by Avon Gale
“Think you could lie down? This is harder than lap dancers make it look.”
“When have you—never mind,” Laurent said hastily when Isaac mimicked a terrible beat and gyrated on his lap. Laurent lay back on the bed, his shirt open all the way and falling on either side of him.
“Goddamn,” Isaac said, shaking his head. “I hope you like the rest of this as much as you liked me kissing your neck. You’re so gorgeous, Saint.”
Laurent felt a little ridiculous, lying half-undressed on the bed, but the hungry and appreciative look in Isaac’s eyes helped him get over it.
Isaac climbed back on the bed and straddled him again. “Is—”
Laurent reached up, grabbed Isaac by the neck, and pulled him down. “Did I say it wasn’t okay? No? Then don’t stop.”
Isaac peered at him from between narrowed eyes. “I couldn’t have done the obvious thing and fallen for my straight best friend? God. Even my gay drama is over the top.”
Laurent snorted a laugh. He wondered if Harold and Mrs. Bowen had laughed in bed that much. If Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford did. Were you supposed to? He had no idea.
He stopped laughing when he felt Isaac’s mouth on his skin again and the drag of the lip ring on his chest.
“Do you like that?”
“Yeah,” Laurent panted, eyes closed. It was hard to relax, as usual, but the tension was channeling into something else he liked a whole lot more than stress. Maybe it counted as good stress. He’d heard that was a thing.
Isaac kissed down his chest and over his stomach, and then he licked and traced the corded muscles of Laurent’s abdominals with his tongue. Laurent realized he was hard and wondered if Isaac noticed. It’d happened before when they kissed, but he never mentioned it. Or checked to see if Isaac was too.
He didn’t need to check right then. Isaac was on top of him but holding most of his weight on his arms, though Laurent could feel Isaac’s hard cock against his thigh.
Tentatively Laurent reached out and smoothed his fingers through Isaac’s hair. “This isn’t going to turn my hand blue, is it?”
Isaac looked up at him. “I can’t believe the things you say. You know, your whole problem in life is a bad sense of timing.”
Laurent smiled at him. “So it’s not as bad as I always thought, then.”
Isaac snorted and bit him on the stomach. It was playful—just a nip—but Laurent felt it like he’d been hit in the face with a puck. In a good way. He even made a noise.
If nothing else, Isaac was used to reading body language. He looked up at Laurent again. “That was the most you’ve ever reacted to anything.”
He did it again, and that time, he bit. Not playfully, but an actual bite. He increased the pressure until Laurent arched up off the bed and grabbed Isaac’s hair with both hands.
Isaac bit his way up from Laurent’s stomach, over his chest, and ended up at Laurent’s mouth. Laurent was a wreck by the time Isaac kissed him again. A wreck.
He licked out and ran his tongue over Isaac’s lip ring, then sucked it into his mouth.
“Fuck,” Isaac muttered and pulled away. He was breathing hard, and he stared at Laurent like…. Laurent didn’t even know, having never been the recipient of a look like that before. “We might have to stop for a minute.”
“I don’t need you to stop, Isaac,” Laurent said, his voice husky. He was grabbing at the sheets beneath him, to keep him from… something. Maybe something he shouldn’t necessarily stop himself from doing.
“Yeah? That’s great. But I do.” Isaac climbed off him. He was all flushed, and his hair was in a disarray from Laurent having grabbed and twisted it like he was doing to the bedding.
He wanted to touch Isaac’s hair. He wanted to touch Isaac. But he sat still, breathing too fast, and waited. “Your shirt is still on.”
Laurent thought that might incite some banter, since it sounded like a challenge, but Isaac just reached down and pulled his shirt off without comment. He was lean, all whipcord and easily defined muscles, and Laurent liked that. Definitely. Laurent sat up and shrugged his own unbuttoned shirt all the way off. The material was too hot on his flushed skin, and besides, what was he trying to hide? Isaac had seen his back. Isaac had seen most every scar Laurent had, and he was still there.
