by Avon Gale
* * *
Tristan was waiting outside of his building when Sebastian roared up to the curb in a sexy-as-fuck Pontiac GTO. Tristan gaped at the picture Sebastian made behind the wheel, like some modern-day James Dean: black T-shirt, his raven hair slicked back, and dark shades in place over his eyes.
When Tristan stood there staring, Sebastian leaned across the seat and popped open the door. He smirked at Tristan’s undoubtedly stunned expression. “Are you coming?”
Tristan shook himself. “I hope so,” he said cheekily as he slid into the passenger seat. The interior was all black leather and gleaming wood accents. Tristan was tempted to run his hand across the immaculately clean dash but resisted the urge.
“This is gorgeous,” he said instead. “What year?”
“Sixty-five,” Sebastian answered as he pulled out into traffic.
Tristan buckled his seat belt. “Wow. How long have you had it?”
“Almost ten years. It was my gift to myself for my twenty-fifth birthday, after I landed my first job as an assistant professor.”
“Did you buy it like this or did you restore it?”
Sebastian didn’t answer for a moment as he maneuvered around some slower traffic. Once they were cruising again, he threw a quick glance at Tristan. “I restored it. Actually, my father and I did.” Sebastian gave a dry laugh. “He’s a mechanic, and he got me into two things—classic rock and classic cars. Things have been awkward ever since I came out, but at least we’ll always have that.”
Tristan couldn’t think of what to say for a moment. “Well, it’s beautiful,” he said eventually. And it was. Sleek and powerful, like the man who drove it. “I thought you were hot before, but damn, seeing you in this car...it makes me wish you could pull over somewhere so I could suck your dick.”
Sebastian made a startled noise, something between a laugh and a groan. “God, you have a mouth on you, huh? I should’ve known you’d be like this.”
Tristan laid a hand on his thigh and scratched his nails against the material of Sebastian’s dark jeans. “Do you mind?”
Sebastian looked at him again. “Oh, no. I know just what to do with a boy like you, Mr. Holt.”
“Not a boy,” Tristan protested, though it sounded weak even to his own ears. What did it say about him that hearing Sebastian refer to him that way made his blood thrum in his veins and his dick perk up? And the Mr. Holt only made it hotter.
Sebastian’s responding smile seemed knowing, and he patted Tristan’s hand before turning his attention back to the road.
Tristan realized he’d unconsciously tightened his fingers. He was gripping Sebastian’s thigh hard, not stroking lightly as he’d intended. He loosened his hold but didn’t pull away. The contact with Sebastian felt good, no matter how small.
“You can suck me off after lunch,” Sebastian said casually. “Except I want you to do it on my bed, nice and slow. If you think you deserve my come, you need to work for it.”
Tristan’s hand spasmed, his fingers digging into the meat of Sebastian’s thigh again. “Fuck. Maybe we should skip lunch.”
“No.” Sebastian’s tone was firm. “You can wait.”
Tristan groaned. He’d been waiting for weeks, and the night of the concert had only whetted his appetite. But he knew Sebastian was right—the anticipation would only make things better in the end.
“Yes, Professor,” Tristan said. This time he was the one to smile when Sebastian’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening.
Yeah, Sebastian liked that, the same way Tristan liked to hear Sebastian call him Mr. Holt. The teacher-student dynamic turned them both on, even though it wasn’t technically true anymore. They could pretend. It wasn’t anyone else’s business.
Grindhouse Killer Burgers fell somewhere between a fast-food joint and a sports bar. The atmosphere was loud but relaxed with a combination of sporting events and B movies playing on the scattered television screens. Nobody paid Sebastian and Tristan any particular attention as they found a table and set their number on the edge to wait for their food.
Tristan looked around, and then met Sebastian’s gaze. “Aren’t you worried we might run across someone from the school? I have to admit I was surprised you invited me out to lunch. I thought you’d only text me when you wanted to fuck.”
“I told you I wanted to see you again. I didn’t mean only for sex.” Sebastian paused. “Unless that’s what you want.”
