Home Ice — Exclusive Bonus Chapter

Rookie Roommates by Chase Power
A scene too hot for Amazon. 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

⚠️ This chapter contains extremely explicit MM sexual content including role reversal, first-time bottoming, praise kink, and graphic language. Reader discretion advised. 18+ only.

Home Ice

Liam’s POV — Set the summer after the novel

The car pulled into the parking lot at 3:47 PM on a Saturday in June, and it was packed so full that Liam could see the outline of a lamp shade pressing against the rear window from three floors up.

He watched from the apartment window — his apartment, the one-bedroom in New Haven with the east-facing window and the nightstand photo and the hoodie draped over the back of the desk chair. He watched Noah Reyes climb out of a borrowed Honda Civic, stretch his arms over his head until his shirt rode up and a strip of brown stomach caught the sunlight, and start pulling bags from the backseat with the chaotic efficiency of a person who’d packed in a frenzy and was now confronting the consequences.

Noah was sunburned. The bridge of his nose and the tops of his ears were pink, the particular burn pattern of someone who’d driven four hours with the windows down and forgotten sunscreen. His curls were wild — longer than they’d been during the season, freed from the constraints of helmets and post-practice showers, falling across his forehead in a way that made Liam’s fingers itch.

He was wearing the hoodie. The hoodie — the stolen Weston Hockey one, faded now from a year of wear and wash, the sleeves fraying at the cuffs, the zipper pull missing. The hoodie that had started everything, that had crossed back and forth between them like a textile custody arrangement, that smelled like both of them so thoroughly it had become its own entity.

Liam went downstairs to help.

“You brought a lamp,” he said, taking the offending shade from the backseat.

“The apartment needs warmth. Your lighting situation is clinical. It’s like living in a dentist’s office.”

“It’s efficient.“

“It’s depressing. I’m fixing it.” Noah dropped a duffel bag on the pavement, turned, and grinned at him — the real grin, the nuclear one, dimples and crinkled eyes and the full, devastating wattage of a person who was exactly where he wanted to be. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Liam set the lamp shade on the car roof, crossed the two feet between them, and pulled Noah against his chest.

They stood in the parking lot, arms wrapped around each other, and the hug was not the desperate, I-haven’t-seen-you-in-weeks reunion hug. It was the other kind — the settling-in kind. The kind that said I’m here now and I’m not leaving and this is where I belong.

“How long?” Liam murmured into Noah’s hair.

“Three months. Ninety days. No phone on the pillow. No screen between us. Just me, in your space, being annoying in person.”

“You’re going to leave towels on the floor.”

“Absolutely. Constantly. It’s part of the package.”

They carried everything upstairs in four trips. The apartment transformed with each load — Noah’s cereal appearing in the cabinet beside Liam’s protein powder. Noah’s shampoo in the shower. Noah’s sneakers kicked off by the door, already in the wrong spot, already making the space feel less like a residence and more like a home.

On the last trip, Noah carried in a box labeled KITCHEN STUFF in sharpie. Liam opened it. It contained four bags of Takis, a jar of peanut butter, a single spatula, and a framed photo of the two of them taken by Maggie — the couch photo, heads together, Liam’s hand in Noah’s hair.

“This is not kitchen stuff,” Liam said.

“The spatula is kitchen stuff.”

“One spatula.”

“Quality over quantity.” Noah took the framed photo and set it on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker, next to the two mugs that Liam set out every morning — one for him, one for Noah, even when Noah was four hours away. The mugs that had never stopped being two, because some habits were too honest to break.

Noah looked at the mugs. Then at Liam. His eyes were bright.

“You still set out two,” Noah said.

“Every morning.”

“Even when I wasn’t here.”

“Especially when you weren’t here.”

Noah crossed the kitchen. Put his hands on Liam’s chest. Stood on his toes and kissed him — soft, warm, tasting like gas station coffee and road trip and homecoming.

“Take me to bed,” Noah said. “Unpack later. Bed now.”

“We just got the last box upstairs.”

“And it can sit there for the next three hours while you reintroduce me to the mattress.”

They didn’t make it to the bed. Not immediately.

Liam pressed Noah against the bedroom wall — the wall beside the door, the first vertical surface available, because the distance from the kitchen to the mattress was suddenly intolerable. His mouth was on Noah’s neck, his hands under the stolen hoodie, palms flat against warm skin, and Noah’s head fell back against the wall with a thud that rattled the framed photo on the nightstand.

