by Eden Finley
I massage his prostate until he’s panting and begging for it and then remove my fingers and kiss him roughly until he calms down. Then I do it again.
We push each other to the brink so many times I lose count, and Lennon looks like he could lose consciousness.
I love watching his eyes roll back in his head every time my fingers brush his prostate, and I make sure to see it again and again.
“Okay, you win,” he says. “I’m never playing this game with an athlete again.” Under his breath, he adds, “Stupid competitive motherfuckers.”
“Finally!” My muscles are coiled tight, needing release. Not just wishing for it but needing it more than my lungs need air.
In seconds, I’m covered with a condom and more lube and easing inside him. We groan in unison, and my balls draw up tight already. I’ve never felt this kind of tightness or warmth surrounding my cock, and I can’t believe I never pushed to try this before.
Holy hell, I’m in heaven. Ass heaven.
Stars dance across my vision, from pleasure or dehydration I’m not so sure at this point.
“Seriously, this is gonna be over so fucking soon.”
“I’m okay with that,” Lennon rasps. He throws his head back as his hand goes to his cock, pulling on it harder and faster than I was.
I test out a small thrust and shudder at the ripple of pleasure shooting down my spine. Murmured curse words fall from my mouth.
“Kiss me,” Lennon demands, and it’s one I have no hesitation giving into.
I slide inside him farther when I lower my mouth to his, bottoming out as our tongues tangle.
Lennon’s hand still works his cock, and now I can feel it against my stomach.
“I want you to come on me,” I say against his lips.
I get a pained moan in response and take that as a sign I need to start moving again. My hips rock, gaining more movement with each thrust.
The bed creaks under our weight, but I’m too busy tuning into the little sounds coming from Lennon beneath me.
He needs to come soon, because no way am I going to last like this. His ass chokes my dick harder than a vise, but I want Lennon to cross the finish line first.
I just have to hold out a little more.
With Lennon’s injured leg still resting over my shoulder, his other leg wraps around my hip, and his tight little hole grips me even tighter.
“Fuck,” I cry out. “I can’t … with the coming and the holding out and the …” And now I’m rambling.
Even thoughts of hockey don’t help.
Lennon stiffens and comes on an inaudible gasp. I would’ve missed it entirely had ropes of hot, sticky cum not splashed against my stomach and chest. The hand jerking himself slows, and his breathing starts to even out, but it’s his completely blissed-out face that pushes me over the edge.
I try to hold myself up, but my orgasm rips away the last of my energy, and I collapse on Lennon a little harder than I’d like.
He grunts, and I manage a “Sorry,” but all he does is laugh.
“Yet you’re still on top of me.”
“Can’t. Move.”
“I take it you liked your first time dicking someone out?”
“Understatement. When can we do it again?”
Lennon laughs, and it’s the best sound in the world. Either that or I’m cum drunk.
Yeah, probably that.
I slowly roll off him and onto my back. “So.” I breathe heavily. “Neil Patrick Harris in a harness?”
“Sweet Neil Patrick Harris in a harness.”
“Care to explain?”
He faces me, his blue eyes shining in the dark. “Sometimes fuck doesn’t cover it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
LENNON
It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up wrapped around someone, and if it weren’t for Ollie’s mom calling out “Breakfast is ready,” I’d happily stay here.
Ollie’s body is warm and large, and his arms encase me tightly as if he’s scared to let me go.
I’ve had boyfriends in the past, and even if they never lasted long, this is probably what I miss the most. Waking up next to someone who makes me all disgustingly mushy inside.
My body’s all floaty, my mind empty—a state only a night of great orgasms can achieve.
That all turns to shit when one of Ollie’s brothers knocks on the bedroom door.
“Hurry up. Some of us need coffee thanks to being awake half the night listening to your fuck session.”
My eyes widen, and I nudge Ollie. All he does is mumble something I can’t understand and rolls over to face the other way.