Tristan opened his mouth to answer, but a server appeared to deliver their food.
“Do you need anything else?” he asked as he picked up their table number.
Tristan shot him a grateful smile. “No, thanks.”
Once the guy had moved away, Tristan nervously toyed with one of his fries. “I... I don’t only want sex. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I want that with you. A lot. But...this is good too.”
Sebastian nodded. “Good.” He picked up his burger, which dripped with gooey Swiss cheese and sautéed mushrooms.
And that was apparently that. No need for further discussion.
Tristan made quick work of his own food and tried to snag a sweet potato fry from Sebastian’s tray only to get his hand swatted.
“Ask me nicely,” Sebastian said.
Tristan swallowed.
Sebastian waited.
Tristan wet his mouth and watched Sebastian’s eyes darken. “Can I have a fry, Professor?”
“May I,” Sebastian corrected primly.
Tristan grinned. “May I have a fry, Professor?”
Sebastian smirked back. “No, but you may have me instead.”
Tristan stifled a groan and shifted in his seat. “Can we go now?” His voice sounded eager and a little breathless.
“I’m not done yet,” Sebastian said, and proceeded to finish his burger with a methodical slowness that drove Tristan crazy.
He waited, poised on the edge of his chair, and every torturous second felt longer than the last. Tristan couldn’t say if he loved it or hated it.
Then, before all the sweet potato fries were gone, Sebastian shoved a few in Tristan’s direction.
He loved it, Tristan decided, as he bit into a fry. He loved every single moment of the torment.
“I’m glad you came to the concert,” he told Sebastian without thinking.
Sebastian’s gaze shifted away briefly. When he looked back at Tristan, his smile was wry but genuine. “Me too.”
Chapter Eleven
A few days later, Sebastian sat back on the comfortable couch in Tristan’s apartment, shaking his head and holding up a hand as Tristan tried to offer him the last pot sticker. They’d ordered Thai, and while Sebastian was a runner and had what he considered a fairly healthy appetite, there was no way he could keep up with Tristan. And this was Tristan before the hockey season had started. He must eat like a horse to keep that physique of his when he was playing several games a week.
Thinking about hockey made Sebastian study the apartment as Tristan cheerfully finished off the pot stickers. It was a nice place, definitely new, with an updated kitchen full of modern appliances (the most used of which, Tristan told him with a laugh, was his Vitamix blender) and stylish furniture. Nothing flashy, which fit with what Sebastian knew of Tristan’s sensibilities, and while it was tidy, it was obvious someone lived here. Tristan had smiled when they’d first walked in with dinner, and Sebastian had seen the small neat pile of textbooks next to Tristan’s bookshelf, his sociology book on top.
“You don’t keep this one next to your bed?” Sebastian had teased, lifting the book up.
“I doodled your name in the cover,” Tristan had joked, grinning.
“With little hearts around it?”
“Nah.” Tristan had winked. “Dicks. Not little, though.”
Sebastian had laughed and they’d sat down to eat dinner on the sec
tional sofa in the living room. Once they’d finished, Sebastian carried the remains of their meal into the kitchen, stacking the leftover boxes in the fridge and throwing away the empty containers.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Tristan said, appearing in the kitchen behind him. “I invited you over, you know.”
“It’s not a problem.” Sebastian gently pushed Tristan up against the counter and leaned in, kissing him softly on the mouth. More of a tease than a kiss, really. He was enjoying the low burn of arousal, and happy that they didn’t have to keep their hands off each other. Now that they didn’t, though, Sebastian was going to enjoy making Tristan so hot for it he couldn’t control himself.
Revenge for those sweatpants.
Tristan wasn’t wearing them at the moment. He was wearing jeans and a nice shirt, as if they were going out instead of picking up takeout. Sebastian would have been fine with going out, but he knew exactly why Tristan wanted to be as close to a bed as possible. He wanted that too. Though the sectional would absolutely work if they didn’t have the inclination to make it to the bed. Sebastian had made sure to bring a few necessities in his messenger bag, just in case that happened.
