by Sarina Bowen
My knees are on the bed now, and she’s scooting back, shucking off her shirt. My own shirt hits the floor before I lower myself over her body, taking care to hold most of my weight off of her. Except for my hips. Those sink decadently onto hers, and my dick wakes up and says, lookee what we have here.
Holly grabs my head and pulls me down for a kiss. I taste lime and tequila and willing, happy girl. “Mmm,” she moans. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”
So was I, it’s just that I didn’t know it. My eyes slam shut and I sink down into her mouth and this beautiful place of forgetfulness. There’s no game and no goal just before the buzzer. There’s no disappointment. There’s only a sexy girl beneath me and some more shots to drink.
And a knock on the door.
“Fuck,” Holly and I grunt in unison.
“Canning!” a voice calls from the hallway.
Wes’s voice. The sound of it pulls me out of the moment.
“Do you have to?” Holly pants.
“I kind of do,” I whisper. “But only for a minute. I swear.”
“Fine,” she huffs, pushing on my chest. “But I’m pouring more tequila.”
“You are awesome,” I insist, reaching down to the floor for her shirt. I ignore mine in the interest of time. The second she’s covered, I cross the room and open the door.
“Hey,” I greet Wes.
I expect him to launch into a “tough luck” spiel. Wes is competitive as fuck but he’d never kick me when I was down. Oddly, though, he stays silent, blinking at me from the hallway. “Hey,” he echoes after a long pause. “I just…”
No more words are forthcoming. He takes in my half-dressed look, and the sight of my fuck buddy pouring tequila.
“That’s Holly,” I say quietly. “Holly, this is an old friend, Ryan Wesley.”
“Shot?” she offers from across the room. She’s flushed, and her hair is mussed.
I’m probably in the same state. But Holly doesn’t seem embarrassed, so I don’t worry. “Wes, you coming in?”
“No,” he says quickly, and the word sounds like a chip of stone falling onto a hard surface. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry we’re not facing off tomorrow.” He shoves his hands in his pockets in a rare display of humility. “Won’t be the same now.” The corners of his mouth turn up, but the smile doesn’t make it to his eyes.
“I know.” My voice is full of all the disappointment I’d been hoping to escape tonight. “Not like camp.”
“Loved that place,” Wes says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
“I still coach there, you know.” I’d meant to end this conversation already, so I have no idea why I add, “It isn’t the same without you.” It’s true, but this is already the most emotionally loaded day of my life, and I really don’t need more to think about.
“I’m going to head out,” Wes says, jerking a thumb toward the elevators. “You, ah, take care of yourself if I don’t see you tomorrow.” He takes a step backward.
That’s the moment when I really don’t know what to do. My team will head back to the west coast in the morning. We won’t stay for the final. I’m not sure Wes and I have more to say to each other right now. But is this really it? I feel a strong urge to add something—to delay his departure.
Except I’m beat and confused and so fucking spent. And he’s already turning away from me.
“Later,” I say gruffly.
He looks over his shoulder to raise one hand in a wave.
I stand there like an idiot a moment longer, and he turns the corner toward the elevator banks.
“Jamie,” Holly says softly. “Here’s your drink.”
Reluctantly, I shut the door. I cross the room, take the glass from her and pound it.
She slips the empty tumbler from my hand. “Now where were we?”
If I only knew.
7
Wes
“You know we just won the national title, right?” Cassel says for the hundredth time in the past hour. He wears the goofy, king-of-the-world grin he’s been sporting all night. Even before the four vodka shots he threw back.
“Yeah, I know.” My tone is absent as I sweep my gaze over the crowded, overheated bar we’d chosen as celebration headquarters. The drinks at the hotel bar are ridiculously overpriced, so we decided to venture somewhere else tonight. And according to Donovan’s Yelp search, this tiny dive bar has half-price drinks on Sunday nights and apparently they don’t taste like piss.
