Icebound. Corinna Rogers

Shane’s wrists, forcing them over his head and holding them there with one big hand. “Want you to suck me off first,” Drake breathes, every muscle in his body quivering with suppressed emotion, “but I can’t wait. Spread your legs.”

      He yanks Shane around, grabbing him and arranging him the way he wants him, like a compliant rag doll, until his legs are wrapped around Drake’s waist, his hands pinned above his head. Drake shifts forward, rubbing his cock up against Shane’s hole, teasing, pressing just a little, and Shane’s mouth falls open. A surge of need shoots through him—need it want it more than anything missed this missed you need it oh GOD put it in me—and he’s not even sure how much he says out loud, every fiber of his body squirming around to try and slam himself down, to have it again after so long. “Please!”

      “Do that thing or it’ll hurt. Me,” Drake adds, coppery eyes gone dark. “We both know you like it when it hurts.”

      It’s the work of a bare thought to slick Drake’s cock, the only spell he can ever think of when he’s like this, horny and desperate and needing, twisting against the hold on his hands, trying to fuck himself down on that perfect thick cock, something he knows better than his own hand, even after all these years apart.

      Drake’s not gentle when he thrusts in, and he doesn’t go slow, rough and brutal as he fucks Shane into the brick wall, spreading and stretching him with every snap of his hips. Shane lets out stupid, embarrassing sounds, little breathy shrieks because it’s too much, no matter how many times they’ve done this it’s always too big, always too much, always too hard.

      And he always loves it.

      Drake’s free hand wrenches his hair back, then slides down to close around his throat, feeling his blood pulse in time with every pounding thrust.

      It’s good, a different kind of pain than he’s used to, and with every crash of Drake’s hard body against his he feels, he remembers the things that usually slip away from him, carried off by the apathy. He remembers what it was like to be thrown over their old sturdy table, fucked until he came over the glass panel, then held down by his hair until he licked it all up. He remembers the night they broke the bed, when he hadn’t been able to sit down for three days because he’d refused to heal himself. He remembers getting fucked in the bedroom, the shower, the kitchen, the living room, over the couch, against every wall, on the floor like a dog.

      Shane writhes under Drake’s big hands and the punishing thrusts of his cock, slamming himself down no matter how much it hurts, his own cock hard and leaking between them. “F-fuck, I—”

      “Don’t talk.”

      Shane shuts up.

      He’s so full he aches, that he’s reduced to a trembling, twitching thing, clenching down on the demanding length filling him, pressing inside him so right, stealing his breath and making him see stars.

      “Gonna come for me?”

      Shane nods frantically, hands twisting to try and slip Drake’s hold, to wrap around himself, but if anything the fingers only close tighter around his wrists. “Slut. You’re really aching for my cock.”

      That’s all it takes, filthy words falling from such a gentle-looking mouth. Shane cries out, every muscle gone tight, his legs clenching hard, writhing so much he scrapes his own back against the wall and doesn’t care. Every little pain adds to the wave that crashes over him, making him spill hot and wet between them.

      Just like that, just at the look in Drake’s eyes, predatory and focused, he knows he’s going to come inside. With a curse and a groan, Drake slams forward, burying himself to the hilt and it’s too much, too much