Sugar and Ice (Raptors Book 4)

by RJ Scott

  I chuckled and tapped his prostate again. “Did none of your women ever do this for you?”

  “No. I…fuck! Stop, stop…it’s too close.”

  I pulled my fingers out and began taking off my clothes, item by item, tossing them on the bed beside him. He watched as my jeans, underwear, socks, and T-shirt landed right beside him.

  “You’re going to love this after you adjust,” I whispered as I tore open a foil packet and rolled the condom down over me. “It will make you sore though, I cannot stop that but I do have something for your ass when I’m done with it. I’ll take care of you, zvedva moya.”

  My star. That was what I’d called him and that was what he was. A brilliant body… a blessing from a goddess. And he was mine. All six-foot-plus of him. He knew it and I did as well. I eased a knee up onto the bed, then another, and used them to spread him wider. His fingernails raked over the wooden headboard.

  “You’ll want to breathe,” I whispered as I pressed my cockhead against his ass. He eased back as I pushed. My head was buried in him. He tensed, his hands finding purchase on the edge of the headboard. “Breathe, good, good, yes, pretty man. So pretty. So bright. Zvedva moya, my star. Breathe, yes…yes…yes.”

  The tension lessened. I pushed in deeper and deeper, inch by inch, until he had all of me inside him, just as he’d begged for.

  “Oh fuck, fuck…I… don’t move, I just…fuck,” he huffed.

  I pulled out just a bit then slid back in. He grunted. I did it again, and again, and again, until he was arching his spine to take more. Only then did I release his hips and slap my hands to his chest, jerking him back to me, his back to my chest. He cried out. I took his cock in hand as I pumped. His head fell to the side, baring his throat. I fell on his neck like a vampire just freed from its crypt. Biting and sucking, I feasted on him as we fucked.

  “Give me…your mouth,” I growled. He turned his head and I saw his face. Flushed and sweaty, eyes nothing but black, mouth parted. Such a beautiful face. I licked into his open mouth, the kiss sloppy and wet, my hips moving faster and faster. “Come for me now. Let go. Come for me, my sweet star.”

  He blew apart at my command. Hot jets of cum coating my hand and the bedding. I worked him, milking him dry, and then rocked up to bury myself as deep as I could. Sparks raced up my spine as my orgasm hit. He reached back with both hands to grab at my hips and ass to keep me where I was. Cock kicking, I lurched and groaned, kissing him with passion. He met each hungry swipe of my tongue with his own.

  We tasted each other forever, the kisses softening. Just like my cock. I eased out of his body, my arms still around him, and we both fell face first into the bed.

  “Holy shit,” he murmured, his face buried in a thick pillow. I rolled off the bed after giving his ass a pat. “You’re a fucking beast.”

  That made me chuckle as I tied off the condom and dropped it into the trash can by the desk. Turning, I took a moment to enjoy the sight of a well-fucked Tate Collins in my bed, belly down, legs splayed, his gorgeous ass bearing a love bite. I wanted to cover him with marks. Let the world and all the other horny bastards and bitches know that he belonged to someone. And that someone was not one who shared well. Or at all.

  He rolled to his back when I climbed into the bed, his eyes glowing. I stole a kiss, then gathered him into my arms, flopping backward, taking him with me. He lay on top of me now, his prick still leaking, his body pink and damp.

  “This is something either very bad or very good,” I said, staring into his eyes. His brows tangled. “I hope it will be good but there are so many things that may make it bad.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He pushed up to sit on my thighs and winced. “Ouch, okay, fuck, my ass aches.”

  “We will tend to that momentarily.”

  A flimsy smile pulled at his mouth. “Novocain for my ass?”

  “No, asshole cream for an asshole.”

  “Will you use your dick to work it up inside me?”

  He looked nothing like the All-American boy the league touted him as. He was rumpled, marked, covered with semen and sweat, and asking for another ass fucking by his male captain. If the Raptors PR people could’ve seen Mr. Sweet as Apple Pie now they’d have been flabbergasted.

