She lurches slightly, and my cock twitches as her throat constricts, then relaxes a bit. Jesus, that sends shivers up my spine.
“One day I’m going to watch my entire length slide deep into your throat,” I say. “Until then, I’m perfectly happy to make you slobber and gag as you learn to take me.”
I push down a little more to make her gag again before I ease her back. “Suck,” I tell her as I pump her head up and down my shaft a few times.
Her mouth feels like heaven, and I’ve been riding the edge all night. I’m not going to last very long.
She hums around my dick and the vibrations make my balls tighten. I push her head back down and make her gag one last time, then I settle her mouth into a steady rhythm up and down my cock. Fuck. I need to pull out, or I’m going to spill my seed down her throat, and that won’t fucking do. Another time.
Tonight, I want to come in her pussy.
Using my hold on her hair, I pull Sasha’s head backwards. She gasps and looks up at me. My gaze feels molten as I lean in and lay a hard kiss on her mouth. “So much more of you still to ravage.”
I drag her up by her hair, and I don’t miss that she’s shaking. But every time she shoots me a quick look, it’s accompanied by a secret smile, too.
We’re both enjoying this.
“Hands and knees,” I tell her with a growl as she tries to flop out on the bed.
She gives me a hard, pouty glare as she rolls onto all fours, then starts crawling away from me.
Grabbing her ankle, I lean forward and wrap my other hand around her waist, then yank her back. I bite the fleshy part of her still pink ass.
She sucks in a sharp breath, and that sound sends blood straight to my already sensitive, on-the-edge-of-exploding cock.
I trace the mark with my tongue, then nip my way up her back until I reach her shoulder, giving it a slightly harder bite. “Behave,” I warn her, not meaning it at all. We’ll both enjoy it if she doesn’t.
Releasing my hold around her belly, I move to grab Sasha’s wrists. She twists and scratches at me, shoving her way free.
She doesn’t get far. We wrestle until I’ve got her back where I want her, then I bring her arms roughly behind her back, trapping them easily in one hand while I use the other to free my belt.
She tests the strength of my hold, but sags when she realizes I’m not letting go.
“What are your safewords?” I ask as I secure her wrists with the leather.
She twists her head to look at me. “Red and yellow.”
“And do you wish to use one right now?”
I get a smirk for that. “Hell no.”
Good. Pushing her down, I kneel between her legs, and use my knees to spread her wide, then trap her ankles under my own.
“You’re awfully wet,” I trail my finger through her sopping pussy and slide it up and slowly circle her tiny puckered hole. “Maybe I should stake my claim here tonight.” I circle again, and press my fingertip gently against the centre and she tightens up. It’s tempting. But I’m not in the mood for gentle, and that’s the only way I’m taking her there.
At least the first time.
Grabbing a handful of her hip, I squeeze. I want my marks all over her. I grab a condom from my pocket and quickly cover up, then I position myself at her entrance.
She bucks hard.
Game on.
I reach down for the belt secured around her wrists and use it for leverage as I slam home.
She’s tight and hot, and the sounds she makes as I bottom out are better than any drug I can imagine.
I roll my hips and my balls slap against her even as they draw tight.
I’m not going to last long. Not a problem as long as I get her there first. Flexing my thighs, I pulse my hips, driving into her again. My cock feels big and rude inside her, an intrusion. Invasion.
Speaking of which…I rub my thumb over the clenching knot of her asshole, and she bucks beneath me.
“Nowhere to go, Sasha…”
She cries out as I press against the sensitive flesh, alternating with the driving thrusts of my cock inside her pussy.
“How do you want to come?” I ask her, my voice guttural and desperate. I want to spill myself inside her. Mark her from the inside out. “With my cock in your pussy? Or back here?”
“Ah…”
Fu-uuuck. As an out-of-control tremble takes over her entire body, I push in, fucking her ass with my thumb. Her pussy clenches down on my cock, and my control vanishes.
I tumble forward, shoving her into the mattress as I pound my hips against her, charging after my own release as she comes apart.
White spots light up the corners of my darkened vision, and I brace myself up on one arm. Jesus, my thighs are cramping up. Fucking worth it.
I deal with the condom, then release her arms, rubbing them all the way up to her shoulders. She rolls onto her back as I stretch out beside her.
“That was…” She laughs weakly and throws her arms above her head as she gives me a pleasure-filled smile. “What the hell was that?”
“A lot of fun.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to do it again?”
“Yes.” She laughs under her breath, and I haul her close. She kisses me, then runs her fingertips over my collarbone. “We’re both probably covered in scratches and bruises. You might get some looks in the shower tomorrow.”
“I’ll find a private stall.”
She gives me a thoughtful look. “I may have overreacted about people knowing about us.”
I don’t care about that. I do care about the wall I can’t seem to get over, that guards all her secrets. But that’s a battle for another time. I haven’t earned her secrets yet.
We’ll get there, though. I push against her, pressing her into the mattress again, and she makes a happy little sound. We’ll get there. We have to.
She’s too perfect for me. I’ll do whatever it takes to hold on tight.
