Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

  “I like that you’re shaved,” Timothée whispered in Ryker’s ear.

  Ryker’s breath hitched in response. All his words were lying on the tip of his tongue, entrapped behind his teeth. I can’t even make a sentence. I’m doomed.

  He wriggled to free his arm but slipped so that his head rested on the wedge between the window and seat. The position wasn’t the most comfortable—not to mention being less than dignified—but he’d make no complaints. His hips jerking brought the realization that his pants and briefs were being yanked to his knees. His thick cock bounced out tall and proud. Before he could protest—not that it would have been in earnest—Timothée’s tongue flattened across Ryker’s crown and licked away the salty emission before teasing the sensitive flesh of the underside. Praise the Lord. Ryker’s fingers dug into the seat and Timothée’s shoulder as he struggled not to lose it. More precum seeped out, glistening the head with anticipation.

  “Delicious,” Timothée said with a smile and then blew a steady stream of cool air across Ryker’s fevered cockhead. “Salty and sweet. I could suck on this all day.”

  “Then do it. Don’t keep me waiting.” With his hand now free, he pushed at Timothée’s shirt. It slid to his elbows.

  “Patience is a virtue.” He trailed his tongue up Ryker’s thigh and along the dorsal vein.

  “Fuck patience,” Ryker uttered in ragged breaths while grinding upward, his pupils dilated.

  A feral chuckle rumbled from Timothée. He wrapped his mouth around the smoothness of rigid flesh, hollowed out his cheeks to create a tight suction, and sucked slowly but firmly. His beard scraped against Ryker’s skin, producing a delectable friction.

  Too far gone in lust, Ryker uttered a string of incoherent sounds and attempted to thrust. However, Timothée held him still and took him deeper with each pull from base to tip, never hesitating when it hit the back of his throat. Using lips, tongue, and teeth, he teased Ryker to the edge and back again. Ryker’s body trembled with need. Flares of heat streaked throughout him. Any doubts he had of Timothée’s sexual competence with men evaporated. The man definitely knew how to treat Ryker’s body. His raging hard-on was one of the hardest he’d ever experienced, and Timothée had done that. With every tongue flick, Ryker’s body sizzled with pleasure.

  “Timothée,” he panted, watching Timothée’s head bobbing on him. “Pull off.” He was close—too close. A roll of sweat trickled down his backbone, and his sack lifted and tightened. He pushed at Timothée’s broad shoulders, but he’d have better luck moving Mauna Kea. “Please don’t make me come yet.”

  “I’m going to milk you,” Timothée muttered around Ryker’s dick.

  “Oh God!” A shock of blinding white light exploded behind his eyes followed by a rainbow of color as he released into Timothée’s mouth. Tidal wave after tidal wave pummeled through him as long streams of his seed jetted out. For several minutes, Ryker wasn’t sure if he was swaying or having an out-of-body experience. Every pore tingled. When his vision cleared, he found Timothée grinning at him, his lips glistening with the remnants of Ryker’s load. “Well, now I’m embarrassed.”

  “Why? Watching and feeling you come was so sexy.”

  “I have much better staying power than that. I should be allowed to redeem myself.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  A warmth spread through Ryker’s chest at the possibility that being with Timothée may not be a onetime deal. “How about I take care of you now?”

  “But I’m not done with you.”

  The declaration both excited and terrified Ryker. Shameless. And the way Timothée’s fingers inched toward his ass, he knew he was in for a treat. However, in the shower, he’d seen Timothée was gifted with a monster. But who knew his girth size when fully erect? As much as Ryker wanted Timothée inside him, it wasn’t without a twinge of fear.

  12

  Timothée

  When Timothée rolled out of the hotel bed this morning after a mostly sleepless night, he hadn’t anticipated his day would go anything like this. His plans had been limited to going to practice and discussing extending his stay with the hotel manager, although he knew he was chickenshit for not wanting to return home. He’d purchased his estate to be away from people, and now he was holed up in an exclusive suite in a place buzzing with people. He’d convinced himself his choice was due to the continued renovations to his home, but he knew that to be a lie. He hated the place. He hated the place when he purchased it. No amount of remodeling would make him not hate it. However, he’d been subconsciously drawn to it. It had reminded him of Belle Lagé, his family home.