“Your brothers are here?” I ask.
“Mmm, they were all drinking and stayed the night.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that? They heard everything.”
“We weren’t that loud,” he says through a yawn.
Only, when we drag our asses out of bed and head downstairs, it’s pretty damn clear we were that loud.
All four of Ollie’s brothers clap and cheer, and his mom refuses to look either of us in the eye as she flits around the kitchen.
“Really, Ollie,” Nic says, “you should’ve known why the oldest was always put in the attic. The noise from up there travels. It was Ma and Dad’s way of making sure we didn’t bring a girl home and impregnate her.”
I’m sure the pink tinge on Ollie’s face matches mine.
Note to self: never, ever, have sex with Ollie in his parents’ house ever again.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? No teen pregnancies in this house,” their mom says and starts putting plates on the table. “But at least you two know for next time.”
“Although to be fair, in your own words, Ma, I won’t be getting anyone pregnant up there.” Ollie’s able to laugh off his embarrassment, but I’m not as easy.
“Well, I’d love to stay for breakfast, but I’m going to go drown myself,” I say and try to run away.
Only, I run straight into Ollie’s dad. “Pfft. No need to run off. There’s really no secrets between us now.”
Ollie’s brothers snicker.
“I’m so sorry,” Ollie whispers to me.
Either they’ve all had their fun or they’ve taken pity on me, but they drop it after that.
Everyone seems looser this morning than the tension-filled disaster I missed out on while I was asleep all afternoon.
Even Ollie appears more relaxed. He smiles at me in a way I’ve only ever wished to be smiled at. Like, we’re actually a couple.
When we’re not. I mean, not really. I have no idea what’s going on in Ollie’s head.
He basically passed out last night as soon as we’d cleaned ourselves up, and it’s not like we’ve had a chance to talk this morning.
After breakfast, Ollie turns to me. “I was gonna go see Tommy today before the game if you wanna come? Or do you have to get back to the city?”
“I’ve got everything I need for tonight’s game, so I’m easy.” I wince when everyone laughs. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“You’re gonna be so much fun to have around, Clarky,” Max says.
Even if I’m mortified, the mockery is different to the type I suffered through in high school, and I know they accept me, which is something I wasn’t so sure would happen. Especially from Max, who I thought would never be okay with me being with his brother instead of Ash.
“I could’ve gone back to my hotel room,” I say as we pull into the driveway of a cute house somewhere in suburbialand outside the city.
“I wanted you to come. And Tommy knows about us anyway.”
It’s slow going on my behalf as we get out of Ollie’s parents’ car he’s borrowed and make our way up the stone path toward the house, which has a giant wraparound porch filled with kids’ toys.
“This house isn’t exactly what I was expecting for a hockey legend with ten seasons under his belt,” I say.
Ollie smiles. “This is their everyday
home—the one they live in most. There’s also the apartment in the city for game nights and the holiday house on the Cape.”
“Yeah, that sounds more like what I was expecting. I guess I’ve always figured Tommy to be the flashy type not …” I stare at the renovated colonial house, which is beautiful, yes, but it’s … normal.
“Tommy’s ego on the ice might be huge, but in reality, he’s just a guy supporting his family. The difference between hockey-season and off-season Tommy is astounding. I can’t wait for you to witness it.”
He grimaces, and I assume it’s because he realizes what he’s said. After the season, I’ll most likely be back in Chicago. We won’t be hanging out and doing whatever we’re doing.
As we approach the house, my ankle twinges with each hobbled step. It’s definitely less painful today but still annoying.
Ollie huffs and lifts me bridal style before I even have the chance to protest.
“What are you doing?” I struggle against him. “I can walk, dickhead. Plus, I’m, like, heavy and shit.”
He leans in, so his mouth is close to my ear. “Need to keep your foot elevated, remember?”
A shiver runs through me from memories of last night.