23
Sasha
Sunday is a game day, so Tate heads to Madison Square Gardens early for their morning skate. He comes back to the hotel for lunch and a nap before leaving again at three. The last time I dated an athlete, we lived in the same city and he didn’t want me in his space on game days.
There are a lot of things that are different about Tate. The way his face lights up when he sees me after being away for a few hours.
I consider going to watch the game in person, because I know he’d like that, but there are some—a lot—of things I need to sort out before I can take that step. So I stay in his room, instead, and get work done right up until the moment the game begins.
Once it does, I’m glad I decided to stay behind instead of going to Madison Square Gardens. It’s an epic disaster almost from the beginning and I have a hard enough time watching—cringing—in private, I can’t imagine what it would have been like if I were there.
Over and over, I’m tempted to turn it off because it tears me up inside to see things going badly for Tate and his team. And every time I reach for the remote, I stop myself because it would be like turning my back on him when things are rough. And that’s not me. What is me, is that little glimmer of optimism. That there’s still time for them to pull it together.
Until there isn’t.
When the final horn blows, the Lumberjacks head off the ice, heads bowed. The final score is five to one. A loss is a loss, but at least they weren’t shut out. I don’t know why that matters to me, but it does, even though Tate wasn’t involved in that single goal.
I turn off the television. I don’t want to see them interview Tate. It’s going to be ugly. Everyone has high expectations of him, and I know he’s already beating himself up. I don’t need to watch the pile on.
More than that, I don’t want to watch it. I know for Tate, it’s part of the job to be accountable to the press and the public. But there’s a level of discomfort for me that goes beyond that of witnessing the equivalent of him screwing up
at the office. Between interviews and getting showered and dressed, it’s going to be well over an hour before Tate gets back, so I haul out my laptop to do some work.
Nearly two hours after the game ends, I hear male voices in the hall. Tate’s back. I close my laptop and put it away. Then I feel awkward. I’m not sure what to do with myself. If they’d won, I would have been naked, posing provocatively on the bed. That’s exactly the wrong thing in this instance, and I hate that I don’t know what to do.
The electronic lock clicks and Tate walks in. He looks miserable and my heart aches.
He shoots me a wan smile. “You’re still here.”
“I said I would be.”
“We lost. Badly,” he says as he shrugs out of his coat and lays it over a chair. His suit jacket follows.
I get up and go to him. “I know, and I’m sorry.” Grabbing his hand, I lead him back to the bed and he sits on the edge. “Do you want something to drink? A beer?”
He shakes his head as he toes off his shoes. “No. Thanks.”
I lie on the bed, and moments later, he joins me, pulling me into his side. I rest my head on his chest and let us both just be.
“It was a total shit-show out there tonight. And I was the star of the disaster,” he says. There’s a sadness in his voice. Disappointment. And anger.
From my perspective, he’s overreacting, but that’s not what he wants to hear. At least I can remind him the rest of the team bears some responsibility, too. “You’ve all played better, there’s no denying that.”
“You watched. I was kind of hoping you hadn’t.”
“Of course I watched.” I stroke his arm as his heart thumps hard and fast against my ear. “I won’t lie. It was hard, and it’s possible I may have shouted at the TV a time or six and been tempted to turn it off. But I want to support you, and one of the ways I can do that is by watching you play—even when you’re not at your best.”
“I thought we were pulling it together. Even with our losses, I felt like we were gelling as a team. Tonight…I have no fucking idea what the fuck that was, but it wasn’t professional hockey. At least not from my point of view. I let everyone down. My team, my fans…myself. You.”
“I don’t know about the others, but you can cross me off that list.” He didn’t let me down, and I won’t be an excuse for him to get a few more hits in while he beats himself up.
“This team is counting on me for a run at the Cup.”
“You’ll need their help to get there.” If I can nudge him towards talking about the team not gelling, that’s probably more productive. I think. I’m no sports psychologist.
“I’m in a position of leadership.”
“Is this loss harder because they put an A on your jersey?”
“Maybe. Yeah, I think it is. Fuck.” His arms tighten around me. “Fucking hell, Sasha. I thought we were clicking. You know? And it turns out, maybe I don’t fucking know anything at all. Because that was a mess.”
“What can you do?”
He scrubs his hand over his face. “We’ll have a team meeting in the morning. Coach won’t pull any punches.”
“Good.”
“We’ll probably have a long practice, too. I’m sorry, that’s going to eat into our time.”
“I’ve got boat loads of work to do. That’s fine.” I play with the buttons on his shirt. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
“No.”
I swallow hard. “Do you want—”
“I want you.” Three little words, rough and real.
Straddling him, I unbutton his shirt and he sits up so I can tug it off. He reaches for the hem of my t-shirt and pulls it over my head, then buries his face in my cleavage. I kiss the top of his head and hold him close as he tastes my skin.
His hands are hard and insistent, his touch almost selfish. He gropes me, squeezing my breasts together so he can mouth them at the same time.
I slide my fingers through his hair and give myself to him. He sucks on my flesh, pulling my nipples deep into his mouth, and deep inside, a new and strange fire begins to burn.