  And speaking of Belle Lagé, Mace had informed him that he could arrange Timothée’s admission into the home with a police escort to protect the crime scene but had advised against it until the police had processed everything. Timothée hadn’t argued. He’d no desire to visit when his mother was living, and now that she was dead….

  In a lot of ways, he still couldn’t believe she was gone. But that was beside the point. There was no way he’d be able to go into that home, just like there had been no way he could make the funeral arrangements had it not been for Ryker—the man he had sprawled across the seat on full display with a satiated look splayed across his face and a gorgeous half-flaccid dick resting against his thigh.

  He’d questioned allowing Ryker to sub-manage/co-manage… what was it he was doing? Whatever. Timothée was uncertain about it. Now he’d added another element to an already confused situation. He might later regret it, but looking at him, Timothée had no doubt he was making a right move for the first time in a long time. He couldn’t explain it, but things felt different with Ryker. The agent understood him in a way no one else did, except for maybe Aidan. But Aidan was equally as closed-off as Timothée; therefore, he and Aidan basically canceled each other out. On the contrary, Ryker wasn’t afraid to open up and shoot from the hip.

  Timothée watched as Ryker’s panting slowed and his breathing returned to normal. Timothée liked it when his lovers lost control, and he especially enjoyed seeing it in Ryker—someone he’d read as being balanced in both taking and giving orders. It was a quality that made him a good agent and a delectable plaything. And oh, did Timothée intend to play with him. Plus, his age was perfect—experienced enough to have been jilted but not bitter.

  “Not done?” Ryker questioned, his eyes glinting with keenness.

  “Not by a long shot.” He leaned forward and embraced Ryker in a languid kiss, soft and sensual, before stripping him completely.

  “Do you like tasting yourself?” Timothée asked.

  “On you, yes.”

  Ryker moved to raise himself, but Timothée shook his head. Instead, he positioned Ryker with one heel on the back dash and the other foot on the floor. Shrugging out of his shirt, Timothée maneuvered between Ryker’s spread thighs. With his thumb, Timothée traced Ryker’s bottom lip and pressed downward. Ryker got the message and parted his lips, allowing Timothée’s index finger to slip inside. Ryker sucked it as he would a pacifier. After a few moments, Timothée withdrew his finger and teased Ryker’s hole.

  “Do it,” Ryker huffed.

  Timothée’s lips curled back to display a wicked grin. “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  “Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

  “Oh, you dom. You’re not going to leave me with any dignity, are you?”

  “Well,” Timothée replied, swirling the tip of his finger around Ryker’s rim, “you can maintain all your pride, or you can tell me what you want. Your choice.”

  “Push it in.”

  Timothée allowed the pad of his finger to press against the opening but stopped there.

  Ryker growled in frustration, his erection reemerging. “Are you really doing this?”

  “Say it.”

  “Fingerfuck me.”

  “Now, was that so difficult?” Timothée purred into Ryker’s ear. He slid his slick finger in enough to breach the
opening and then withdrew it. “But you need to be more polite.” He reinserted his finger, this time to the knuckle, before pulling out.

  Ryker pushed forward to follow the finger, but it slipped out anyway. “Okay, please. Please fuck me, Timothée. Fuck me however you want. Just please do it already.”

  “So impatient.” He pushed his finger in to the joint and rotated.

  “More,” Ryker moaned. “Please give me more.”

  Timothée added a second finger and scissored them, stretching the sports agent in preparation. However, Ryker’s whimpering teetered him on the brink of imploding, and Timothée questioned if Ryker would last long enough to penetrate. Yet he continued moving his fingers until the muscles relaxed completely.

  “You’re ready,” Timothée said, withdrawing his fingers and unzipping his pants. He took no time retrieving a condom and a pack of lubricant from his wallet.