  “No, not again tonight. A few fingers though…” That brought out his dazzling smile. “Tate, this relationship that we’re having. You must know that I am not an easy man to be with. We must not allow our love affair to become public. My family is vulnerable back in Russia. I know Americans are all for being out and proud, and I wish I could be, perhaps later but right now I—”

  He bent down to put his lips to mine. A soft, silencing kiss. “It’s fine. We’ll keep us to us. Maybe just some friends.” My eyes flared. “The team already knows or suspects. Strongly. Colorado sees the way I look at you, or you at me, or maybe he just has some sort of sixth sense about people having the hots for other people.”

  “Do not speak of Colorado to me tonight while we are being close. It sours my mood,” I grumbled. He spread himself over me like a big, heavy man blanket. “He is the biggest hemorrhoid in the National Hockey League.”

  “Yeah, he’s got some fire in him,” Tate sighed, his cheek on my pectoral. “He’s a free spirit and you’re Mr. Control so you two are bound to rub each other wrong.”

  “Hmm,” I replied, my fingers moving up and down his spine as our skin began to dry and cool. “Well, I am not a funny man.”

  “I think you’re hilarious.”

  “Your thoughts will change in a short time. I’m strict and controlling, in bed and out.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. I kind of dig you telling me to take off my clothes and all that shit.”

  I smiled despite myself. “That’s good. I dislike men in my bed who are pushy and toppy. That is my role.” He hummed like a contented cat. “I am troublesome though. I must have order. Neatness, control, and many men find that irritating.”

  “We’ll work on loosening you up a bit, Iceberg.”

  “Pfft.”

  “First thing we’re going to do is order us up some junk food, shower, find that ass cream of yours, and watch us some superhero movies.” He kissed my nipple, then wiggled free, his feet hitting the floor at the same time he grimaced. “Jesus, you damn Russian plow horse.” He tenderly reached around to touch his ass. I had a small moment of pride as most men would, being likened to a horse. “Maybe ass cream first, then food, followed by Marvel movies.”

  “Superhero films are silly. Who wears capes and spandex?” I inquired as I rolled out of bed and gathered him to me. “Why do we not watch something with some substance that will make our brains work?”

  “Oh my God, don’t tell me you’re an arthouse fan?”

  “Perhaps. Sue me for seeking out intelligent entertainment.”

  He took my face in his hands. “We’re going to have to work on getting you looser.”

  “I plan to do that to you,” I whispered then captured his mouth. He sighed into the kiss and somehow we ended up back in bed, minus any food or movies until well after two in the morning. I did tend to his sore bottom with ample cream. Then came mutual hand jobs, a long shared shower, and a last minute call to room service for chicken tenders, curly French fries, and root beer. Which I placed as the taste on his mouth when he’d first arrived. Root beer.

  He was lying beside me, feeding a long spiral fry into my mouth as Guardians of the Galaxy was playing on his phone, which was propped up on a pillow resting on my stomach.

  “I like this Drax,” I said after we’d clocked an hour of movie time. Perhaps not all superhero films were bad.

  “That’s because you and he are the same person,” he said around his mouthful of curly fry.

  He fell asleep with his head on my chest. I ran my fingers over his cheekbones, wishing I could close my eyes and drift off to a talking raccoon shooting a huge gun. But that was not to be.

  “Tate, you cannot be here in the morning,” I said, giving him a shake after
the movie ended. He sat up, looked around groggily, and then nodded. “I’m sorry. It is not as I would wish it.”

  “Nah, it’s cool. We both have far too much bullshit to deal with in our lives right now. We don’t need the media nightmare that Tennant Rowe suffered through.” He slid from the bed, taking his phone with him, and pulled on his clothes. I’d been the one to answer the door when room service came and had left my jeans on after the food had arrived.

  “Do you want the leftover food?” I held up the plate that held only two out of thirty tenders. He shook his head then tugged his tank top on. “I do wish you could stay. Waking up with you would be nice.”

  “Yeah, it would. Maybe when we’re back home without nosy coaches and teammates right across the hall?”

  “That would be fine, most fine.” He gave me a soft, fleeting kiss. I handed him his iPad, walked him to the door, peeked out to see if the coast were clear, and then let him step out into the hall. “See you at breakfast.”

