Page 49 of Temptation On Ice

“Yeah, I did.” His voice is low, offering everything I could want from him.

He reaches up and palms the back of my neck, pulling my face to his as my heart pounds against my ribs. I follow willingly, chasing the safety he provided when I was most vulnerable, and the understanding he gave me when I was irrationally crashing out. Our lips connect, softly at first, his kiss feather light and tentative. He’s never kissed a man before. This has to be awkward, no matter how much he wants it. He doesn't know what he’s been missing.

I’ll show him what he does to me.

I lean into the kiss and moan with the need that bubbles up with the soft contact, intent on deepening it. My lips part, tongue swiping out over his full lips that I’ve been dying to taste, and I explode with desire. I step in closer, molding our bodies together, pulling him tighter as my hips roll into his. I suck his tongue into my mouth, devouring the groan he lets out and still needing more. The sweet and tentative kiss has quickly caught fire and burned through us, igniting with lust and need. My lips move over his, our tongues tangling, hips circling, hands roaming. He tastes like temptation and redemption, like possibilities and risks.

When the microwave beeps, it startles us both. I pull back, watching Sebastian’s dazed expression. I got a little carried away once I tasted him and couldn't stop. It might have been too much all at once.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, heavy-lidded eyes slowly focusing on me. “What a fucking kiss.”

“That’s how a gay man kisses,” I say, leaning back in to pepper his delicious, full lips with more kisses.

“I think I could live off those alone,” he murmurs against my mouth, blinking slowly as I draw back again to smile at his praise now that I know he enjoyed it.

“But you haven't seen what else this mouth can do. You’ll be missing out if you just want kisses.”

I’m teasing, but if he asked me to get on my knees right now for him, I’d do it before the request was even finished. I lick along his jaw, the rasp of his stubble against my tongue lighting me up before I suck at his pulse point and nip my way to his ear.

“I’m half tempted to say to hell with food and subsist off you alone now that I know it’s a possibility.” His words are breathy. My mouth on his skin must be making it hard to get them out.

I chuckle. “You need to eat real food.” I take a step back, his hands following, grasping my shirt as I turn to the microwave and pull out the dish of chicken and rice with some sauce that smells incredible. “And this looks better than any leftovers that come out of my fridge, so it should be good.”

“Rudy, my chef, preps my food each week. I just heat it and eat it,” he says absently as he pulls a fork out of a drawer and takes the dish to sit at the island. “Come here.”

Of course he has a chef to make his meals. And here I was grilling for him and making basic-ass side dishes that he probably doesn't even like if he gets professionally prepared gourmet food daily. I follow and sit next to him, feeling stiff and wondering how I could have been so dumb to think cooking for him at my house was doing a kindness for him.

God, I'm so fucking pathetic!

I hate how I’ve misread all of this and how easy it is to compare our lives and see where I come up lacking. I have to get out of my head, or I’ll end up in another panic attack. I swallow down the discomfort and try not to look around at his lavish home, which puts our differences into stark relief.

I need to focus on the man in front of me who made me feel safe.

“Your shoulder feeling okay?” I ask as he cuts into the chicken with his fork instead of using his other hand and a knife.

“Better than it was earlier. Just a bit stiff and some expected dull pain. I’m trying not to use it. Here, try this,” he says, holding his fork out with the first bite of chicken, rice, and sauce for me.

He wants to feed me? Jesus, this man is something else. I lean into him, resting my hand on his muscular thigh, and take the food. The flavor explodes across my tongue, savory, a little spicy, and creamy all at the same time. I can’t stop the moan as I chew and swallow. “Fuck, your chef is good.”

Sebastian shrugs. “I’ve had this a few times, and it’s alright. Nothing tastes as good as what you’ve made for me at your place. I love watching you cook or at the grill. Eating outside on the deck as dusk falls after watching you so competently work that thing has become my favorite way to eat.”

He takes a few bites of his meal while I try to fathom how my simple food could compare to what he’s eating now. The way he manages to slay my fears one by one with his sincere comments melts me. It’s like he can feel my insecurities rising and has the perfect response every time to bring me back down to a comfortable base level. I don't know how he does it, but I’m in awe and so grateful for the ability.

It doesn't take him long to finish his food, and before he can move, I’ve already grabbed his dishes and moved to the sink to rinse and load the dishwasher.

“Are you going to let me fuck you tonight, baby?”

My head snaps up, and I look across the island at him. My whole body flushes as my temperature rises ten degrees with his direct question and the need it stirs to say yes and beg him to take me right now. He could bend me over this island, using the olive oil in the bottle on the counter as lube for all I care. I’ve had worse.

I dry my hands on a towel and fight the tremor in my voice when I answer. “Don't you want to take it slower and, I don't know, maybe try a few things first before you go straight to fucking me?”

“Can’t I do both? I can explore your body, see what we feel like together, and finally sink inside you like we both want.”

He stands and moves toward me, grabbing my hand and tugging me deeper into the house. I follow, just an obedient puppy to his commanding presence. We enter the primary suite, which is an airy space decorated in neutrals with a big bed dominating the wall that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows. A set of glass doors leads out to a terrace with steps down to an illuminated pool.

Well fuck me, he’s rich-rich. I knew he was a professional athlete, but it’s taken being in his house to realize what that really means. He’s been so chill and down to earth around me that it’s easy to forget he makes millions every year playing a sport, while I’m picking up dog shit for pennies and my business relies on the kindness of strangers who believe in our cause.

We are not the same.