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We were supposed to be clearing our heads with a hike—“fresh..
🕑 Added 2025-04-25 00:56:58 +0000 UTCWe were supposed to be clearing our heads with a hike—“fresh air,” Preston said. “Get out of our own way.” But about three miles in, the only thing getting clearer was the look in his eyes when he caught me watching the way his ass moved in those tight shorts.
We broke off the trail near a rusted fence, curiosity pulling us toward this old abandoned ice rink. Chain-link half torn down, the building crumbling, but there was something about it… secluded, forgotten, ours.
“Bet they haven’t dropped the puck here in years,” Preston said, grinning as he tugged on the gate.
I leaned against a stack of broken pallets outside the building, biting my lip. “Think we should warm the place up?”
He didn’t answer. Just stalked over, dropped to his knees, and tugged down my shorts like he owned the moment.
“You’re too cocky on the trail,” he muttered. “Time to put that mouth to better use.”
I laughed, but it quickly turned into a gasp. The cold air made every inch of skin more sensitive. His tongue? Hot. The contrast had me reeling.
Then he stood, wiped his mouth like he’d just finished a snack, and shoved me against the outside wall of the rink—rough, worn concrete biting into my back, his body all heat and power against mine.
“You gonna keep teasing me?” he growled into my ear.
“Maybe,” I whispered. “If it gets me this every time.”
We didn’t hold back. The moans, the slap of bodies, the echo of skin against concrete—it was so wrong, so perfect. The ice may have melted inside the rink years ago, but out here? We made our own heat.
