🔥 Home Ice 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Deep Freeze

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the blizzard, the bench, the equipment room, the almost-kiss, the cabin, the couch, the kitchen counter, the fogged-up truck, the locker room floor, the center-ice kiss, and a man who sent a heart emoji when he couldn’t say the words. Thank you for giving Kieran and Wyatt your time.

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⚠️ Content Warning: Extremely explicit MM sexual content including reunion sex, kitchen counter sex, oral sex, penetrative sex in multiple positions, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, first-person POV narration of graphic sexual acts, and emotional intensity. Set three months after the epilogue. Readers 18+ only.

Home Ice

Set three months after the epilogue. Late June. Kieran’s POV.

The Subaru ate the miles like it was hungry for them.

I-81 North. The route I could drive blindfolded now — every exit memorized, every rest stop catalogued, the specific stretch past Syracuse where the cell signal dropped and the landscape opened up and the world stopped being Philadelphia and started being Watertown. Four Wawa stops. Not because I needed four hoagies (I needed two; the other two were aspirational), but because each stop was a waypoint, a countdown, the distance shrinking in increments measured by Italian subs and fountain drinks.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days since I’d been at the cabin. The longest stretch since the championship, and the reason was hockey — the offseason development program at the Phantoms’ facility, a week of intensive sessions that the coaching staff had framed as “optional” in the way that optional things in professional sports were optional: technically voluntary, practically mandatory.

I’d done the sessions. I’d skated well. I’d impressed the development coaches and earned the kind of quiet, approving nods that meant the organization saw a future in me that extended past this September. All of it registered in the career-management part of my brain, the part that Danny had wired for ambition and that Wyatt had rewired for purpose.

But the rest of my brain — the ninety percent that wasn’t dedicated to hockey analytics and professional development — had been running a parallel process for twenty-one days, and the process was: I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

The missing was physical. Not metaphorical, not poetic — physical. A weight in my chest that increased with each day of distance. A hollowness in the bed that no pillow arrangement could fill. The specific, tactile absence of Wyatt’s arm across my chest at 5:15 AM, the weight that I’d learned to need the way I needed the weight of a blanket: not for warmth but for grounding. Without it, I floated. Untethered. A satellite without an orbit.

The texts helped. The calls helped. The FaceTime sessions — Wyatt holding the phone at an angle that showed mostly ceiling and chin because the man had never mastered the selfie camera and never would — helped.

But nothing replaced the thing itself. The body. The weight. The smell of woodsmoke and pine in a flannel that was mine by possession and his by origin. The voice — not the phone version, tinny and compressed, but the real one. Low and rough and close enough to feel vibrating in the space between us.

I turned off I-81 at the Watertown exit. The June evening was golden — 7 PM, the sun still high, the light slanting through the trees with the specific, amber quality that upstate New York produced for approximately six weeks per year and that I had, in my first winter here, believed was mythological.

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

Wyatt: ETA?

Kieran: 15 minutes. Maybe 10 if I break laws.

Wyatt: Don’t break laws.

Kieran: Minor laws. Traffic suggestions, really.

Wyatt: Moose is at the door.

Kieran: Tell him I’m coming.

Wyatt: He knows. He’s been at the door since 4.

Wyatt: He gets it from his other dad.

Other dad. The phrase was new — three weeks old, deployed for the first time in a text that had arrived at 11 PM on a Tuesday when Wyatt was clearly half-asleep and his verbal filters were at minimum capacity. Moose misses his other dad. He hadn’t retracted it. Hadn’t clarified. Had just let it sit in the text thread like a seed, and I had screenshot it and set it as my lock screen and looked at it approximately four hundred times since.

The dirt road. The pines. The clearing opened up and there it was — the cabin.

Smoke from the chimney. Even in June, Wyatt kept a fire going in the evenings — not for heat but for atmosphere, the amber light that was the cabin’s signature, the glow visible through the windows like a lighthouse signaling home.

I pulled in. Killed the engine. Opened the door.

Moose launched off the porch like a furry missile. Ninety pounds of reunion energy hit me at thigh height and I went down — laughing, arms full of dog, the driveway gravel biting into my knees and the dog’s tongue finding every exposed inch of my face.

Then I looked up, and Wyatt was on the porch.

Not rushing. Never rushing. Standing at the top of the steps in jeans and a T-shirt — summer Wyatt. Tanned forearms. The silver hair lighter from the sun. The body leaner without the season. The compression sleeve on the knee, the limp that was barely there on warm days.

He looked like a man who had stopped performing survival and started actually living.

“Hi,” I said, from under the dog.

“Hi.”

“I’m home.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. The smile. The real one. “You are.”

He came down the steps. Pulled me up from under Moose. We stood in the driveway. Face to face. The three weeks of distance closing to inches.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He kissed me. Not the slow, cabin-pace kiss. The reunion kiss — the three-weeks-of-absence kiss that bypassed his usual control and went straight to the raw, full-intensity version of Wyatt Hayes wanting something. His hands on my face. Thumbs on my cheekbones. The taste of him — coffee, woodsmoke, and the dark warmth I’d been craving for twenty-one days.