I don’t give a shit how the alcohol tastes, though. I’m only interested in the effects of it. I want to get drunk. I want to get shit-faced out of my mind so I don’t have to think about what a total fucking idiot I am.
Cassel’s voice drags me out of my bleak thoughts. “Then quit sulking like a bitch,” he orders. “We’re national champions, man. We crushed Yale tonight. We fucking shut them out.”
We did. The final score had been 2-0, Northern Mass. We’d wiped the ice with our opponents, and I should be happy about that. No, I should be goddamn ecstatic. It’s what we trained all year for, yet instead of savoring the win, I’m too busy bumming out about the fact that Canning has a girlfriend.
Yes, folks, Jamie Canning is straight. Shocker.
You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now. I spent six years hoping that maybe the attraction wasn’t one-sided. Maybe one day a switch would suddenly go off and he’d be like, hmmm, I’m totally into Wes. Or maybe he would figure out he swings both ways and decide to take a walk on the dude side.
None of those maybes had panned out, though. And they never fucking would.
All around me, the guys laugh and joke and recap their favorite moments of tonight’s game, and nobody notices I’m not saying anything. My mind keeps wandering back to Jamie and his girl and the hook-up I’d interrupted last night.
“We need another round,” Cassel announces, searching the main room for our waitress.
When I spot her behind the counter, I abruptly scrape back my chair. “I’ll go order it,” I tell the guys, and then I dart away from the table before anyone can ask why I’ve suddenly become so charitable.
At the bar, I order another round of shots for the group, then rest my forearms on the splintered wooden counter and study the liquor bottles on the shelves. I’ve been drinking beer all night, but it’s not getting the job done. I need to be drunker. I need something harder.
My gut tightens when my gaze lands on a gleaming bottle of bourbon. My father’s drink of choice. But the bourbon he buys is a thousand times more expensive than the bottle on this shelf.
I shift my gaze to the row of tequila bottles.
Canning had been drinking tequila last night.
My gaze moves again. Jack Daniel’s.
Aw hell. It’s like every bottle in this fucking bar is full of memories.
Before I can stop it, my mind flashes back to that last day at camp, to the silver flask I’d passed Canning, and the mocking question I’d hurled his way.
“You think I’m too chicken-shit to blow you?”
He’d seemed to consider me for a minute. “I think it’s a bad idea to ever say that Ryan Wesley is too chicken-shit to do something.”
“True dat.”
He chuckled, but his eyes went back to the screen. Again, he let me off the hook. But I didn’t want to be let off. I wanted to get off. The longer we sat there discussing sex, the more certain I was. Touching my best friend was all I could think about. It wasn’t a dare for me, either. It was pure desire.
On the screen, the blonde was on her knees, sucking one of the guys while jacking off the other. Jamie took another sip from the flask before passing it my way. Beside me, he shifted his hips, and I had to suppress a shudder. My heart’s desire was sitting beside me.
And now he was horny.
His hand had moved, resting just above the waistband of his shorts. He gave the spot beneath his abs the tiniest of caresses, like he had an itch, but it was obvious he’d been h
oping to do some strategic rearranging.
I swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. For courage. Then I put a hand between my legs, just resting it there. “This is killing me,” I said. It was the most truthful statement I’d made all day. I took a slow stroke down my hard cock and then back up again. I could feel his eyes on me, on my hand. And that made me even crazier. Forget the screen. I’d rather star in my own solo act right here, with my favorite pair of brown eyes as the only audience.
My heart started to pound, because I knew what I was about to do.
There’s this cliff at the swimming hole we liked, a twenty-foot drop into the lake, and that night, it was like I was standing atop it. Like I was creeping toward the edge and pulling him with me. I remember one year when Canning was taking so long to jump I’d lost patience and pushed him off, cackling as I watched him windmill down to the water below.
But I couldn’t do that this time. I couldn’t push him. He had to jump.
I licked my dry lips. “I really need to jerk. You mind?”