“Fuck,” Noah breathed. His hands were in Liam’s hair, gripping, pulling. “I’ve missed your hands. I’ve missed — god — your mouth—”

Liam pulled the hoodie over Noah’s head. Then the t-shirt underneath. Noah was leaner than he’d been during the season — summer training stripped him down to the essential architecture of muscle and bone and brown skin that tasted like salt and sunscreen and the specific heat of a body that had been driving with the windows down for four hours.

Liam kissed down his chest. Dropped to his knees. Looked up.

Noah, shirtless, pinned against the wall, looking down at Liam with an expression that was hunger and wonder and the particular, devastating gratitude of a person who’d spent three weeks touching himself to the memory of this and was now being given the real thing.

“Hi,” Liam said from the floor.

“Hi.” Noah’s voice was already wrecked. “You’re on your knees.”

“Observation noted.”

“In your own apartment. On the floor. For me.”

“Who else would I be on the floor for?”

Noah made a sound that was part laugh, part sob. His hand found Liam’s jaw, tilted his face up, and the look that passed between them was so loaded with intimacy and history that the air in the room thickened.

Liam undid Noah’s jeans. Pulled them down with his boxers, efficient and deliberate, and took him in his mouth without preamble — deep, confident, the expertise of a man who’d spent months learning exactly how to dismantle this specific person with his tongue.

Noah’s head hit the wall. His hips bucked. His hand fisted in Liam’s hair and the sounds he made were not quiet — they were the sounds of a person who’d been subsisting on phone sex and imagination for weeks and was now drowning in the real thing, overwhelmed by sensation, unable to control the volume or the content of his voice.

“Liam — fuck — your mouth — I forgot how — ah — how do you do that with your tongue — oh my god—”

Liam pulled off before Noah could come. Stood. Kissed him — letting Noah taste himself, the obscenity and intimacy of it making Noah groan into his mouth.

“Bed,” Liam said. “Now.”

They fell onto the mattress in a tangle of remaining clothing. Noah pulled at Liam’s shirt, his belt, his jeans, stripping him with the urgent clumsiness of a man whose fine motor skills had been compromised by arousal. They were naked in thirty seconds, skin to skin, the full length of their bodies pressed together, and Noah wrapped around him — legs, arms, everything — and held on.

“I missed you,” Noah said. Into Liam’s neck. Shaking slightly. “I missed this. The weight of you. The smell of you. The way you feel when you’re right here.”

Liam’s arms tightened. “I’m right here.”

“For three months.”

“For three months.”

“No thin walls.”

“No thin walls.”

Noah pulled back. Looked at him. The brown eyes — serious now, the performing sunshine set aside, replaced by something raw and deliberate.

“I want to try something,” Noah said.

The phrase. Their phrase. The words that had preceded the first time, the bare-skin conversation, every significant escalation in their physical relationship. Liam’s body recognized them before his brain caught up — a quickening in his chest, a tightening in his stomach, the anticipation of something unknown and wanted.

“Tell me,” Liam said.

“I want to be inside you.”

The words landed in the room like a held breath releasing. Liam felt them in his body — a flush of heat, a contraction of something deep in his stomach, the visceral response of a man hearing a thing he’d been thinking about and hadn’t been brave enough to name.

They’d never done it this way. Their dynamic had established itself early — Liam as the giver, Noah as the receiver, a pattern built from the praise kink and the mentor framework and the natural flow of two people whose bodies had sorted the logistics before their brains caught up. It worked. It was extraordinary. But it was also, Liam realized, a continuation of the pattern that defined his life: give everything, receive nothing. Stay in control. Don’t let anyone in.

Noah was asking to get in. Literally. The most physical form of vulnerability Liam could offer — to open his body, to be entered, to surrender the control he’d spent a lifetime hoarding. It was terrifying.

It was exactly right.

“You don’t have to,” Noah said. Reading his face. Always reading his face. “If you’re not—”

“I want to.” Liam’s voice was steady. His heart was not. “I’ve been thinking about it. For a while.”

“You have?”

“Since Finland. Since you were gone and I was lying in this bed alone, thinking about every way I’ve let you in over the last year — emotionally, mentally, every wall I’ve taken down — and realizing there was one left. One way I was still holding back.” He met Noah’s eyes. “I don’t want to hold back anymore.”

Noah’s expression shifted. The playful, teasing energy dissolved into something reverent — the look he wore when Liam said something honest, the look that said I know what that cost you and I will treat it like the sacred thing it is.

“Okay,” Noah said softly. “Lie back.”

Liam lay back.

The vulnerability of it was immediate and total. On his back, legs open, Noah between them — the reversal of every position they’d ever occupied. Liam’s hands found the sheets and gripped, the reflex of a man accustomed to holding onto something when the ground shifted.