“Inside,” I said against his mouth. “Now. The bags can wait.”

We didn’t make it to the bedroom.

The kitchen. Of course the kitchen. The counter where the first kiss happened.

I pushed him against the counter and the déjà vu was deliberate. Five months ago, Wyatt had stood behind me at this counter and taught me to mince garlic and then kissed me for the first time.

“Remember this counter?” I said.

“I built this counter.”

“You kissed me at this counter.”

“The counter was incidental.”

“The counter was central.”

He kissed me to shut me up. The kiss deepened — hands moving to my waist, pulling me flush against him. Chest to chest. Hip to hip. His mouth moved to my neck. The spot behind my ear. His tongue traced the edge. The sound I made echoed off the kitchen walls.

“Three weeks,” Wyatt said against my skin. His voice was low. Rough. The voice that bypassed my brain and went directly to my cock. “Three weeks of your side of the bed being empty.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“This.” His mouth found my collarbone. Teeth — not biting, promising. “Your neck. Your voice. The sound you make when I—”

He bit down. Gently. The controlled, precise application of pressure that produced a response somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

“I can. I am. Three weeks of saying nothing. I’m done saying nothing.”

Shirts came off. The summer version of his chest — tanned, leaner, the scar on his ribs a thin silver line in the kitchen light.

“Jeans. Off. Now.”

“Bossy.”

“Desperate. There’s a difference.”

His hand was on my cock through the jeans — the firm, purposeful grip of a man who had spent three weeks without the thing he wanted and was done waiting.

“Counter,” I gasped. “Like the first time.”

“I know what you want.”

He lifted me onto the counter. My ass hit the butcher block and his hips pressed between my thighs and the position was ours.

“The lube is in the drawer,” I said, because the lube lived in the kitchen drawer now, beside the spatulas and the takeout menus, the domestic normalization of desire that said more about our life than any photograph.

He was thorough. Patient. Even now — even with three weeks of deprivation fueling the urgency — Wyatt Hayes did not rush this part. One finger, slicked and warm, pressing inside me with the careful, reading-the-body attention that was his signature. Curving to find the spot that made my spine arc and a sound come out of me that was somewhere between his name and a profanity.

“More. I can take — I need more—”

Two fingers. Three fingers. The preparation thorough, unhurried. And Wyatt’s free hand on the back of my neck — the grounding contact — holding me steady while his fingers opened me up.

“Now,” I said. “Wyatt, now—”

The condom was on. The lube reapplied. And Wyatt pressed inside me on the kitchen counter of the cabin that was our home, and the feeling — the familiar, consuming, devastating fullness of him entering me — was the homecoming that the driveway hadn’t been.

This. This was coming home. The specific, physical, irreplaceable sensation of Wyatt’s body inside mine, the stretch and the pressure and the heat, his hands on my hips and his forehead against mine and his eyes open, always open.

I rolled my hips. The angle was deep. The angle was everything. Each press seated him fully, lighting up nerves that made my vision spark.

Wyatt’s rhythm found the reunion-pace. Faster. More urgent. Three weeks compressed into each thrust. The counter creaked. The kitchen echoed with the sounds that three weeks of silence had been building toward — his grunts, my gasps, the slick sound of bodies.

“I love you,” I said. Not a declaration — a reflex. “I love you and I’m never leaving for three weeks again—”

“Then I’ll come back. Every time. Every break. Every — right there — oh God, don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping.”

“I promise, Kieran. I’ll be here. Every time you come back, I’ll be right here.”

The orgasm built from the foundation, layer by layer. The full-body, internal wave that Wyatt’s angle and pace reliably produced.

“Let go,” Wyatt said. “I’ve got you.”

I let go.

The orgasm hit like a wave — not sharp but rolling. A long, deep, full-body release, my cock pulsing untouched between our bodies. The sound I made was his name — broken, repeated, half word and half prayer.

Wyatt followed. The clench of my body around him triggered his own — the low, rough, uninhibited groan that filled the kitchen.

We held there. Connected. Breathing. Foreheads together. Eyes still open.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

“I’m home.”

“You mentioned.”

“Just confirming.”

The shower was comedy and tenderness in equal measure. The cabin’s bathroom was not designed for two grown men. We managed. Wyatt washed my hair. I washed his back. I traced the scar on his ribs. Kissed his shoulder blade.

“I missed this.”

“The shower?”

“The everything. You, mostly. You always.”

He cooked. We ate on the porch. The Adirondack chairs. Both occupied — together, the way Wyatt had built them for. Fireflies in the tree line. The wine was good.

“The Phantoms want to lock me into a two-year deal. The numbers are really good.”

“I want you to take it.”