We tumble, shoving clothes up and off and away. He’s still damp from his shower, his muscles bulging as he moves against me, and I give myself over to him fully. Pliant and ready to be whatever he needs.
Take it, I say with my body. Take me, however you want me.
It isn't like anything we've done before. This is raw and sweet and kind of scary. But I can't say no to him.
And as we move together, I realize, I don't want to. Not tonight. Not ever.
24
Tate
The atmosphere in the Devils’ visitors’ dressing room at practice the next day is almost funereal.
There’s none of the usual good-natured banter, only the occasional quiet exchange. Some players are sitting in the stalls, while others are on their feet taping their sticks.
My guts are roiling. It was hard to force down my breakfast. Last night, Sasha did an amazing job of reducing my stress, but this morning it has rolled back in on me, and now it’s time to face reality.
When Coach walks in, he immediately gets down to business, starting with a film review.
“We need to be first on the puck, and the only way that happens is keeping up the hustle. They’re going to do whatever they can to slow you down.” The red dot of his laser pointer dances across the screen. “Nilsson, that means your line needs to dig deeper and find that extra boost of power.” His gaze fixes on me for a moment and I give a slight nod. “We’re under a lot of pressure, here, boys. Transform that energy to your advantage, and use it to push back.”
When the film is done and the lights are back up full, Coach straightens to his full height and silently surveys the room, catching the eye of every player.
“This isn’t about a single game. This is about a season. This is about climbing the ranks until we claw our way into the play-offs. It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be long. Don’t let one shitty performance knock you off your game. Now I want to see a hard practice out there. I want you to push each other. I want you to watch each other. Study your teammates better than you study your opponents. It’s time to get inside each others’ heads. Tomorrow night’s name isn’t against New Jersey. It’s with your team mates. That’s the goal. Know what your partner is going to do before he does. Got it? Good. Get out there and show me what you can do.”
Practice is long and gruelling as we play through what feels like every possible scenario from every hockey game ever played. But it goes really well, Simec, Moore and I are tight and totally connected. Our defensive lines are rock solid, and Leclerc is on fire. Nothing is getting past him.
And when we get back to the dressing room, the atmosphere is closer to normal.
“Yo, Nilsson. We’re going out for pizza. You coming?”
“Are you crazy, Simec? Why would he come with us for pizza when beautiful friend from Ottawa is here?”
Fucking Andrushko.
Moore swivels to to face me. “Wait, what?”
“Nothing, just another fine example of Andrushko and his language barrier,” I say as I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text.
Tate: Just finished practice. Going out for pizza with a bunch of the guys, unless…
Sasha: GO! Have fun. I’ll see you when you get back and we can have a late dinner.
Slipping my phone back in my pocket, I look up to four pairs of eyes staring at me.
“What?” I ask. Like I don’t know.
“Well, are you coming with us, or going to hang out with your language barrier?”
I flip Moore the bird instead of answering him.
After we’re all dressed, five of us hit a pizza joint one street over from Prudential Center. Being close to the arena and known for good food, it’s been a regular stop for players for years.
We order a couple pitchers of beer and three large pizzas to get us started.
Moore makes a big deal about checking out my Instagram feed as we
wait for the food to arrive. “Okay, pretty boy, fess up. What’s the deal?” he asks.
“It’s exactly like I posted—a friend of mine from Ottawa is in town, and we’ve been hanging out. Simple as. Meanwhile…I’m awfully curious to know why Andrushko and Simec are here. Given the vast quantity of fuck-worthy women stored in Simec’s phone, I would think they’d be off getting some action.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Simec says. “We’ve got plenty of action planned for later. We just need to fuel up first.”
Andrushko’s face lights up as he grins. “We’re having split-roasted bunny with double stuffing tonight.”
“Double-stuffed and spit-roasted, you walking language barrier,” Simec says as he smacks the back of Andrushko’s head. “And you don’t say shit like that in a restaurant.”
He’s not wrong, but there isn’t anyone around us. And if I have kinky teammates, that’s good information to have. I lean in, careful to appear more interested in privacy than the group sex. “Threeway?”
Simec nods. “I’ve got a kinky hook-up here who likes to do hockey players in pairs. She’s a wild one.”
Landvic, apparently a horny little bastard, asks the next question, saving me from being nosy. “How so?”
Simec winks. “She likes to be watched while getting fucked. If it’s a stranger, all the better. If you wanted to walk in on us, she’d fucking love that.”
It’s nearly five when I get back to my hotel room. Sasha’s leaning back against the headboard, working on her laptop, which she sets aside as I shed my coat and jacket. “How was the pizza?”
I join her on the bed. “Tasty, as always.” I lean in to kiss her. “But nowhere near as tasty as you.”
“Flatterer. How did practice go?”
I grin. “Really well. I came out of it feeling pretty good. Like maybe we have a chance after all.”
“Of course you have a chance, You’re only a little more than a quarter the way through the season.”
I love that she’s developed an interest in hockey, but I don’t bother to tease her about it. I’ve got something else on my mind.
Mr. Hat Trick Page 14
