Chapter 3 Cracks in the Ice

Theo Pov

I wake up hard.

Not the usual morning wood. This is violent—throbbing, leaking, angry—like my dick is personally pissed at me for stopping last night.

The room is dim. Gray light leaking through cheap blinds. Clock on my phone says 5:42 a.m. Jaz’s shift starts at 6. He should already be gone.

He isn’t.

He’s still in bed. On his stomach. Face buried in the pillow. One arm flung over the edge. Sheet kicked down to his thighs. Sweatpants from last night are gone—kicked somewhere in the dark. Ass bare, round, dusted with faint freckles across the top. The silver chain from his neck has slipped around to rest against his spine. Tattoos look darker in the low light—thorns curling over one cheek like they’re trying to claim territory.

I stare.

I shouldn’t.

I do.

My cock jerks against my boxers. A wet spot blooms on the cotton. I grit my teeth.

Last night replays in high-def: the way he whimpered when I bit his throat, the salt of his skin, the way his hips bucked when I gripped him, how he called me sir like it was a prayer. I can still taste him—copper and cinnamon and raw fucking need.

I sit up slowly. Sheets rustle. He doesn’t move.

Good. Let him sleep. Let me get my shit together before he opens that smart mouth again.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Stand. Adjust myself—useless. Walk to the tiny bathroom attached to the suite. Lock the door. Strip. Step under the scalding spray.

Water hits like punishment. I brace one hand on the tile, other wrapping around my cock. Stroke once—hard, punishing. Picture his mouth instead of my fist. Those swollen lips stretched around me. Eyes watering. Throat working. Gagging. Begging.

I come in under thirty seconds—hot, thick ropes hitting the wall. Knees buckle. Forehead presses to cool tile. Breath ragged.

Pathetic.

I clean up. Fast. Clinical. Towel off. Pull on fresh boxers, jeans, black hoodie. Comb my hair back with wet fingers. Glasses on. Back to the room.

He’s awake.

Sitting on the edge of his bed. Naked. Legs spread. Morning wood thick and flushed between his thighs. He’s stroking himself lazily—slow drags from base to tip, thumb circling the head, smearing pre-cum.

He looks at me like I’m breakfast.

“Morning, prince.”

I freeze in the doorway.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Too late.” He smirks. Slow pump. “You gonna stand there and watch or come finish what you started?”

My pulse hammers in my throat.

“I have class.”

“Class can wait.” He spreads his legs wider. Balls heavy, drawn tight. “This can’t.”

I should walk out. Grab my bag. Leave.

Instead I step forward.

One step. Two.

He watches every inch.

When I’m close enough he reaches out—grabs my wrist. Pulls me between his thighs.

“On your knees,” he says. Voice wrecked from sleep and last night’s moans.

I don’t kneel.

I grab his hair instead. Yank his head back. Expose his throat—still bruised from my teeth.

“You don’t give orders,” I growl.

His eyes flare. Pupils swallow hazel. “Then give one.”

I shove him flat on his back. Climb over him. Pin his wrists above his head with one hand. Grind down—jeans rough against his bare cock.

He gasps—sharp, needy.

“Fuck—Theo—”

“Quiet.”

I bite his collarbone. Hard. Suck until skin blooms purple.

He arches—whole body straining. Cock leaking against my stomach through the hoodie.

“Please—”

I release his wrists. Shove my hand between us. Wrap around him—tight. Stroke once—rough.

He cries out—loud enough the walls should shake.

“Fuck—yes—harder—”

I squeeze. Twist. Pump fast. Wet sounds fill the room—skin on skin, pre-cum slicking the way.

His hips snap up—fucking my fist. Thighs trembling. “Gonna—shit—gonna come—”

“No.”

I stop.

He whines—high, broken. Tears prick the corners of his eyes.

“Motherfucker—”

I lean down. Kiss him—slow, filthy. Tongue deep. Swallow the sob he can’t hold back.

When I pull away he’s wrecked—lips red, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.

I stand.

Step back.

Pick up my bag.

“I’ll be back after critique.”

He stares—eyes glassy, cock throbbing untouched against his stomach.

“You’re leaving me like this?”

“Yes.”

I walk to the door.

Pause.

Turn.

“Look at me.”

He does—immediately.

“Touch yourself while I’m gone. But don’t come. Not until I get back and tell you to.”

His breath hitches.

“Edge yourself. Three times. Stop right at the brink each time. Film it. Send it to me.”

He swallows hard. Nods once.

“Good boy.”

I leave.

The door clicks shut.

I make it halfway down the hall before my knees threaten to give.

My cock is so hard it hurts. Jeans too tight. Pre-cum soaking through.

I lean against the wall. Breathe. Once. Twice.

I’ve never done this.

Never lost control like this.

Never wanted someone so badly it feels like violence.

I pull out my phone. Open the chat with the unknown number I added last night while he was asleep.

Text sent:

If you come without permission I’ll edge you for a week straight. No release. Understand?

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Yes sir.

I shove the phone in my pocket.

Walk to class.

Smile—small, sharp, dangerous—at the thought of him writhing alone in that bed, cock leaking, fingers trembling, trying so fucking hard to obey.

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel cold.

I feel fucking alive.

And I’m going to ruin him for anyone else.