Absolving Ash

by Chantal Mer

  Holy fuck.

  His tongue is lapping my stomach and chest clean. My heart is banging the inside of my chest with the ferocity of a herd of thundering defensemen racing for the puck. Every hair on my body feels like an electrical shock. My legs drop. Isaiah plants a kiss on my chest and pulls out.

  He sucked the last of my orgasm while still balls-deep in me.

  That’s a fucking athlete for you.

  The toilet flushes. A minute later, a warm cloth is wiping down my front, and cleaning my ass.

  “Get up, big man.” He tosses the washcloth to the floor and pulls at the comforter.

  Too weak from whatever the hell we just did, I roll to my side. Because that was not sex.

  That was a religious experience.

  I saw Jesus, Buddha, the Great Profit, and Moses at the same time. All of them smiling and giving me a thumbs up. “I should go.”

  “We’re not past this yet?” He sounds frustrated, and a bit disappointed.

  I look over my shoulder. Isaiah is standing, legs shoulder-width apart, hands on hips, buck naked.

  I sigh. “You really are too beautiful.”

  His stony stare relaxes. “Stay.”

  I push myself to sit, keeping my back to him because if I look at him, I might grant him anything he asks, whether or not it’s in his best interest or mine. “Is that really a good idea, Isaiah?”

  Behind me, the mattress sinks, and I feel him inching closer. The stubble of his chin scratches my shoulder. The tip of his tongue traces the shell of my ear. “The only idea I’ve had that was better was bidding on you.” A nibble where the base of my neck and shoulder meet. “Plus, I told you you’d have a chance to taste me.”

  My greedy dick likes what he has to say. Apparently, the fact that it just came doesn’t matter to the gluttonous member.

  Arms surround me from behind, and fingers trace figure eights through the hair on my chest. “I love all this hair. Please stay.”

  I want to be strong.

  Want to put some distance between us, so I can think this through rationally. Not filled with emotion because the man I took out not only forgave me but held me while I came undone.

  And then took me to a realm I didn’t know existed.

  But with his chest pressed to my back, his lips causing goosebumps, and his fingers petting me, I’m weak, powerless, and vulnerable. The last has me worried the most, but when he tweaks a nipple, I can’t seem to care.

  “Fine, I’ll stay.” It comes out gruff like I’m being forced to do something against my will, but spending the night in the arms of this man is the only thing I’ve really wanted since the death of my sister.

  Bringing her back was an impossible wish, but a night tangled with Isaiah is a dream I dared not dream.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Isaiah

  The glint of sun peeking through the finite part of the curtains is enough to wake me. My limbs are heavy with fatigue, like after a good workout. Being awakened in the middle of the night by the scruff of Ash’s beard between my legs, his tongue twirling over my balls before he ravished my cock, is totally worth the exhaustion I feel right now. Thoughts of returning Ash’s mid-night play has my morning wood more like morning concrete.

  When I roll over to wake the man who has obliterated my world, I freeze mid-roll.

  The bed is empty.

  I touch the crumpled sheets.

  Cold.

  Punching the pillow where the big dumbass’s head should still be sleepily resting, I let out a frustrated growl.

  Throwing off the sheets, I stalk to the dresser, yanking out sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “Un-fucking-believable.” I grab socks and head for the bathroom.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. The guy was ready to bolt after the most amazing sex of my damn life.

  No, not amazing. Amazing isn’t strong enough to describe what we had. We had fireworks on the Fourth of July, New Year’s Eve in Times Square, the Stanley Cup. We had a fucking connection.

  Of course, he’d run out of here faster than a puck fired by the hardest shot in the league.

  “Grinder,” I call as I stomp down the hallway. I’ll take him for a walk, then go for a long run. If I don’t burn off some of my rage, I’ll hunt down one hairy ex-hockey player and punch him in the effing nose. “Grinder,” I yell.