“But I’m sitting on this porch with you and the dog and the fireflies and the garden, and the idea of driving away from this on Sunday makes me want to set my car on fire.”

“Take the deal. Play the games. Come home.”

“Every time?”

“Every time.”

“And the summers?”

“The summers are ours. All of them.”

“Take me to bed. The real bed. With the sheets that smell like you.”

“The old ones smelled like you. I couldn’t sleep. I replaced them.”

“And now?”

“And now I need you to come ruin the new ones.”

“You planned dirty talk.”

“I planned several things. The dirty talk was item three.”

“Item one was the kiss. Item two was the kitchen counter.”

“And item four?”

“Item four is the bed. If you’d like to stop asking questions and proceed to item four.”

I stood. Extended my hand. “Take me to item four.”

The bedroom was different. New sheets — dark gray, soft. The Bex-recommended lamp, warm amber light. Our photo on the nightstand, the championship shot.

The undressing was slow. This was the second round — the bodies sated, the edge taken off, the remaining energy channeled into something more deliberate.

I unbuttoned his jeans. Slowly. Pushed the jeans down his hips and knelt to guide them over the compression sleeve on the knee.

I kissed the knee. The scar. The gesture that meant: I see the damage. I love the body that carries it.

I stood. Undressed myself. The lamp lit us both in amber.

“Lie down.”

He did. I climbed over him — straddling his thighs, the position that was ours.

“I’m going to take my time. The way you take your time with me.”

I started at his mouth. Deep, slow. Moved to his neck. The pulse point. His chest. I circled his nipple with my tongue. Felt Wyatt’s hand tighten in the sheets.

His hips. The V of the obliques. I kissed the hip bones. Licked the crease where thigh met pelvis. Breathed against the length of him without touching — the deliberate, almost-cruel denial.

“Kieran—”

“Patience.”

“That’s my line.”

“Tonight it’s mine.”

I took him into my mouth. Slowly. The specific, devoted, take-your-time attention that Wyatt had taught me through example. I took him deep and held, feeling the pulse against my tongue, the thick heat of him in my throat.

Wyatt’s composure disintegrated. Slowly — then all at once. His hand in my hair tightened. His hips moved.

I brought him to the edge. And backed off. Kissed his hip and let the wave recede.

“Kieran—”

“Not yet.”

I edged him twice more. Each time the composure that remained was thinner — a gauze curtain instead of a wall.

Then I straddled him. Reached for the lube. Slicked myself. Opened myself while he watched — his eyes dark, his face flushed.

“Ready?”

“Three weeks. I know.” I positioned myself. “Me too.”

I sank down. Slowly. Inch by devastating inch. The stretch, the fullness, the specific point where resistance gave way to acceptance and the acceptance became need.

I bottomed out. The full length of him inside me. Every inch of the body inside mine carried a story, and the feeling of those stories inside me was the most intimate thing I knew.

“Eyes open.”

I began to move. Slow. Deep. The tidal rhythm that was Wyatt’s invention and that I had made mine. Rising on my thighs. Sinking back with a press that drove him deep and hit the place inside me that turned the world to white noise and golden light.

Wyatt’s face was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Open. Unguarded. The composure just absent.

“I love you,” I said. Because I always said it during. The verbal and the physical expressing the same thing simultaneously.

“I love you.” Said back. Every time. Without hesitation.

The rhythm built. I found the angle. The one that hit both of us. The room filled with the sounds of us — the skin, the breath, the wet, intimate acoustics of bodies that knew each other.

“I’m close. Wyatt—”

“Together.”

“Always together.”

His hand found my cock. The dual sensation — him inside me and his hand on me — was the convergence point.

“Now,” Wyatt said. “With me. Now.”

I came. The orgasm rolled through me in the long, sustained, full-body wave that only happened when the emotional and the physical were perfectly aligned — the love and the pleasure and the trust braiding together into something that was simply, purely, everything.

Wyatt came with me. Inside me. The pulse of him — the feeling I’d been missing for three weeks.

I collapsed. Against his chest. His arms came around me.

“That was item four.”

“Item four. Completed.”

“Is there an item five?”

“Item five is sleep. Sleep with you. In this bed. For the entire summer. That’s item five.”

“That’s the best item.”

Moose sighed audibly from the hallway.

“The whole summer,” I said.

“The whole summer.”

“And then all of them. Every summer. The cabin. The garden. The porch. The dog. You.”

“How many?”

“All of them, Kieran. All of them.”

I closed my eyes. The cabin held its warmth. The fireflies blinked outside the window. The creek murmured in the dark.

Again, Danny said, from the place where brothers lived. The warm place. The permanent place. Again.

Again. Always again.

Every summer. Every drive. Every counter and every porch and every dark room where two men who had found each other in a frozen town held on and didn’t let go.

Home ice.

Ours.

The End.

We hope this bonus chapter was worth the drive home.

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With love,
Jace Wilder