His moment of hesitation practically killed me. “Go ahead. We shower in the same room, right? Hell.” He chuckled. “We crap in the same room. Though there’s walls.”
There weren’t any here.
I shoved my hand under my waistband and gripped my aching shaft. I didn’t whip it out, though. Just gave it a slow tug beneath my shorts.
His eyes had filled with surprise, then flashed with something that sucked the breath right out of my lungs. Not anger. Not annoyance.
Arousal.
Holy hell, he was getting off on seeing me jerk it. And neither of us was looking at the laptop now. Canning’s gaze stayed glued to the slow movement of my hand beneath my shorts.
“You can, too.” I hated the gravelly sound of my voice just then, because I knew that I had an agenda. “Go ahead. It’ll be less weird for me.”
Hell. I was like the serpent shoving the apple at Eve. Or rather the banana…
All the bad analogies fled my stupid brain a moment later when Jamie reached into his shorts and pulled his dick all the way out.
My heart shimmied in my chest at the sight. He was pink and thick and perfect. With the fingers of one hand he stroked the underside—up and down. The lightest touch. I envied those fingertips.
I cupped my aching balls and tried to take a deep breath. My chest was tight from wanting him. He was right there—his hip touching mine. I wanted to bend down and take him in my mouth. I wanted it so badly I could taste it.
His eyes went back to the screen. I felt him sink a little further back into the bed. We were both stroking in earnest now. His breathing became shallower, and the sound of it sent another shot of lust up my spine. I wanted to be the one making him pant like that. But then his pace faltered, and I looked up to find out why.
The video had ended. I’d chosen a clip that was only a few minutes long. And now the screen had frozen on a menu of clips, but the thumbnail photo displayed most prominently was this awful shot of a woman’s giant ass.
“Um…” Jamie actually chuckled. “That’s not getting the job done.”
I felt a sort of awareness settle over me then. In hockey, when a shot opens up, a good player has to react immediately. That’s exactly what was happening here. A window of opportunity had cracked open a sliver, and I was going to dive through it.
“You could call in your bet,” I croaked.
Stroking himself, he let out a hot breath. “You daring me to?”
“Yeah.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes flickered with a parade of emotions I couldn’t keep up with. Reluctance. Heat. Confusion. Heat. Irritation. Heat.
“I…” He laughed, his voice hoarse. He stopped, cleared his throat. “Double dog dare you.”
His gaze locked with mine again and I almost came right there and then. My cock had swelled in my hand, pulsing. Aching. But somehow I managed to put on a careless tone, my trademark up-for-anything drawl that half the time is a total front.
“Well. This should be interesting.”
The faint hint of panic on his face was unmistakable, but I didn’t give him time to back out. I wanted him too much. I’d always fucking wanted this guy.
Releasing myself, I reached over to cover his hand with mine. He tensed, and for a split second I thought he was going to push me away.
I wouldn’t have blamed him.
But then he let go, leaving my hand there alone. And I was holding his dick. Finally. He was hot and hard, and the ends of his soft blond pubic hair tickled my fingertips. I squeezed, and all the air seemed to drain out of his body, his torso practically melting into the mattress. My mouth was a desert, my pulse a loud drum in my ears.
I stroked my palm along that hard shaft, acting like what I was doing was no biggie. Then I said, “Fuck, I think I’m drunk.” Because that seemed like the right thing to say. Like alcohol was the reason we were doing this. Alcohol was our hall pass.
It worked, because he choked out, “Me too.” But his voice was smoky and distracted.
And maybe he was drunk. Maybe the flush on his cheeks was all thanks to the whiskey and not from the feel of my other hand yanking his shorts down further. Maybe his breathing quickened because alcohol was surging through his bloodstream and not from my fingers curling around his shaft.
I shifted on the mattress, kneeling in front of him as I pumped him in slow strokes. My entire body throbbed with uncontrollable need, my erection heavy between my legs. I ignored it, though. Jamie blinked twice when I rose above him, and I watched his face, gauging his reaction. He didn’t look horrified. He looked turned on.