  Lazy dog. Probably didn’t even move when Ash and his little rat sneaked out this morning. “Grinder, come.” I smack my thigh, but still nothing. “Grinder…”

  The front door creaks, and I spin around to find Grinder sauntering in, followed by a yipping Cila in her red coat.

  “Cila, hush. You’ll wake—” Ash halts just inside the door, a box from the Doughnut Vault in one hand and the dogs’ leashes in the other. “What’s the matter?”

  “What?”

  He didn’t leave.

  He steps inside and kicks the door shut with the heel of his foot. I take the box he hands to me, the scent of fresh donuts reaching out to my stomach, which chooses that moment to rumble like an early morning trash truck.

  Bending to release the leashes from the dogs, he gestures to my face. “Is everything okay? You look like you just got terrible news.” Hanging the leashes on the hook, he calls Grinder over and wipes his face with the jowl towel. “Family good?”

  “Yeah. I just…” Was freaking out because I thought you ran and was planning on how I was going to beat the shit out of you. “You got donuts.”

  “I did.” He squints and throws Grinder’s towel back in the basket. “I’m hoping you have coffee because I didn’t think I could manage the donuts, two coffees, and the dogs.”

  I’m staring, I know. But he’s here.

  He’s hanging his coat next to mine.

  He’s slipping off his shoes.

  He’s heading to the kitchen.

  Stunned, I follow with the donuts.

  He’s here.

  Washing his hands, he says, “I didn’t know what you liked so I got salted caramel, triple chocolate, lemon poppy seed, buttermilk, red velvet cake, whiskey caramel pecan, pineapple, and honey bun cake.”

  I set the box down and place the K-Cup in the Keurig before pressing the button. “They all sound delicious.”

  Drying his hands, he watches me. “If you want me to leave, Isaiah, just say so.” He folds and hangs the hand towel. “I understand if last night doesn’t seem like such a great idea in the light of day.” He gives me a small, sad smile. “Just let me snag one of the salted caramels before I go.”

  “No!”

  He snatches his hand back like the box of donuts just attacked. And I start laughing. Not just laughing but the kind of laughter that sounds slightly unhinged. Relief that he’s here. With me. And brought donuts. It’s overwhelming, and I can’t stop.

  Bending at my waist, I hold my stomach, trying to catch my breath. Ash watches, a confused look on his rugged face. I hold my hand up, signaling for him to hold tight until my moment of insane laughter passes.

  Taking big gulps of air, I put my hands on my knees and push myself up. “I’m sorry.” I wipe my eyes, little chuckles escaping while I try to explain my unusual behavior. “I’m sorry. It’s just.” I don’t want to tell him I thought the worst. “I thought—”

  “You thought I left.” His tone is soft and understanding. He opens the box. “So, I can have a salted caramel?” He doesn’t wait for my response, just shoves three-fourths of the donut in his mouth, chewing around his smile.

  I grab the other salted caramel and take a bite—ugh, these things are like little pieces deep-fried and glazed heaven—before sliding the mug to him and popping another K-Cup into the machine. “Thanks for taking Grinder out.”

  Ash pulls out a stool and sits. “There was no choice. Cila wasn’t leaving without him, and he wasn’t letting her go without a fight.”

  “Really?” Grinder doesn’t do much more than sleep, eat, and slobber. He’s the sweetest dog around and doesn’t get bent out of shape about anything. C
riminals could break in, and he wouldn’t even bother to lift his head.

  Ash takes a triple chocolate and nods. “Stood in front of the door and wouldn’t move until I picked up his leash.”

  We both move our gazes to the corner, where Cila is curled up sleeping soundly on Grinder. And my big oaf of a dog is smiling.

  “I think they’re in love.” I pop the rest of the donut in my mouth and reach for my coffee cup.

  Ash is smiling, looking at his dog like she’s the love of his life, and it’s adorable.

  “Talk about an odd couple.” He reaches for another of the fried deliciousness, eyes still on the dogs. “We should probably talk about this.” He points between the two of us.

