Page 25 of Thin Ice

I'd gotten better at this. Weeks of practice in a twin bed, learning what he liked, the specific rhythm that turned Liam from a person with opinions into a person with one syllable. I found it now and held it, and let the sounds he was making tell me everything I needed to know.

His hand stayed on the back of my neck. Not pushing. Holding. Fingers in my hair, tight enough that I could feel the want, loose enough that I could pull away.

I didn't want to.

I wanted to be here. On my knees in a boat with his hand in my hair and the taste of him in my mouth. Happier than the study. Happier than the folder. Happier than any version of myself my father had ever put on a shelf, because this was the only version I'd ever chosen.

"Alex." His voice had gone ragged. "Look at me."

I looked up. His chest was heaving. His stomach muscles pulled tight. He was watching me like I was doing something sacred and filthy at the same time.

"Don't stop," he said. "God, don't stop."

I didn't stop.

His free hand moved. Found my jaw, traced down my neck, and then, slow, reached lower. His fingers trailed down my spine, past the waistband of my jeans, still half-on and loose, and his fingertips slid under the elastic and down and found my hole. Pressed, slow, just the pad of one finger against the tight muscle, circling.

My whole back arched. I moaned around his dick, loud; the vibration making his hips jerk, and his finger kept going. Slow circles, no penetration, just pressure, patient, maddening, while I worked him with my mouth and tried to keep a rhythm while my nervous system reorganized itself.

"You like that?" Low. Almost a whisper. His finger circling, pressing, backing off.

I pushed back against his hand. He took the hint.

More pressure. His fingertip dipping in, barely, just past the first ring, and holding. My hips rolled back onto it and the sound I made was desperate, and I didn't care.

He was close. I could feel it in the way his thigh muscles went rigid, in the stutter of his breathing, in the way his finger pressed deeper, matched to a rhythm only his body knew. His hand in my hair tightened.

"Alex — I'm gonna — "

I pulled off. Wrapped my hand around him, tight, stroking fast, and pressed my tongue flat against the underside of his tip, circling, tasting, my mouth open and waiting. His hand fisted in my hair and his hips started moving, thrusting up into my grip, and I watched his face come apart from six inches away.

He came with a sound I will hear for the rest of my life, and I felt him pulse in my hand and the first hot streak hit my tongue and I kept it there, mouth open, licking slow across the head while it came, thick and warm, spilling over my lips, and I didn't pull away. I licked it up. All of it. Traced my tongue through it, because the taste of Liam was the only thing I had ever wanted, and I wanted every drop.

His hips were still moving, small involuntary jerks, his abs clenched, head tipped back against the cabin wall, mouth open, and the sounds coming out of him were wrecked, barely words, and then one of them was a word.

"Good boy."

It came out half-whispered, half-groaned, like it had slipped past whatever gate usually kept it in, and it hit me somewhere I didn't have a name for. Below the ribs. Below everything. The place where composed and controlled and correct all went silent at the same time.

I looked up at him. Held there. His cum on my lips and my hand still around him and his eyes looking down at me with pride and possession.

"You like that," he said. Not a question.

"Yes." My voice came out rough. Wrecked. "Anything for you."

"Yeah?"

"Anything."

His hand moved through my hair, slow, and his thumb traced along my jaw, through the mess on my chin, and he pressed the pad of it against my lower lip.

"Then clean it all up for me."

I took him back in my mouth. All of him, softening now, sensitive, and he hissed through his teeth and his hips twitched, but he didn't pull me off. He watched me do it, his hand in my hair gentle now, and I worked my tongue over every inch of him, thorough, patient, tasting the last of it while he made sounds above me that weren't words anymore.

My own hand found myself. I was so hard it hurt, had been the whole time, and I got my hand around myself with his cock still in my mouth and the taste of him everywhere and his fingers in my hair and anything for you still the truest thing I'd ever said. It took almost nothing. Four strokes, maybe five. I came so hard my vision went white at the edges, my forehead pressed against his thigh with his dick in my mouth, and my breath coming in sounds I didn't recognize.

We stayed like that. My head on his thigh, his hand in my hair, the heater ticking, the lantern burning low, both of us breathing like we'd just finished a 2K piece.