I’d been fantasizing about this moment for years. Couldn’t believe it was really here.
“What are you waiting for, Ryan? Suck it already.”
Surprise jolted through me. He only called me Ryan when he was taunting me. And right now he was taunting me about sucking his dick.
Jesus.
My bravado faltered, just for a second. Until I saw his pulse hammering in the hollow of his throat, and realized he was as nervous and excited as I was.
I took a breath and lowered my head.
Then I closed my mouth over his swollen tip and sucked.
Jamie’s hips snapped up instantly, his breath leaving his throat on a ragged shudder. “Oh Jesus.”
I remember wondering if he’d ever been blown before. The shock and awe in his voice had been so raw. So sexy. So I’d wondered, but not for long. Not when he started whispering the hottest, filthiest commands at me.
“More,” he muttered. “Take more. Take it all.”
I sucked him deeper into my mouth, almost to the base, and just when he moaned, I released him, gliding my tongue along the long, hard length of him until his dick was glistening. I lapped at the moisture leaking out of his tip, and the taste of him infused my tongue, making my head spin.
I was blowing my best friend. It was so surreal. It was what I’d dreamed about for so long, and the fantasy was nothing compared to the reality of it.
“Fuck, yeah.” Canning’s hips began to rock as I took him in my mouth again.
I licked the crown of his cock, teasing, savoring, then taking him deep again. I didn’t dare peer up at him. I was too afraid to look him in the eye—afraid he’d be able to see on my face how much I wanted him.
“Jesus, Wes, you’re way too good at this.”
The praise just lit me up. Holy hell. He was thrusting into my mouth because I turned him on.
His fingers suddenly tangled in my hair, tightening when I swallowed him as far as I could take him.
“Oh Christ. Keep doing that, man. Let me fuck your mouth.”
Every husky thing he said practically made me go up in flames. I knew I would enjoy this. But if he was too? Mind bending. I quickened the pace, squeezing his shaft on every upstroke, tighter than I thought he’d like, but he kept muttering harder, faster.
My eyes squeezed shut as I worked him over, determined to make him l
ose control, to make him feel the same urgent need wreaking havoc on my body.
“Wes…” A choked sound left his lips. “Fuck, Wes, you’re making me come.”
His fingers pulled my hair to the point of pain, his abs tightening as his hips rocked faster. A few seconds later, he groaned. The husky sound vibrated against my lips as he went still, thrust deep, and came inside my mouth while I swallowed up every last dro—
“You hoping one of those bottles holds up a little sign for you and says ‘order me’?”
A male voice jolts me back to the present. I blink, disoriented. I’m still at the bar, still standing at the counter and staring at the liquor bottles. Shit. I’d totally spaced out. And I’m semi-hard now, thanks to the memory of my last night with Jamie Canning.
Gulping, I turn to find a smiling stranger beside me.
“Seriously,” he adds, his smile widening. “You’ve been eyeing those bottles for almost five minutes. The bartender gave up on trying to ask you what you wanted.”
The bartender had talked to me? He probably thinks I’m a total weirdo.
The guy next to me doesn’t look like a weirdo, though. He’s really good-looking, actually. Late twenties, wearing faded jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, a full-sleeve tattoo covering his right arm. Tribal shit, mixed with skulls and dragons and some other badass imagery. He’s skinnier than I usually like, but not anorexic thin. Not entirely my type, but he’s not not my type, either. He’s definitely hook-up material, and from the way he’s checking me out, I know he’d be down.
“You with those guys?” He gestures to the table of hockey jackets.
I nod.
“Whatcha celebrating?”
“We won the Frozen Four tonight.” I pause. “College hockey championship.”
“No shit. Congrats, man. So you play hockey, huh?” His gaze lingers on my chest and arms before sliding back to my face. “It shows.”