Tristan was kissing him with obvious eagerness, his hands settling on Sebastian’s hips so he could curl his fingers into Sebastian’s belt and tug him closer. Sebastian allowed it, deepened the kiss, and thought about fucking Tristan over the table they hadn’t used, and then pulled away with a brief nip on Tristan’s lower lip.
Tristan looked dazed—which was flattering—and annoyed at Sebastian for stopping, which caused Sebastian to grin evilly at him. “In a hurry, Tristan?”
“Yeah, actually,” Tristan said, so honestly that it made Sebastian chuckle.
“We waited this long. We can wait a little longer.”
“Yeah, but why—”
Sebastian reached out and put two fingers against Tristan’s mouth. “Shh. Let’s not pretend you don’t like it when I make the rules.”
Tristan blinked at him, then smiled a little and maneuvered Sebastian’s fingers into his mouth. He sucked on them, and it went straight to Sebastian’s dick and threatened his self-control, making the table plan look better and better with each passing second. He pulled his fingers free and dragged them wetly down the side of Tristan’s face, then tapped lightly. “Be patient, Mr. Holt.”
Tristan sucked in a quick breath at the light tap, and his eyes flared hot—it gave Sebastian ideas, and made him wonder how into dominance play Tristan really was. He looked forward to finding out, but if he didn’t stop thinking about it, he was going to lose it and shove Tristan to his knees right then and there. And that was not the plan. Not tonight anyway.
“Mmm. No promises, Professor,” Tristan said, and then went around him to get a couple of beers out of the fridge. They were good beers too, with actual hops and an alcohol content. “I gotta enjoy these before training camp starts. After that, it’s Miller Lite or Mich Ultra.” He made a face. “So, you know. Basically water. Although I did read in Martin Brodeur’s book that light beer was a perfect replenishing drink for an athlete. Like, it was the best mix of carbs and water and way better than Gatorade.” Tristan laughed. “Maybe I can convince Coach to let us put that in our water bottles.”
“I think I’d rather have water,” Sebastian said, as they walked back into the living room. He took a moment to study the décor, which was, predictably, all centered on hockey (with one or two concert posters thrown in for variety). Tristan had what appeared to be a hockey puck in a shadow box (“My first NHL game,” he explained to Sebastian), a framed jersey from the University of Wisconsin, and a few other pieces of memorabilia.
“You know, I feel ridiculous telling you this, but I’ve never watched a game of hockey in my whole life,” said Sebastian. He sat back on the couch, and Tristan settled right next to him. He liked that Tristan wasn’t shy about being close, and in fact, seemed to relish that they could sit so close. “I understand the basic premise, but as for the intricacies of gameplay itself... I’m lost.”
“Hey, well, lucky for you, you know a guy who can explain it.” Tristan picked up the remote off the coffee table and switched on the television. It was absurdly large, which reminded Sebastian for a moment how young Tristan was. Though, honestly, if he’d come into a lot of money at Tristan’s age, he probably would have spent it on something similar. Maybe not a television, but he might have gotten his GTO a lot sooner than he had.
Tristan turned on the NHL Network. “Something tells me you don’t have this channel.”
“You’re stereotyping,” Sebastian said, teasing, but he kept his face impassive so it didn’t show.
Tristan rolled his eyes. “You just said you didn’t know anything about hockey! I figured if you had it, and you wanted to know about it, you’d watch that.”
“Yeah. This is my long con to figure out a sporting event. I learned how to fix up my GTO by dating a mechanic too,” he joked. “It’s so much easier than using Google.”
Tristan snorted. “Your sense of humor reminds me of our goalie. All right, here we—Haha, oh, wow. This is a coincidence.” He gestured toward the game. “That’s the playoff series that my team ended up losing.” He pointed with the beer bottle to the television. “I’m number fifty-seven.” He cleared his throat. “In the green and gold.”
Sebastian bumped him with his shoulder. “I know that much.”