My eyes scan the quiet street, but paranoia for Ollie sets in. “What if someone’s watching?”
He does the same glance over the street I did. “Let them see. You’re just an injured guy being carried by a super-hot, super-strong hockey player. I’m being chivalrous.”
I laugh. “If you say so.”
“And you’re not heavy. I bench press more than you daily.”
“Okay, big guy, I get it. You have muscles.”
Ollie’s voice takes on a husky quality as he says, “Muscles you traced with your tongue last night.”
“Truth.”
I don’t know what game Ollie’s playing, but it’s working. Reminding me of last night has me hardening and my worries of our future muted.
But my hard-on dies completely when Tommy’s door opens, and instead of Tommy or his wife—or hell, I’d settle for either of his kids—Damon, my friend and Ollie’s agent, stands there looking at us with a furrowed brow.
His dark hair is styled casual messy like it always is, but instead of the suit I’m used to seeing him in, he’s in jeans and a T-shirt. That’s when I remember his boyfriend is Tommy’s brother-in-law.
“Shit,” I gasp as Ollie almost drops me. I struggle the rest of the way out of his grip and tell my brain to come up with an excuse. Any excuse. “Umm, I injured my foot, and my magazine wanted me to interview Ollie and do a follow-up to all those articles I wrote about him earlier in the season, and now that the Dragons are out—”
Ollie bursts out laughing. “It’s a good thing for me that you suck at lying.” He throws his arm around me. “Hey, Damon, you know my boyfriend, right?”
Damon’s eyes are the size of saucers, and they probably match mine.
“Boyfriend?” I croak.
“Boyfriend-type-person,” Ollie says with a wave of his hand. “You know what I mean.” He kisses the side of my head and walks past Damon into Tommy’s house.
Damon and I stare at each other with mirrored dumbfounded expressions.
“Did he just come out to me?” Damon asks. “Oh, God, has he come out to the world without telling me first?” He whips out his phone from his pocket, but I step forward and cover it with my hand.
“Your professional world isn’t imploding, but I fear Ollie’s head might be. I had no idea he was going to do that.”
We make our way inside, Damon faster than I can manage on my ankle, only to find Ollie in the kitchen talking to Tommy as if he didn’t just come out to his agent.
Ollie claps Tommy on the shoulder. “Ready for the game, old man?”
“Of course,” Tommy says as his wife and Maddox enter the room.
“Why do you guys look like you’re trying to do math?” Maddox asks Damon and me.
The dynamic hockey duo turns to us, as if just realizing we’d followed them in.
“Oh. That,” Ollie says. “I think they’re freaking out because I told Damon that Lennon and I are a thing.”
Maddox cocks his head at Damon. “Why would that shock you? We saw them flirting at the benefit.”
“I’m trying to work out if I should be in friend mode or agent mode,” Damon says.
Ollie finally loses his calm composure, and he frowns. “You guys already know I’m gay?”
Damon shrugs. “Suspected.”
“Lennon, did you give me your gay vibes?”
I laugh.
Damon takes out his phone again. “Does this mean … like, do you need me to do a press release, or—”
“No,” Ollie says quickly. “Not ready for that, and I hadn’t planned on telling you today, but I’d planned on it eventually.”
Damon nods. “Whenever you’re ready. OnTrack Sports and I will support you one hundred percent.”
“Yeah. After Matt, I figured,” Ollie says.
Tommy slaps Ollie on the back. “I’m gonna be totally lame here and tell you I’m proud of you.”
Ollie nudges him. “’Cause I totally did it for you, bro.” His eyes flick to mine before looking away again and speaking quietly. I don’t think I’m supposed to hear it, but I do. “Not making the same mistakes this time.”
He continues to refuse to look at me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His long body makes me want to go to him and wrap myself around him, like how we were last night.
Maddox pulls me out of almost doing something indecent in front of everyone.
“You could totally tap into the queer market,” he says to Damon. “Represent all the gay guys in sport.”