  “Allow me.” Ryker plucked the condom from Timothée’s hand, tore open the foil with his teeth, and rolled the latex down Timothée’s length.

  Timothée bit back a scream as the rubber rolled over his crown, which was so engorged it was nearly purple.

  Ryker’s mouth gaped in an O when he saw the condom didn’t reach the base, and a look of concern bunched in his eyes. “I don’t know if all that is going to fit inside me. It’s three times bigger than… Tim….”

  “It’ll fit. Relax.” Timothée squeezed a dollop of lubricant between Ryker’s cheeks and massaged it in. He then coated his sheathed cock and steadied the tip at Ryker’s entrance.

  Ryker gulped.

  “Breathe,” Timothée instructed as he spread Ryker’s ass and watched his cock push in.

  Ryker groaned and tensed as the cockhead breached the opening. “Oh, that burns.”

  “Want me to stop?” Timothée asked.

  “No. Keep going, just slow.”

  Timothée continued gliding in until he filled Ryker to the hilt. Like velvet. He paused for a moment, staring into Ryker’s eyes, and then thrust hard. More pleasure surged through his body.

  “Yes,” Ryker cried, his inner muscles clenching tighter. His coos rushed out in starts and stops.

  Partition be damned, Timothée was certain the driver had heard that. It was the music he wanted to hear, and he repeated the motion again and again. But he needed more. Gripping Ryker’s shoulders, he increased his pace, rolling his hips and grinding deep. He sank as far as he could, his balls slapping against Ryker with each thrust.

  Normally, Timothée concerned himself negligibly about his partner’s needs. Most were men who wanted to get their rocks off as quick as possible—hit it and quit it. They had no intention or desire of sticking around for the long haul—or even for the night—and Timothée hadn’t wanted it, either. However, he could envision Ryker staying around for a while—well, if that was something that interested Ryker. Ol’ boy may still be rebounding. A three-year relationship was nothing to sneeze at. At least it proved he was no commitment-phobe. Then again, that could present other issues. But at the moment, the pressing matter on Timothée’s agenda was gratifying Ryker.

  Timothée ran his right hand up Ryker’s chest and rolled his nipple between his thumb and index. Instantly, Ryker’s cock re-hardened, and he began pumping himself as Timothée pounded him mercilessly. With each stroke, Timothée tottered closer to the edge and triggered him to thrust faster. He’d reveled in Ryker losing control, but Timothée had no control. His hips humped with an animalistic fury.

  “Timothée,” Ryker rasped, his head thrashing from side to side. “Timothée, oh.”

  “That’s it. Look at me. I want to watch you come.”

  Ryker’s ass clenched tight, gripping Timothée like a vise. He released a garbled moan as ribbons of semen gushed out of him, splattering both of their torsos and pooling in Ryker’s navel.

  Seconds later, Timothée’s body convulsed as his own orgasm shot through his loins with hurricane force. Ecstasy starting at his core mushroomed to every crevasse of his being. His head rolled back on his shoulders and then slumped forward. He collapsed onto Ryker, who wrapped his arms around him. Lying in Ryker’s embrace felt natural, and Timothée tilted his head for a slow kiss.

  “That was incredible,” Ryker whispered, his voice still husky.

  “You were incredible,” Timothée corrected. He withdrew from Ryker and sat erect.

  Ryker slid his leg from the back dash and shifted to a less awkward position. “I’m a mess is what I am.” He massaged the semen into his skin.

  Timothée chuckled, hitching up his pants. “It’s protein. Good for skin elasticity and gives it a glow.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.” He retrieved his underwear from the floor and slid them on. “Just so you know, as cliché as it sounds, I don’t normally do this type of thing.”

  “You’re saying you never hooked up?”

  A shy grin crossed Ryker’s face. “I’ve hooked up but never with someone in the back seat or a client. I know agents are thought of as clinging one rung above used car and insurance salesmen, but some of us do have ethics and professional boundaries.”

  “What about morals?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Timothée smirked. “No, you said ethics. There’s a difference.”

  “How so?”