“Okay, so, this is hockey.” Tristan winced. “Ugh, I can’t believe Morley let that guy through the zone. Anyway, so, my job is a defenseman. That means I try to keep the puck in the offensive zone—that’s this end of the ice, where the opposing team’s goalie is—so our offense can score. And, I mean, sometimes I score goals.”
Tristan’s tone reminded Sebastian of TAs from grad school, who were just getting that distinctive “lecture” voice. According to his family and friends, Sebastian had been gifted with that voice soon after he’d learned how to talk. It was endearing to sit and listen to Tristan explain the game to him, because he had as much passion for hockey as Sebastian had for sociology.
Tristan was a good teacher, and he was able to break down the fast-moving game into parts and explain to Sebastian how they functioned as a whole. It reminded him, strangely enough, of his father telling him about engines and how all the separate pieces worked together to make the car run.
“Wait, why did everyone stop playing right there?” Sebastian asked, leaning forward. He liked the fast pace of the game, and the sheer athleticism it must take impressed him. It definitely explained why Tristan worked out so much and could eat so many pot stickers, even before the season started.
“That was icing,” Tristan explained. “Basically, you can’t whack the puck down the ice like that, where it crosses the center line—” he paused the game and pointed to a red line on the rink “—and the goal line, here, without someone touching it. It’s so you don’t put a guy down next to the opposing team’s goalie and shoot the puck down the ice all day so the guy can score goals uncontested.”
“Ah.” Sebastian nodded. “So it’s like soccer, where you try to not score any goals and thereby excite the audience?”
“The crowd, Sebastian,” Tristan said with a sharp grin. “‘The audience.’” He shook his head and went back to the game. “Okay, so, see, there’s me keeping that guy from getting the puck out of our offensive zone and back into his. And there’s Morley fucking up and letting him clear the puck on the power play.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t do that,” Sebastian interrupted.
“Well, you can when it’s a power play. That’s because your team is down a man, so you’re allowed. But that means the face-off comes back to your defensive zone...am I losing you?”
“No, I think it makes sense.” Sebastian watched a little more. “I missed whatever the guy did to be...not on the ice. In the penalty box?”
“Right. Uh, I don’t know, let’s see.” Tristan rewound the game to right after he’d initially paused it to explain icing. “Oh, a trip. Ugh, the fucking Marauders. They’re such assholes.”
“You spend a lot of time on the ice,” Sebastian pointed out as they watched a little more. “More than the...forwards?”
“Yup. And yeah, defensemen usually do. We don’t get all the glory of, say, Sidney Crosby but, you know. We do our part.” He sounded proud, and he should. Sebastian couldn’t imagine the skill it took to get to this level, with so many other guys out there trying for a spot.
They watched an entire period with Tristan patiently explaining the mechanics and Sebastian asking a few questions, and by the time they put the game back on “live” mode, it was getting ready to start the third period.
“So, we win this one.” Tristan set the remote on the table. “Which is good. I wouldn’t want to show you a game where I sucked.”
Sebastian smiled and said nothing.
“So, how about this,” Tristan said, voice suddenly heated, a playful glimmer in his blue eyes. “I’ve given you the lesson, and now it’s time for the quiz.”
“Oh, is that so?” Sebastian liked where this was going, especially because Tristan’s hand was on his knee and moving slowly up his thigh. “Are you a hard grader, Professor Holt?”
Tristan snorted. “Not as hard as you are. A ninety-four? Really?”
“I told you,” Sebastian said, “You didn’t format those footnotes correctly. And there was a part in the middle of your paper that could definitely have been a tighter argument.”
Tristan groaned and fell back on the couch. “Why did I ask?”
Sebastian gave him a wicked grin. “You earned the second-highest grade in my class, Mr. Holt. Don’t complain.”
“Second highest?” Tristan made a face. He didn’t look like he was kidding, either. “Who got the first?”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow at him. “This is really what you want to do right now?” He took Tristan’s hand and moved it a little higher on his thigh, and nodded at the game. “I’m getting incredibly turned on watching you defend the puck. And you want to talk about grades?”