Noah started slow. Kissed Liam’s chest, his stomach, the ridges of muscle that tensed under his mouth. Mapped the scars with his lips — the skate blade line on his ribs, the puck marks on his shins, the knuckle scars from a dozen fights fought in defense of people he loved.

“You’re shaking,” Noah murmured against his hip.

“I’m aware.”

“We can stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Noah’s mouth curved against Liam’s skin. He reached for the lube. Warmed it between his fingers. His touch was slow — exploratory, careful, the touch of a person who understood exactly how significant this moment was and refused to rush it.

The first finger was — a lot. Not painful. Present. A sensation so unfamiliar that Liam’s entire body went rigid, every muscle engaging in the defensive response of a system encountering the unknown.

“Breathe,” Noah said. His free hand on Liam’s stomach, pressing gently, grounding. “Breathe through it. I’ve got you.”

The words. His words. The exact words Liam had said to Noah their first time — returned now, a loan repaid, the praise loop circling back to its origin. Liam breathed. His body softened. The rigidity released in increments, his muscles unclenching one by one as Noah’s finger moved slowly, gently, learning the interior geography of a man who’d never been touched here by anyone.

“That’s it,” Noah murmured. “You’re doing so well. You feel — Liam, you’re so tight. So warm. Relax for me. Let me in.”

Let me in. The phrase that described everything Noah had been doing for the past year — knocking on doors, climbing over walls, filling the spaces Liam had kept empty. And now, here, in the most literal, physical way possible: let me in.

Liam let him in.

Two fingers. The stretch was real — a burn at the edges that Liam recognized from every description Noah had ever given, every sound Noah had ever made, and the understanding that this is what it feels like for him added a layer of empathy to the sensation that made it more intimate than any physical act should be.

Noah’s fingers curled. Found the spot. And Liam —

Liam made a sound he had never made.

Open. Startled. Raw. A sound that came from below his diaphragm and bypassed every filter he’d ever built, erupting from his mouth before his brain could catch it. His hips jerked. His hand flew to the back of Noah’s head, gripping, an involuntary response to a sensation so intense it rewired his neural pathways in real time.

“Fuck,” Liam gasped. “What — do that again—”

Noah did it again. And again. Each time, the sound Liam made was louder, more uncontrolled, further from the composed, stoic, emotionally contained version of himself he presented to the world. This was the version underneath — the one who gasped and cursed and gripped the sheets and let pleasure crash through him without managing it.

“You’re beautiful,” Noah said. Low. Steady. The coaching voice — Liam’s voice, borrowed and returned, aimed back at its owner with devastating precision. “The way you look right now. The way you sound. You have no idea, Liam. You spend so much time being in control, being tough, being the wall — and right now you’re just feeling, and it’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Liam’s eyes were stinging. Not from pain — from the overwhelming collision of physical sensation and emotional exposure. He was being seen. Fully, completely, in the most vulnerable position he’d ever occupied, and the person seeing him was not flinching. Was not pulling away. Was looking at him with worship and desire and love and telling him he was beautiful for being open.

“I’m ready,” Liam said. His voice was rough. “I need you. Now.”

Noah slicked himself. Positioned between Liam’s thighs. Lined himself up. The blunt pressure was a question mark — present, patient, waiting for permission.

“Look at me,” Noah said.

Liam looked. Brown eyes. Steady. Full of everything.

Noah pressed in.

The sound Liam made was not a moan. It was the sound a locked door makes when it finally, after decades, swings open. Something between a gasp and a sob, his body arching, his hands finding Noah’s arms and gripping hard enough to leave marks, his mouth open and his eyes wide and his entire being rearranging itself around the sensation of being filled.

“Oh god,” Liam breathed. “Oh — Noah—”

“I know.” Noah paused. Held still. Shaking with the effort of restraint, his arms braced on either side of Liam’s head, his forehead nearly touching Liam’s. “I know. Breathe. Take your time.”

Liam breathed. The fullness was immense — not painful, not after the careful preparation, but present in a way that demanded every ounce of his attention. There was no room for thinking, for planning, for the constant mental commentary that narrated his life. There was only this: Noah inside him, Noah’s body over his, Noah’s face inches from his own, and the impossible, terrifying, magnificent sensation of being completely, utterly, physically open to another person.

“Move,” Liam whispered. “Please.”

Noah moved.

Slow. Glacial. The same devastating rhythm Liam used on him — the rhythm they’d built together, the language of their bodies, returned now like an echo in a new room. Each thrust was a sentence. Each withdrawal a breath between words. The conversation was being spoken in Liam’s body instead of Noah’s, and the difference — the reversal, the surrender — made everything louder, sharper, more real.

