Page 58 of Hot As Ice

“I’m sorry, Hunter.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I wrap my legs around him, feeling the orgasm beginning to churn inside me. My eyes flutter closed. “Please don’t stop,” I whimper. “I’m gonna come.”

“Look at me,” he commands in a gruff tone.

My eyes pop open. One of his hands snakes around my throat, pressing down a little. I gasp. “Always look at me when I’m fucking you, princess.”

“Yes,” I whisper, feeling safe and protected and so turned on. He fucks me steadily, setting a perfect rhythm, and I don’t stop looking at him, even when the orgasm rushes at me like a tidal wave and my body stiffens as my pussy tightens and releases, convulsing again and again around his hard cock.

He groans again and quickens his pace, a fine mist of sweat glistening on his perfect body, his rhythm becoming erratic and uncontrolled. “Fuck, baby” he says. “You feel so good.” And I feel so sated and euphoric as he fills me up with his cum again.

nineteen

hunter

SEX WITH STEVIE is a little too mind-blowing.

I’ve never been so sexually compatible with someone, and being with her also helps me sleep through the night? You’ve got to be kidding me.

I have to wife her up.

The thought doesn’t freak me out as much as it should. I’ve never thought about marrying someone before in my life. My parents’ marriage wasn’t exactly a shining example of a happy union. When my father wasn’t ignoring my mom, he was beating her. And I was the little boy cowering in my room, unable to do a damn thing about it. Now, I want to kill any man I see hurting a woman, and I should’ve killed that asshole who attacked Stevie outside the diner instead of just knocking him to the ground. I regret that.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking about my mom’s death more and more, and I can feel the rage and regret swirling and bubbling inside me like a pot of water on a hot stove. There was a long period in my life where I didn’t think about it at all. I pushed it all down, locked it up in a dark corner of my mind, and threw away the key – but I can’t seem to keep the monster at bay the way I used to anymore.

I have to show up to dinner with my family tonight.

I’ve been dodging my father’s calls and messages, even ignoring my uncle, but I couldn’t ignore my grandfather when he called this morning. He’s the one that has the most power over me. I fucking hate it. How can I be a grown-ass man and still feel like a little kid when my grandfather summons me? It’s pathetic.

But there’s no way I’m going to this fucking dinner alone. I’m taking Stevie with me. Anytime there’s a non-family member at family functions, things are a lot more chill and my father is typically less of an asshole. He’s still an asshole, but not as aggressive as usual. He also tends to drink a little less. The thing about my dad – he cares what other people think of him and that colors how he acts and carries himself around others. He’s a functioning alcoholic who knows how to hide his true self. Everyone outside of the family sees him as a stand-up member of the community, an obscenely wealthy, successful man from a prominent family who’s deserving of admiration and awe.

That’s due in no small part to my grandfather protecting him and covering up for him throughout his life. My grandfather is a true enabler, so concerned about the family legacy that he lets his son get away with murder. Literally.

When I was eight years old, I saw my father push my mother down the stairs after a big, terrifying fight. My bedroom was right by the stairwell. I tended to hide in the closet when they were fighting, but this time I had crept out and stood by the door, keeping it ajar and peeking out. I don’t know what had compelled me to do it.

I remember he had her by the throat, keeping her teetering right on the edge of the stairwell. A moment later, he let go and pushed, sending her down the stairs. I’ll never forget the terrified look on my mother’s face. Her hands clutching air, desperate to hold onto something. I had run out of my room screaming, about to hurl myself down the stairs to try and catch her. My father had grabbed me by my shirt collar and hauled me back.

He’d dragged me kicking, screaming, and crying into my room and locked me inside. I’d slammed my fists against the door and kicked it and screamed for him to let me out until I’d tired myself out and cried myself to sleep on the floor, in the fetal position.

Every time I remember that day I’m overwhelmed by my emotions: anger, guilt, deep regret. On those days, I usually hit the ice or the gym until I’m too spent to have any thoughts. Or feelings.

This morning, I hit my building’s state-of-the-art gym for three hours, but as soon as I got back to my place, the memories assaulted me again. Fuck me.

Now, I’m in my car, off to pick up Stevie for dinner. When I asked her to come, she hesitated, but I told her that she had no choice. I’ve noticed she loves it when I issue commands, and that’s fine by me. I’m more than happy to tell her what to do and have her obey me. It deeply satisfies my dark side.

I park outside her building and get out of the car, walking towards the entrance. She steps out in a pretty red dress with a flared skirt that reaches her knees, a long black coat worn over it. She’s wearing matching red heels. Her hair is pinned up in a bun with soft strands framing her face. A thrill goes through me when she smiles.

“Hello, princess,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the lips. Fuck, she tastes good.

“Hi.” She looks up at me through her lashes, her sweet smile making my heart thump.

“Nice earrings,” I tell her, gently touching the hoops.

“Oh, thank you.” She blushes. “I made them myself.”

“Oh?”