Tommy leans against the kitchen counter, next to Ollie. “He might already be there with Matt and Ollie.”
Damon scoffs. “Trust me. There are way more gay guys in sports. It’s just a fact that it’s still hard to come out in our world.”
“Exactly,” Ollie says, and even if he’s still not ready, he’s taken another important step, and as selfish as it is, my stupid brain and heart think he’s done it for me—something he wasn’t willing to do for Ash.
But as fast as that happens, guilt replaces it, because the last thing I need is the pressure of being the guy he comes out for.
Of course, Ollie knows everyone at the arena. This used to be his playground. He fist-bumps his way past all the security and into the press box with me, despite my protests about being in the vicinity of several other reporters who’ll be interested to know why he’s sitting with me instead of in his old team’s owner’s box or in the stands with family and friends.
He assures me it’s fine and he’s allowed to have friends. No one should suspect otherwise.
I’m legitimately beginning to worry that topping for the first time means he lost a severe amount of brain cells when he came.
Sex makes you dumb, people.
He’s taking risks he hasn’t allowed himself for years.
I’m sweating. Is it hot in here?
This is a lot of pressure.
It eases a little when the game starts and I have to concentrate, but he’s got that whole awareness thing about him again, and I feel him everywhere.
“Stop it,” I mutter.
“Stop what?”
When I turn to him, his eyes are on the ice, and I begin to wonder if the heat from his gaze has been imagined, but nope. His lips twitch upward.
“I have to work.”
“So do I,” he says. Then he leans to his right, bringing him closer to me so no one else can hear but not so close it looks suspicious. The scent of his cologne is stronger and somehow reminds me of sex. In particular, sex with him. “I have to work at getting you back to your hotel room and out of your clothes as soon as this game’s over.”
Kill. Me. Now.
Seems Ollie’s goal all day today has been to drive me crazy. Or try to make me come without him even touching me. He’s ex
ceedingly good at both, and if he’s not careful, I’ll have to go back to my hotel room, but it won’t be to fool around; it’ll be for a new change of pants.
I would’ve thought he’d be more inconspicuous than this, but maybe I’m being overly paranoid. Maybe he was like this with Ash, but I got the impression he hid as much as possible with him and didn’t allow for silliness in public.
I have to admit, it’s a huge turn-on not being able to touch but subtly dropping hints about what’ll happen later. I wish I could concentrate on the ice instead of the unfairly hot, talented, somewhat awkward when he’s uncomfortable guy who not only makes playing hockey look good but also makes the game interesting.
I thought I was having an off night when Ollie was with his family instead of at the game. Turns out my interest in hockey solely revolves around one hockey player.
As if sensing me watching him instead of the game, he glances my way, and the smile he gives me reminds me of a promise—a promise for more. And not just sex, but everything. I wish I was rational enough to dismiss it, but whether it’s my inner nerd wanting this since I first started liking boys or whether it’s my stupid side, a huge part of me knows I’m already in too deep. We might’ve only admitted aloud yesterday that we want each other, but if I’m completely honest, I’ve been gone for this guy since the day we met.
It’s the reason I kissed him that day in the stairwell. It’s the reason I started watching his games and following his career. And ultimately, it’s the reason my boss transferred me to hockey. Because my passion for the game—a.k.a. Ollie—shone through in the articles I wrote about him.
“Whoa,” Ollie says, his gaze snapping back to the ice.
I tear my eyes away, only to be confused by what’s happening below.
Two New Jersey players have gotten into a fight … with each other. Not Boston.
“That’s new,” I say as I watch the two giants drop their gloves and try to pummel one another.
The reporters surrounding me start tapping away furiously, probably live tweeting and googling the players’ stats and entire careers.
Sorensen and Healy by the names on their jerseys. I open Google, but Ollie beats me to it. “Caleb Sorensen and Kip Healy.”