“You feel incredible,” Noah said, his hips moving in that patient, relentless rhythm. “Do you know that? Do you know how you feel around me?”

“Tell me.” Liam’s voice was unrecognizable to himself. Broken open. Desperate. The voice of a man who’d spent twenty-four years performing stoicism and had just discovered what existed on the other side of it. “Tell me how I feel.”

“Like home.” Noah thrust deeper. Liam’s back arched. “Like safety. Like the first place I ever belonged. You feel like every wall I ever walked through was worth it because you were on the other side.”

“Noah—”

“You’re good, Liam.” The words — the foundational words, the words that had built everything, the words that had started as a coach’s correction and become a lover’s prayer. “You’re so good. Not because you’re tough. Not because you perform. Because you opened a door you’ve kept locked your whole life and you let me walk through it.”

Liam was crying. The tears tracked from his temples into his hair and he made no effort to stop them because stopping things was the old version and the old version was gone and what replaced it was this — a man on his back, being filled, being praised, being loved without condition by a person who saw every ugly, broken, terrified part of him and wanted all of it.

The orgasm built from a place Liam had never accessed before. Not his cock — deeper. His prostate, stimulated by the angle of Noah’s cock inside him, sending waves of pleasure that were different from anything he’d experienced — fuller, more diffuse, radiating through his whole pelvis, his thighs, his stomach. It built like a tide, not a wave. Slow. Inevitable. Enormous.

“I’m going to—” Liam gasped. “Noah, I’m—”

“I know. I can feel it. Let go, baby. I’ve got you. Let go.”

He came untouched.

The orgasm tore through him like a current — not the sharp, concentrated release of a normal climax but something broader and deeper, a full-body seizure of pleasure that started at his core and radiated outward through every nerve ending. His cock pulsed against his stomach, untouched, the release driven entirely by the pressure inside him and the sound of Noah’s voice and the devastating, bone-level surrender of a man who had finally stopped holding on.

Noah came seconds later. The clench of Liam’s body around him was too much — his rhythm broke, his hips stuttered, and he buried himself deep and came with a cry that was Liam’s name shattered into syllables. The heat of him inside Liam — bare, real, nothing between them — was the final act of a year-long dissolution of walls.

They lay tangled. Breathing. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator — the same sound, the eternal sound, the mechanical heartbeat of every home they’d ever shared.

“You okay?” Noah whispered. His hand in Liam’s hair, stroking, the gesture reversed.

“I think that was the most vulnerable I’ve ever been.”

“Was it okay?”

Liam was quiet for a moment. The right words assembled themselves slowly — not because he was performing, but because what he’d just experienced was genuinely beyond his existing vocabulary.

“It was like finding a room in my own house I didn’t know existed,” he said. “And you were already in it. Waiting.”

Noah pressed his face against Liam’s neck. His breath was warm and shaky and his eyelashes were wet against Liam’s skin. “That’s the most poetic thing you’ve ever said.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Later. The sun had moved. The boxes were still unpacked. The lamp was still in the hallway. Neither of them cared.

They lay in bed — their bed, for three months, the first real bed they’d share as an uninterrupted fact rather than a stolen weekend. Noah was on his back, Liam’s head on his chest, their positions reversed from the usual configuration. Liam’s fingers traced idle patterns on Noah’s stomach — not breakout diagrams. Just touch. Purposeless, aimless, the specific luxury of touching someone because you could and because you wanted to and because there was no clock counting down to goodbye.

“Tell me something good,” Liam murmured.

Noah’s hand found Liam’s hair. Threaded through it. The gesture that had started as Liam’s — the original, the prototype, offered first during film study on a sagging couch in a shitbox apartment — now belonged to both of them. A shared vocabulary. A mutual language.

“This is home,” Noah said. “Not the apartment. Not Connecticut. This. You and me, in a bed, with nowhere to be tomorrow. That’s home. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Liam pressed his lips against Noah’s chest. Felt the heartbeat underneath — steady, strong, the rhythm he’d first heard through a thin wall in a shitbox apartment and had been listening for ever since.

“Home,” he agreed.

The sun moved across the floor. The boxes waited. The lamp sat in the hallway, patient as a promise. And in the bedroom, on a mattress that didn’t creak, in an apartment with walls thick enough to keep their sounds to themselves, two people held each other and breathed and were, for the first time, completely, permanently, unreservedly home.

No walls. No distance. No performance. Just us. Just home.

Thank you for reading Rookie Roommates. If you loved Liam and Noah’s story, please consider leaving a review — it helps more readers find them.

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