking douche.” I smirk and lean into him, allowing our proximity to work in my favor. “Whip it out. I’ll drop to my knees right here and now. Best head you’ll ever get, guaranteed.”

I’m trapped, completely at his mercy. And he knows it. “Fight me, baby. There’s nothing I want more.”

“Fuck, this is a pretty sight,” I mutter, my hips giving small thrusts every time his mouth descends over my length. “Had I known this was the best way to get you to shut up, I would have suggested it years ago.”

Clearing my throat, I say the four most important words I’ve ever said to him. “This never fucking happened.”

“But get your head on straight for tomorrow’s game, and maybe you’ll get a repeat.”

Because I can only imagine that licking him like a lollipop will make things much, much worse between us.

I mean, sure, it was said as a taunt—half the things I say to him are—but I’d do it again without thinking twice. And I’m not even into dudes. Right?

So, what? Am I bi now? Does sucking one dick make me bi?

Sexuality is about so many other things, but most of all, it’s want. Desire. Attraction.

What I don’t know is if my dick likes all dudes, some dudes, or what. But I do know he definitely likes the one person he really fucking shouldn’t.

“So you thought it was good, huh?” He doesn’t turn around; just flips the bird over his shoulder and keeps walking away.

“Superstitions are pretty much the only thing I take as seriously as hockey. And this could be my last season. Yours too. I just wanna come out on top.” Or bottom. If he’d prefer it that way.

Some people might know from the start where they fall in terms of sexuality. The label comes as easy as breathing, and there’s no point in second-guessing it. Not everyone has that luck, though, and the understanding in his eyes screams he’s been here before.

“I can tell you’re frustrated. Believe me, I am too. You drive me fucking insane, and most of the time, not in a good way. But what better way than to work it out on each other? I’ll even let you go first. Whatever you want.”

“I bet you’d like to fuck my face, for real this time. And you can. I’ll get down on my knees for you, here and now, if you say yes.”

“Just make sure you don’t go falling in love with me.” I scoff. “A little hard when I’m already in hate with you.” “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

This might be the best idea I’ve ever had, and we could keep riding this wave—and each other’s faces—all the way to the Frozen Four. Or this could cause shit between us to get even worse, possibly more awkward, and could implode. Either way, the anticipation is higher than a pothead on 420.

I don’t have a chance to finish my thought before the unthinkable happens, and Oakley grabs the back of my neck, slamming his mouth to mine.

Because this is it. What I’ve been waiting for. What I’ve been fucking craving since the bathroom at the party. Him, giving in to me and this chemistry he denied us having.

Add it to the list of things I clearly had wrong about Quinton de Haas.

Besides, more isn’t what we agreed to. More will only complicate things further than we already have by simply following through with this superstition. And more could lead us to a place where hearts get involved; something I doubt either of us wants or is ready for.

And the way it makes my stomach flip and hurdle like a damn gymnast tells me I’m in a shit ton of trouble.

His head drops against my shoulder and he lets out a soft, husky laugh that...hell. It does everything for me. Fries my nervous system, short circuiting my brain enough to make our rivalry seem like a thing of the past. Because I wanna hear it again. Just like this. In the crook of my neck, floating over my skin like satin. Breathy and raspy and just for me. And that’s really fucking dangerous.

Because come morning light, one of two things are bound to happen. He’ll wake up beside me and regret every moment of what just happened. Or he won’t. But either way, I need to save it. File it in my memory as something pure and perfect. Something to remain untouched, no matter what happens tomorrow. And then pretend this doesn’t change anything between us. Even if I know it’s a lie.

As problematic as it is, they mean fucking everything. And instantly, everything snaps into place.

Three naughty words sit on the tip of my tongue, begging to be said.

Catching feels in a fuck-buddy relationship, like a goddamn amateur.

“That’s the most fucked up part of it all, though. There you were, from the beginning, telling me not to fall in love with you. But I did anyway. And if I’d listened to you, this wouldn’t hurt nearly as much. Because it does hurt, knowing you don’t trust me. Knowing I don’t deserve your trust anymore.”