Icebound. Corinna Rogers

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       Chapter One

      Ice creeps up the window, spider-webbing out to cover the glass pane completely. Shane watches it, amused, because it’s better than watching the ceiling, waiting for the knock on his door. The TV is on, some shitty program about parenthood and people who shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred yards of it, and for a second it’s a struggle to remember why he shouldn’t just throw it out the window.

      The knock is tentative at first, soft, and that pisses him off. “Get in here.”

      The man who enters is tall, just over six feet, and broadly muscled, enough that he’d be able to toss the TV out the window with one hand and little effort. He’s got an open, honest face, smooth and darker-skinned than Shane, whether from his mother’s Portuguese heritage or his own tendency to forget about sunscreen whenever he leaves the house. His hair falls in dark-brown waves to the top of his back, accenting the strength in his chin, his straight nose, his rough, capable hands. There’s a hint of beauty about him, for all that he looks like he could be hit by a truck and apologize for denting the fender, accenting his cheekbones, his eyelashes, the little dip below his collarbone that Shane knows so well.

      It doesn’t matter how many times the man comes here. It never stops making Shane’s heart ache. “I like those jeans. They make your ass look fantastic.”

      “I was hoping you’d like them.”

      That voice – god. It sends ripples up his spine, and Shane lets his legs spread a bit, leaning back against the headboard. He almost slips up, almost says, I miss you, but that’s too much. “Want your mouth,” he says instead, and the other man nods, shutting the door behind him as he kneels on the bed between Shane’s legs, hands sliding up his thighs.

      Want to kiss you. It hurts, how much Shane wants to kiss him, but that’s not part of the rules. Instead, he flicks open his own jeans one-handed, pulling himself out, already hard. “For such a big guy, you’ve got such a pretty mouth,” he croons, twisting a hand in the man’s hair. “Put it to good use. Don’t flinch, you’ve been wanting this all day, haven’t you?”

      The man licks his lips, swallows hard, but nods. “Yeah. All day. Can I?”

      Shane’s hips twitch up at that question. It’s so genuine, so wanting, for all that he knows it isn’t. “Go on. See if you can take it all this time.”

      No matter how many times they’ve done this, it always feels like fucking heaven, the first swipe of that hot wet tongue over his cock. “Fuck, Drake. Such a good cocksucker. Good boy.”

      The praise spurs the man on, sliding his lips over the head of Shane’s cock, moaning softly as he stretches his lips wide to take it all, inch by thick, hard inch.

      It’s the little details that make this so good. It’s the drag of his tongue over the head of his cock, sure, but it’s also the way Drake’s eyelashes flutter, the way his hands splay out on Shane’s thighs, the little noises he makes when Shane bucks up into the soft wet heat, making him gag.

      “Go on, baby, take it. That’s what you’re here for, right? You didn’t come here just to see my pretty face.”

      He loves the way it looks, his pale, flushed cock sliding into Drake’s mouth, seeing the contrast of his skin against the tanned fingers of Drake’s hands as they come up to try to steady himself, try to hold Shane down, but Shane’s having none of it. He tightens his fingers in Drake’s hair, and unless the other man wants a fight he has little choice but to swallow everything he’s being given, the whole length of Shane down his throat.

      He shouldn’t love the tears in his eyes so much.

      Shane guides him up and down, arm tense and strong on Drake’s head, eventually just holding him in place while he fucks up into his mouth, relishing the choked wet sounds he forces from the other man’s throat. It feels good, damned good to be using him like this, watching Drake gag on his cock without pulling away; if anything trying to take more of him in his mouth.

      “Swallow for me,” Shane breathes, and Drake just has time to nod once, quickly, before Shane fills his mouth, spilling over his tongue and watching eagerly as Drake’s throat bobs, doing as he’s told.

      “Good boy,” Shane murmurs, stroking the familiar brown hair, down the side of those smooth cheeks, suddenly finding it difficult not to let tears prick his own eyes. “God, baby, so good.”

      “I can stay. If you want me to.”

      The cold creeps back in. The window is entirely frosted over now, brittle enough that one hard blow would shatter the whole thing. “Stop it. You wouldn’t say that.”

      Drake scowls at him, pushing off the bed, straightening his clothes. “Wouldn’t be in your bed either, so maybe you should just get that stick out of your ass, boss.”

      “Take it off.”

      The man rolls his eyes, ripples, and instead of the familiar hard planes of Drake’s body, a lithe young black man stands in Shane’s room, hip insolently cocked. “You want anything else? I’ve got a hunt tonight.”

      “Give me his shirt back. I know it’s his, it smells like him.”

      Slowly, Roy strips off the shirt, leaving him in just a pair of jeans that had been tight on Drake, now hanging baggy off his slender form. “You should check this one out, boss. Big prize.”

      “Not interested.” Shane grabs the proffered item of clothing, not bothering to hide the way he buries his nose in it. Forest earth, clean cotton, the musk of a healthy human male all mix on the fabric, more familiar than the place he’s in now. He’ll probably have to punish Roy later for stealing from Drake—all his men know Drake is off-limits—but for now, he’s glad.

      “Soul-Thief. Eighty points on the rankings.”

      “Enjoy them.”

      “If I get it, I’m gonna be your boss before the week’s out.”

      “Have fun. Leave me alone.”

      Roy shrugs, picking his way barefoot to the door, holding the baggy jeans up by one beltloop. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and the King says to let you know that whoever bags the thing gets something back. Something of theirs.”

      The window cracks.

      “What?”

      “You heard me. You get it back if you bag the Soul-Thief.”

      A tremor of hungry need shoots through Shane, piercing the ice somehow, and he growls, “Get out.”

      The door slamming is too much for the frame, and the glass shatters. Cold wind blows in, fierce and shocking, but it does little to affect Shane. He doesn’t even bother to do up his pants, staring instead at the СКАЧАТЬ