  I’m grinning like a fool because he’s still here. This is huge. Like, his being here the morning after means last night meant something to him.

  Maybe not what it means to me. Though, I’m not entirely sure what it all means to me yet.

  But it feels monumental. “What do you want to discuss?”

  His bouncing leg rubs against my knee. “I’m not one to do casual, though I’ve never really done serious.”

  “What does that mean?” My spine straightens and every muscle—but for my hammering heart—stiffens.

  “Means I’m monogamous, but when things start to get too serious, I end it.”

  My mouth drops. His honesty is brutal and is worse than when my dad walked away without saying a word when I came out to him and my mom.

  What do you say to that?

  So, I don’t say anything.

  He continues to chew, looking everywhere but at me. And then I realize…

  He’s laying the groundwork to bolt.

  My shoulders inch down, and I place my hand on his thigh. “Well, I like serious.” I squeeze. “Guess we’ll have some negotiating to do.”

  “How so?”

  My hand inches farther up his bulky thigh. Even though he doesn’t play or even skate anymore, he must work out like a fiend, because his thighs could crack a walnut. “When you think things are getting too serious, I won’t think they’re serious enough.”

  My hand creeps to the inner part of his leg, and I let my pinkie graze his balls. His cock jumps, and his lips tip north.

  “And?” The huskiness of his voice tells me he’s enjoying this a much as I am. Soon, I’ll need to get in the shower, and inviting Ash to join me seems like an excellent idea.

  “And you’ll want to run, but I’ll chase.”

  His dark brows raise, but he seems more intrigued than put off.

  “And once I catch you, I’ll have to persuade you to stay.”

  He shifts so he’s facing me, one leg between mine, running his hands up and down the outside of my sweat pants. “How will you do that?”

  I like playful Ash. He’s been so guarded, closed off. When he’s like this, I want to bottle it. I wonder if we’ll have more moments like this the longer we’re together. If last night released him of the burden he’s been carrying.

  I slide from my stool onto his leg, and he cups my ass. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I run my fingers through his hair, noting how much softer it is than the hair on his chest. Leaning closer, I place my lips to his ear and whisper, “Would you like me to show you?”

  His chest vibrates against mine as he digs his fingers into my ass and crushes his mouth to mine. The mixture of mint, coffee, and chocolate hit my tongue and will forever be an aphrodisiac for me. I tug at his hair, positioning his head the way I want it. The way I need it.

  The competitiveness between us hasn’t diminished in the decade since we played. We’re battling for domination, and it’s the hottest foreplay I’ve ever had.

  When he rips his mouth from mine, we’re both breathing like we’ve played three periods of fast-paced, hard-hitting hockey.

  “I have to go.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I don’t want to, but I have deliveries coming this morning.” He kisses me. “Can I see you later?”

  “I can come to the restaurant later.” Yes, I definitely like this Ash.

  The pad of his thumb brushes the side of my cheek.

  “No. If you’re at the restaurant, I won’t be able to focus. Can I meet you when I’m done?”

  That Ash would have a hard time focusing because I was present, has me jutting out my chest. That he finds me a distraction, tells me I’m not the only one who feels this intensity. “Come over.”

  “It’ll be late.” He says it like he’s giving me an out he doesn’t want me to take.

  I don’t take it. “I’ll be here. Bring Cila and your toothbrush.”

  Another kiss that leaves me breathless, and when he pushes away, it’s with harried reluctance. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a pent-up breath and looks at the clock on the microwave. “I have to go.”

  Gathering Cila—much to Grinder’s dissatisfaction—and his jacket, he stops on the stoop long enough to give me a toe-curling goodbye. “I’ll text you.”

  Grinder lets out a low ruff, sagging his big body against me as we watch Ash and Cila hurry down the sidewalk. I pat his head. “It’s okay, big boy, they’ll be back tonight.”

  His puppy dog eyes tell me he wants to believe me but doesn’t know if he can trust what I’m saying.

  “I feel you, dude.” I nudge him out of the doorway. “But if they don’t show, we’ll find them. I already warned him.”