  “Yeah, cool. Thanks for…well, thanks.” He moved as if he sought another kiss and I almost capitulated. It was the ping of the elevator down the hall that kept me from pressing him to the wall for another kiss or, worse yet, leading him back to my bed.

  “Good night,” I said, smiled feebly, and closed the door on him. I’d had many lovers, all on the sly, but saying goodbye to Tate was by far the hardest farewell I’d ever experienced. I yearned for him already.

  Obviously, caution had flown the proverbial coop.

  Chapter Nine

  Tate

  Our game against Vancouver was a shit show. It was chaotic, nasty, pushing, shoving, hell, and when we finally left the ice with a five-two loss, it was a relief more than a shock. Vancouver were hot this season, winning all of their games so far, and jeez, did Canada love that one. The signs in the arena were deadly accurate, including the first appearance of the SHT line poster with the little ‘I’ in the middle.

  “I think the Zamboni got me,” Andre dragged himself from the shower, and I couldn’t see bruises yet, but some of the one hundred mile an hour pucks had hit him hard, and twice he’d been steamrolled by the D, plus a whole heap of his own team who were losing their shit and trying to keep the puck out of our net. In Andre’s defense, he’d put up a good fight, and I didn’t think Colorado could have done any better.

  “That last save, dude, that was insane,” I high-fived him as he passed, and at least he smiled, before he winced again. How he’d seen that puck and gotten across the crease as fast as he did, I don’t know, but it had been awesome to see, a glimpse of a wonderful future.

  Alex had dropped gloves with one of the Vancouver D, but the fight hadn’t lasted long and it was Alex on the ice with the D sitting on him. After that incident, penalties served, the JAR line had never found its footing, and my line deserved the moniker of SHiT.

  Andre didn’t bother dressing, the team doctor taking him off. A couple of the guys headed for post-game cool down on bikes, and Alex was definitely limping.

  What the fuck? We weren’t even at Christmas, and we’d lost all sense of who we were out there on the ice.

  Vlad was quiet in his cubicle, his blond head dipped, still in his skates and rhythmically tapping a finger on his knee. I had this insane urge to go over and ask him if he was okay, but then they called for interviews, and it was him, me, and Alex who were called in.

  I couldn’t hear what they were asking Vlad, but I could hear his answers, which were standard replies about not playing the Raptors game, and how lessons would be learned, and congratulating Vancouver on a decisive win.

  Alex was way over the other side of the room, attempting to front the fact he’d lost a fight with a D-Man almost twice his size.

  And me? I was getting asked a whole ton of shit. After seven years I was used to this, some interviewers asked searching questions that called on the skater to think hard, but tonight this had had the smell of failure.

  “Did you mean to turn over the puck at the end of the second?”

  “Does anyone mean to do that?” I tried for funny, and then read the crowd. “We all make mistakes, but we learn from them. That was entirely on me.”

  “Do you think the investment in you is a good move for the Raptors?”

  Shit. The money question, like are you actually worth 23.1 million? “Our team is working well. Learning to adapt.” Take that for avoidance.

  “Did you expect to come in and make a distinctive change in the team?”

  “The team is strong; you haven’t see us at our best yet.”

  “Why haven’t you made a difference?”

  Christ, this was back to the headlines when apparently I was coming to the Raptors to save the team. They didn’t need saving, and I hated the assumption that me landing in Arizona would be some kind of freaking salvation. I was good, but the whole team had to be good. And tonight, I’d played like shit.

  “We’re working hard,” was all I said.

  “Are the troubles you had in Dallas following you here?” One wily reporter thrust the microphone at my face, with a gleam in their eye, and I was this close to expecting a question about Tennant Rowe.

  “No.”

  I sent a quick glance toward our media rep after I’d managed to answer everything that I was prepared to, and she moved between me and them, and used all manner of persuasion to push them back.

  “Tate! Are you aware that your fiancée is—?”

  I turned and walked away. Former fiancée, and I was done with tonight.