Isaac rubbed his hand over Laurent’s stomach and then lower. He studied Laurent for his reaction.
Laurent made a small noise and then scowled. He shifted on the bed restlessly. He wanted that hand on his cock, but he was a little thrown by the way Isaac was looking at him. All that intensity and focus made him think about not being good enough—being judged and found lacking. He tapped the side of the bed.
“Ah, Saint,” said Isaac as he leaned in to kiss him.
That was good. Laurent reached down and curled his fingers lightly around Isaac’s wrist, but he didn’t pull his hand away or push it down. He just kept hold and tried not to buck his hips up, because that seemed desperate. But he gave a rough nod to show his consent, because he did want Isaac to keep going.
Isaac settled his hand over him, and probably nothing had ever felt that good in Laurent’s entire life. His fingers tightened briefly on Isaac’s wrist, and then he let go so he could get his jeans unbuttoned. Desperate or not, he didn’t care.
“This was definitely not on my list,” said Isaac, his voice roughened and low.
“Shut up,” said Laurent, and he lifted his hips to push his jeans down. “Roll with it.”
Isaac kissed him again, and he traced the shape of Laurent’s cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs. Laurent thought idly that he should maybe be embarrassed by the dampness on the cotton, but he couldn’t seem to care. He felt Isaac make a humming noise of approval as he rubbed his thumb over the head, and Laurent nearly came right there.
And that freaked him out. He grabbed Isaac’s wrist—hard.
Isaac went still and then pulled back a little. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Laurent said wildly. He looked up at Isaac and felt stupid, young, inexperienced, and awkward, and he hated that. “I’ve never had someone touch me when it felt this good.”
Isaac kissed the side of Laurent’s neck. “Want me to stop?”
“No. I just don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Isaac smiled against his skin. “Just lie there and look pretty.”
“Oh shut up,” Laurent muttered, but he turned his head and caught Isaac’s mouth in a kiss while Isaac went back to touching him.
At some point he felt Isaac’s thumb rub under the waistband of his underwear and against his skin. It was a question, and Laurent just nodded, breathless and caught up in the pleasure of it. When Isaac wrapped his hand around skin, it wasn’t at all like touching himself. There was nothing grim and clinical about it, and he didn’t have to fight to keep his mind blank, because he couldn’t think.
All he could do was lie there and gasp and writhe around on the bed, stare sightlessly up at the ceiling, and fall apart.
When he felt himself getting close, he reached out, hooked a hand around the back of Isaac’s neck, and blindly pulled him in—but not for a kiss. He pushed Isaac’s face into the space between his neck and shoulder, and Isaac huffed a breathless laugh and did exactly what Laurent had been hoping he’d do.
He bit him hard, and Laurent came with a low moan, his fingers tight on Isaac’s neck and the other hand clenched tight in the bedding. He was shaking when it was over—shaking, panting, and also sticky—and he felt good. Better than good.
Eventually he opened his eyes, and Isaac gave him the world’s smuggest smile. But Laurent didn’t even care. He grinned back. His shoulder throbbed pleasantly from the bite, and he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He luxuriated unabashedly in the sensation of approval he could see in Isaac’s face.
Isaac ghosted over the bite marks in Laurent’s shoulder with his fingers, which made Laurent shiver. “You like being bitten.”
He nodded and wondered if he could explain it. It was the buildup of pain and the sudden release of it that he liked, how he could feel the ache even when it was over. Feel it fade.
Getting off made it even better. Which reminded him that he was the only one who’d done that. He turned toward Isaac and wondered if he should pull up his underwear before whatever happened next. “So, umm,” he started, too lazily satisfied to care about how awkward he sounded.
“Oh.” Isaac’s smug smile turned a little sheepish. “Not necessary. I, ah. Look, dude, it was hot as hell jacking you off. All right?”
Laurent glanced down to see Isaac’s jeans were open and his cock had softened. He was weirdly disappointed that Isaac had already gotten off. He wished he could have given Isaac the same pleasure Isaac had given him. But Isaac would probably rather do it himself than have Laurent fumble his way through it.