  “Ethics are what society lays down as being proper and decent. Morals are individual suppositions of right and wrong.”

  Ryker lifted his hips off the seat to tug up his pants. “But they still boil down to the same thing. One can’t exist without the other.”

  “Life is teeming with juxtapositions. Take hockey. We’re trained how to hit, how to take a hit. The coaches say, ‘Make ’em hurt.’ But when you hurt somebody, it’s a problem. If you get hurt, it’s a problem. In either instance, you did something wrong. Either you took a cheap shot or you didn’t do enough to avoid it. There’s an expectation of pain. People pay to see that. No blood, you don’t pack seats. Too much blood and you’re fined. So, what do these coaches mean when they demand we ‘make them hurt’ when we’re conditioned not to hurt or be hurt?”

  “I never thought of it that way.” Ryker reassuringly placed his hand on Timothée’s forearm. “Maybe they mean to follow the guidelines set.”

  Timothée snorted. “You know what’s funny about guidelines?” He didn’t await an answer. “They only apply to those who generate them. It’s like the old adage, ‘It takes money to make money.’ If a person has no money to start, they’re destined to be poor.”

  Ryker shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the spirit in which that’s intended to be interpreted.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s true. Most of the rags-to-riches stories didn’t come by it honestly. They swindled senseless clods.” He handed Ryker his shoes that had rolled out of reach, then settled back on the seat. “Giles Wayne has a thing about nickels. Before each game, he has to have two dollars and forty-five cents in nickels.”

  Ryker’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? It’s his thing.”

  “Uh… okay.”

  “Look, what did I tell you about hockey players? You don’t change shit.”

  Ryker’s response was somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

  “Anyway, they can’t be just any nickels. They have to have certain dates.”

  “Who looks at…? You know what? Never mind. Continue.”

  “He was missing one, and wouldn’t you know, no one in the locker room had a 1988 nickel?”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened? It was the playoffs, and Giles had been hot all season. We had no choice but to find him that nickel. We figured he dropped it, so people started moving furniture. Seven minutes before we were supposed to take the ice, and grown men were crawling around on the floor looking for a fucking nickel. We couldn’t find it. Time was ticking. The banks were closed. We were about to kick in a vending machine for some coins unti
l we realized they only took quarters.”

  “Nothing like smashing up a thousand-dollar machine for five cents.”

  “Desperate times, man. But we axed that plan and decided to check our cars. So we all ran out to the parking lot.”

  “In skates?”

  “It was the playoffs.”

  Ryker laughed.

  “So, I made it outside, and I saw these two men talking. One man was explaining how he’d won four tickets from a radio show but had four kids. He’d purchased an additional ticket online but was told at the gate it was fake. The game had been sold out for weeks. He was pleading with this other man who had a stack of tickets in his hand to sell him one at least close to face value. I don’t know what seats he had, but for the price he was asking, it should have been box. The man’s kids were right there, crying, and this bastard was laughing, trying to rip him off. Taunting that the man didn’t love his kids enough to keep them from missing their first game.”

  “Scalpers are sports parasites.”

  “Anyone could look at the man and tell he couldn’t jump over a nickel to save a dime. But that asshole didn’t care about the man’s circumstances or his kids. All he wanted was the cash. And he would rather walk away with nothing than sell the tickets at a decent price—which if not for people like him hoarding would have been available for sale at the ticket office. The man who had money bought everything to make more money. The man who had nothing could buy nothing.”

  “Point taken.” Ryker pulled on his shirt. “It sucks that the kids missed the game.”

  “Nah, I took them in with me.”

  A slow grin spread across Ryker’s face. “I knew you had a soft spot.”

  “Is your cornbread not done in the middle?” Timothée grumbled. “One of the kids was wearing my sweater. Do you know how rare it is to find my jersey in toddler size? Poor kid probably didn’t know any better, but hell, a fan is a fan, right? Had they not been Owls fans, I would have left all their asses standing in the cold. Besides, I have a visceral aversion to douchbaggery, and my guest seats were going to go to waste anyway.”