  I didn’t go to Vlad’s room, he didn’t ask me to, but then he’d locked himself away with Coach Carmichael and Colorado, and no doubt shit was going to hit the fan soon anyway. The game tonight, Colorado and his freaking emu and fuck knows what else, and Alex’s limp diagnosed as a pulled muscle, which might pull him out of the final Canada game in Toronto.

  Could things get any worse?

  The flight from Calgary to Toronto was long and tedious and so very quiet. Not a lot of card-playing, or guys with their hand-held game machines trying to kill each other, just the infrequent buzz of chatter. Alex was slumped in his seat, earbuds in, eyes shut. Colorado was hemmed in by Vlad who was looking ahead with his icy, stony expression, Ryker and Eli had iPads out, Ryker probably contacting Jacob, and I knew Eli was studying for a degree and only had a few credits left he needed to attain. I’d heard from Henry, who had it from Ryker, who’d been told by Sam, that Kricker the emu was now in a better place—a wildlife sanctuary on the outskirts of Tucson, and there was the very real possibility that Colorado was getting a fine for owning an emu which was on the Arizona no-go list.

  Trying not to focus on that, or the lack of sexy Russian in any bed anywhere, I put headphones on and selected a random playlist, Muse merging with Kings of Leon, and then changing to Queen and Pink Floyd. I liked the prog rock bands, with soaring lyrics, and an edge to the music, and even though I wasn’t fully into the kind of music that Colorado made, he had a touch of clever words and heavy beats, close enough to some of my favorites that I would’ve loved to see his band play one day.

  Of course, that was if he wasn’t in prison for owning an illegal pet in the state of Arizona.

  It was late when we landed, and still no call from Vlad to go to his room. After jerking off in the shower, and then jerking off a couple of hours after to the memories of what we’d done, I pulled together the courage to text him, a simple, wanna talk about the game? No one could think that was anything other than one teammate reaching out to another, but he replied thirty-two minutes later with a simple not tonight.

  Fuck knows what that was about.

  Our free day in Toronto was all about the CN Tower, dinner, six of us attempting to not look like hockey players all standing on the glass walkway of the tower and staring down at the large whale painted on the roof of the Aquarium. The yellow sign said the glass would take the weight of three-point-five Orcas, which of course led to teasing about weight, particularly when it came to the
part about the glass holding the weight of one thousand and ninety-one beavers, which we all found hilarious. This wasn’t my first time up the tower, and I was confident to stand in the middle and watch through the clouds as they cleared and passed by to reveal the tiny ant-like people below, but it was my first time with new friends, and I loved it.

  Of course we got recognized, took selfies with fans, signed some autographs, and received some gentle teasing about being Raptors. But I had the one that would go down in history as the worst place to be recognized—in the bathroom, for God’s sake. Given I was holding my dick and taking a piss when the guy said hi, it was kind of unfortunate, but at least he and I laughed over not having a pen available. One pair of washed hands later, I found out that he was a Calgary fan, and my stomach fell. We exchanged notes on the Calgary game and I stayed ever so polite and I didn’t once call him an opinionated asshole when he called my line the SHiT line.

  I even shook his hand, and when I joined the guys who were waiting in the gift shop trying on hats, they took one look at me and they must have known.

  “You were ages,” Ryker commented, yanking at the cap which couldn’t quite contain his soft fluffy bangs unless he pushed them up and under.

  “Calgary fan,” was all I said.

  They nodded in silent understanding, then changed the subject. It was how we dealt.

  At least Vlad came to dinner with us in the evening, but he wouldn’t glance my way or indeed anyone, and he had this grumpy Russian thing going on. Colorado was subdued, and Coach Carmichael was trying his best to get the group into a happy space.

  Tomorrow was an afternoon game with Toronto. On a Saturday. Kids, lots of kids, family, and you could bet the arena would be heaving. This, after all, was the home to the Hall of Fame, and the fans were dedicated.

  I just wished that Vlad would… what? Come to my room, text me to go to his to talk strategy, at least give me the benefit of at least acknowledging me. Because if he didn’t, then did that mean it had been a one-night thing? Were we done at one fuck and a blowjob, and other interesting things?