“Whatever you’re thinking is probably wrong,” Isaac said.
Laurent made a face at him. “I’m sticky.” That wasn’t what he was thinking, but it definitely wasn’t wrong.
“Yeah. Uh… sorry about your, umm… comforter.”
“Too hot for it anyway.” Laurent stretched and watched as Isaac climbed off the bed and fixed his clothing. He left his shirt off, and Laurent took a moment to study him.
“Trying to decide if I’m hot or not?”
“No. I decided that you were already. I’m just wondering why I didn’t notice. Before. That maybe I liked how guys looked without a shirt on.”
Isaac grinned and flexed his arm muscles like an idiot. “You hadn’t seen me. That’s why.”
Laurent rolled his eyes and sat up. He raked a hand through his hair and then kicked off his jeans and pulled up his underwear. He grabbed Isaac’s T-shirt and wiped the mess off his stomach.
“Not cool. I am not driving home without a shirt. I don’t care if this is South Carolina. Not doing it.”
Laurent tossed Isaac’s shirt in the general direction of his clothes basket. “You can borrow something of mine. My T-shirts are in the bottom drawer.”
Isaac went to the dresser and rummaged around. Laurent got out of bed and found a pair of sweats and pulled them on, ignoring Isaac for the moment, in favor of going to his small fridge and pulling out a couple bottles of water. He turned and saw Isaac—wearing a shirt of his that was just a shade too big for him—flipping through something.
His sketchbook.
“Wow,” Isaac said, seemingly unaware of the death glare Laurent was shooting him from across the room. “Did you draw these? They’re amazing, Saint.”
The nickname cooled his fury, but Laurent still wanted to hurl one of the bottles at Isaac’s blue head. “Who said you could look at that?”
“Nobody.” Isaac looked at him, and he did look contrite. “Sorry?”
“You are not,” Laurent huffed.
“No. But these are seriously amazing.” Isaac held up a page. “Is that me?”
Oh Christ. Laurent did not want to admit to drawing Isaac. But he wasn’t going to back down and lie about it, not when it was obvious. Still. Admitting it outright wasn’t his style. “If I’m such a great artist, you should be able to tell.”
Isaac gave him a grin that bordered on fierce. “You really are a dick. And obviously you’ve been into mine longer than you think.”
“You’re graceful and have nice body lines.”
Isaac batted his eyes at him. “You’re so full of shit.” He put the sketchbook down. “Seriously, though. Is there anything you’re not good at?”
Laurent laughed at how ridiculous that was. “Now who’s full of shit? Here.” He tossed the bottle to Isaac, who caught it deftly and twisted it open. “I like drawing.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you admit to liking anything,” Isaac said.
I like you.
Laurent didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. It was probably written all over his face.
Chapter Ten
ISAAC WAS starting to wonder if he should tell Laurent about his checkered past selling blowjobs for money.
It was obvious by then that they were dating. They spent a lot of time together, and even though they were in fierce competition on the ice, it didn’t seem to affect their relationship, whatsoever. Isaac hated admitting that Belsey was right about anything, but playing with someone of Laurent’s considerable skill was seriously improving Isaac’s own. Even without the specter of his father’s presence, though, Laurent still didn’t see playing hockey as anything other than work. It made Isaac sad.
The new, mellow Laurent was an improvement in the locker room as well. Laurent still kept mostly to himself and only talked to Isaac or sometimes Hux—mostly about comics—but at least he wasn’t infuriating people on a daily basis. The team won more games than they lost, and Laurent and Isaac had the lowest goals-against average in the entire league. Hockey would never be a source of joy for Laurent, but he was much different than the sullen, angry young man who’d shown up in July to be Isaac’s back-up.
While Isaac wasn’t lying about his past, he had the nagging feeling that he should tell Laurent about it anyway. Because maybe a guy wanted to know that his first boyfriend used to suck cock for money.
He thought about it a lot—telling Laurent, not sucking dick for money—though he did think about sucking Laurent’s dick for free. Finally he brought it up with Misha during one of their pick-up hockey games.
