The hands on him are cool and so is the mouth...but the shivers racing and chasing all over his body aren’t down to that. The tongue should be numbing his cock - it’s lapping at the head in slow, relentless strokes paired with puffs of air blown lightly, precisely, a blizzard of snowflakes driven over his skin by a howling wind, but it isn’t, because he’s burning up enough not to notice. Fingernails scrape across his stomach, his balls, his thighs, making Jack Frost eat your heart out patterns in winter setting sun red.

Then the ice cracks, the teeth part and he’s taken under, taken in, down into the darkness and he comes hard and it’s spring time again, with the slush and the floods.

And when he opens his eyes, his summer-blue eyes, Xander’s taking another mouthful of ice cream and smiling at him like a kid who’s just seen Santa.


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