  Grinder seems to accept this, but instead of going to his bed, he plops himself right in front of the door.

  I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years. “Looks like we both have it bad.”

  Three steps into the living room, and there’s a pounding on my door. Grinder jumps and woofs. My heart skips, and I hop to the entryway, fighting my small-horse-of-a-dog to create enough space to open the door.

  Swinging open the door, I’m immediately assaulted with the slaying expression of my father.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him.

  Stunned but used to my dad and his surliness, I follow him. “Morning, Dad.”

  He spins on me. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What the hell’s going on, Isaiah?”

  “I was getting ready to jump in the shower.” Not knowing what he’s talking about, and not in the mood for one of his lectures, I gesture to the kitchen. “Make yourself some coffee and help yourself to some donuts. I’ll be twenty minutes, and then we can review the punch list for the fundraiser.”

  “Isaiah Lamar Blake. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

  That stops me in my tracks. I turn to see my typically composed father, pacing the compact space of my living room. The sound of his freshly polished shoes clomping on the hardwood floors. His three-piece, pinstriped suit moves with him like if it didn’t, he’d rip it from his still-fit form and burn it on the spot. Salt-and-pepper hair, freshly clipped as it is every Tuesday. His glower fierce, rage pinging off of every part of his being.

  “You already have two strikes against you.” He speaks like we’re in the middle of a conversation. One I’ve had no part in. “You’re a gay Black man. And now.” He strikes me with his game face, and it’s just as scary as it was when I was six and broke his favorite hockey stick when I took it out to show the big kids I could play as well as my dad. “Now, you’re getting mixed up with HIM.”

  Shit. I may have forgiven Ash years ago, but my dad has not. And he’s been vocal about it. He’s never subscribed to my mom’s unwavering belief in forgiveness. Then again, my mom has faith enough for all of us. She even has faith that her beloved Reverend Willis will one day change his belief that I’m going to Hell because I lay with men.

  “Why would you give him the time of day? He’s an entitled asshole who doesn’t deserve to be in the same room as you.”

  As my dad fumes, I’m brought back to the few times in my life I’ve disappointed him.

  When I was seven and let some older boys on the bus have my lunch for an e
ntire week because I wouldn’t defend myself. My sophomore year in high school when I didn’t make the varsity hockey team. And finally admitting I was gay.

  I hate disappointing my dad. He’s been through so much, has had to work so hard to prove he’s worthy of playing. He and my mom tried to shelter my sisters and me from the ugliness, and the blatant—and not so blatant—racism to which they were subjected, while still keeping us aware enough to understand how the world works. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for them.

  So even at the age of thirty, I strive to make my dad proud. But hearing him call Ash an entitled asshole sets me off.

  “Ash isn’t entitled, and he isn’t an asshole,” I yell more than say.

  Dad halts, his scowl fueled by indignation and resentment. “Just because he’s a good lay doesn’t mean he’s not either of those.”

  Did I mention that my dad is not one to hide his feelings from his family? Probably because he’s always had to be so controlled and composed in public. We, however, get the unfiltered, uncensored version of Booker Blake.

  I toss up my hands. “Jesus, Dad.”

  “Don’t let Reverend Willis hear you.” Dad’s veneer of anger cracks with the lopsided twist of his mouth. Even pissed, he can’t help but bust on the good reverend.

  Acknowledging his joke, I nod and give him a strained smile. “Dad, I’ve told you, Ash was well within his right to be pissed.”

  His hands ball up, and he barks out his words. “He could have killed you.”

  “But he didn’t. In a way, he freed me.” My dad and I have never discussed my feelings about my injury, my non-profit, or my being gay, and my statement seems to surprise him. “I wasn’t happy.”

  His head jerks back like he just got a puck in the face. “What do you mean you weren’t happy? You were living the dream. Playing in the NHL. You were destined to be one of the greats.”

  And this is where my father’s hopes and dreams for me do not match reality.