Sometimes Max came along, but that time it was just Misha and Isaac. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing his Bruins jersey, Misha looked even more intimidating playing hockey than coaching it.
Isaac took his place in goal and let Misha fire pucks at him. Sometimes they switched it up, and Isaac tried out his prowess at being a forward—terrible—or playing defense—better—but he loved playing goalie even if Misha’s slapshot was terrifying.
“Did Coach Ashford know about the thing in Russia before you told me about it?”
The thing in Russia was Isaac’s nice way of asking if Max knew what Misha had done to get enough money to come to America. Namely that he had sex with men for money.
Isaac wondered how much Misha had charged, but the sun would explode before he’d ever ask that.
Misha hated talking about anything personal, and Isaac respected that and never brought up their shared experiences with the world’s oldest profession. But that question was important, and the rule for Wednesday hockey was that Isaac could ask whatever he wanted.
“No,” said Misha and sent a shot toward him that made Isaac drop to his knees and try to stop it with the edge of his skate. It almost worked, but not quite.
“Were you gonna tell him?” Isaac asked as he sent the puck back.
The look Misha was giving him spoke volumes to both the answer and his comfort level with the conversation. He muttered something in Russian and then said, “What do you think?”
“The scowl you’re giving me says no.” He moved easily and caught Misha’s next shot in his glove. “Are you glad he knows, though?”
Misha considered that and idly bounced the puck on his stick as he did so. “That is hard to say. I don’t regret telling him.”
He said that so carefully that Isaac snorted. “But do you wish he didn’t have to know? I’m not gonna, like, think you mean that you wish you hadn’t told me or anything,” Isaac assured him.
“I am glad to know that he doesn’t think less of me. But I am not like Max, who could not keep this secret inside if it were his. It would eat away at him.”
“But not you?”
“No.” Misha’s smile was cold and flat. “I am used to having secrets.”
“You just sounded like a Bond villain,” Isaac said. “I know Max thinks that’s hot, but dude.”
“Your tastes are more Bond boys than Bond villains. Yes?”
Isaac laughed out loud. “Yup. Damn. I wish that was a thing.”
“You want to tell St. Savoy about Columbia?”
Damn it. Mi
sha scored a goal as Isaac tried to stop the puck and realized that his coach knew he and Laurent were a thing. “So you figured that out.”
“You are as subtle as Max,” Misha said.
Isaac scowled. “We’ve been careful.”
“He’s been tolerable.” Misha flashed a grin at him. “It was either that or you got him hooked on drugs.”
Misha didn’t smile all that often, and Isaac only saw him grin very rarely. It made him look like a different person, and younger and less severe than usual.
Like Laurent.
“Yeah. I want to tell him about Columbia.” Isaac paused. “And is it a problem? About me and him.”
“You’re not talking to your coach,” Misha reminded him. “If you were, he would have told you that was a soft goal you just let in.”
“My coach is such an asshole.” Isaac repositioned himself, and caught Misha’s next shot with a flashy glove save. He slammed it on the ice in a moment of celebratory enthusiasm.
“Stop showing off, or I’ll make you do laps.”
“What happened to ‘you’re not talking to your coach’?”
“You’re being cocky,” said Misha, a smile in his voice. “And I think that you should tell him.”
“Why? Because he should know? Or because I can’t keep my secrets buried like you?”
“Well, the second one. Yes. But that is good, Isaac. It is not good to carry around things like I did.” He sighed. “Or so Max tells me every day. But you and I, we have… a similar story. Yes. But you’re not….”
Not what? Russian? Expensive? Isaac waited, curious.
“You’re not ashamed,” Misha said finally. “I was.”
That was probably true. Isaac wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done. He just didn’t want it to fuck up anything for his team or his coaches. His fears last season when Creepy Jeff came skulking around weren’t about him as much as what it might do to everyone else if his past were exposed in all its cheap-handjob and moderately-priced-blowjob glory.
