Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  “You haven’t seen me melt down when my routine gets fucked up,” Saint said. He sounded slightly breathless, eyes fixed on Carmine’s lips, still close to his fingers.

  “We’ll deal with that if and when it happens,” Carmine said, and kissed his hand again. Saint swallowed hard. “Saint,” Carmine whispered.

  “Yeah,” Saint said, sounding mesmerized.

  “Can I take you to bed, Saint?”

  Saint’s throat bobbed when he swallowed again. “Y-yeah,” he managed.

  21

  Carmine wasn’t sure how they made it to his suite, after. He couldn’t take his hands off Saint, and Saint seemed to feel the same way, judging by how he kept crowding up against Carmine, sliding his palms flat under his shirt and running them over the planes of his back.

  They stumbled through the door and Steel yipped plaintively from his crate. Carmine twitched and straightened.

  “Fuck, I have to—” Saint looked so debauched already, hair rumpled and cheeks flushed, that Carmine couldn’t help leaning in to steal another kiss. “I have to—God, you taste so good—I have to let him out. Can you—”

  “Can I what?” Saint asked, hooking a finger through Carmine’s belt loop and pulling him closer.

  “Stop being so goddamn sexy for a minute,” Carmine gasped. He was so turned on he could barely breathe, his erection pressing painfully against his zipper.

  Saint laughed and released him. “Take care of your dog so you can take care of me.”

  Carmine snorted, turning to open the crate. “Corny, Saint Hockey, very corny. Is that your best line?”

  Steel danced around them, delighted to be free and in the presence of his two favorite people, and Carmine bent to rub his ears briefly before opening the sliding glass door that looked out on the overgrown garden. Steel dashed outside and Carmine turned back to Saint.

  “That should buy us at least thirty minutes. Where were we?”

  “You were mocking my moves,” Saint said. He was smiling but there were nerves in his eyes as he rubbed his forearm.

  Carmine crossed the room and backed him up against the bed. He gave him a gentle push and Saint sat abruptly. Carmine crawled onto the mattress, straddling his thighs, and pressed on his shoulder until Saint was lying flat on his back staring up at him.

  He was so beautiful, Carmine just had to bend and kiss him again. Then he pulled him up until they were both fully on the bed before lying down on his side next to him.

  Saint turned his head to look at him. He was still tense, worry competing with the want in his eyes, and Carmine leaned in for another kiss.

  “What do you like?” he asked. He let his hand wander, up Saint’s ribs and down, ghosting over his hipbone.

  “Um.” Saint’s eyes were squeezed shut.

  Carmine kept exploring, tracing the ridges of Saint’s abdomen with a finger and dipping just below his waistband before retreating.

  “Gotta tell me, lover,” he murmured.

  “I don’t know,” Saint said in a rush. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t know, I’ve never—”

  Carmine stilled his hand. “Ever?”

  “Not… no, I mean, not never, but—” Saint pulled away, trying to roll off the bed, and Carmine lunged, getting an arm around his waist just in time.

  “You’re not running from this,” he said in Saint’s ear, and Saint shuddered violently and went limp against him. “That’s better,” Carmine crooned. “What did you mean?”

  Saint licked his lips and turned his head into Carmine’s, asking wordlessly for a kiss. Carmine was delighted to oblige, and they spent several long moments exploring each other’s mouths before Carmine somewhat reluctantly drew away.

  “We’re not doing anything else until you tell me,” he said, pecking Saint’s nose lightly.

  Saint sighed. “I gave a guy a handjob in major juniors,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “He didn’t—it doesn’t matter. And then year before last, I went to Europe by myself during the summer. Amsterdam. I was—” He swallowed. “I wanted to find a bar where they didn’t know me. Where I wouldn’t be recognized.”

  “And did you?” Carmine asked, keeping his voice gentle.

  “Yeah.” Saint’s lashes swept down. “I met someone—he, um. Blew me?”

  “Was it good?”

  “I guess,” Saint said. He wriggled in Carmine’s arms, getting comfortable. “It was kind of messy. I wasn’t very good at returning the favor but he was nice about it. That’s… it.” He met Carmine’s eyes. “Is that a problem?”

  “Why would it be?”

  “I don’t know, I just—I’m not experienced.”

  “It’s not about experience,” Carmine said. “It’s about being with someone. Fully present in the moment. You think you can do that?”

  “There’s nowhere else I want to be,” Saint said, and the raw honesty in his voice silenced Carmine briefly.

  “God,” he managed, and rolled on top of him. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, propping himself on his elbows.

  Saint smiled up at him. “Can we get this show on the road?”

  Carmine hummed. “Excellent idea.” He pulled Saint’s sweater and shirt up to his armpits and lowered his head. The shiver he got when his lips met skin was delicious, and he smiled as he kissed his way slowly down Saint’s chest. His skin was satin-soft, dotted with the occasional mole, and Carmine took his time, inspecting every exposed inch until Saint was squirming, wordless pleas catching in his throat.

  “Off,” Carmine said, tugging at the sweater, and Saint got the idea and curled forward far enough for Carmine to yank it off over his head. Then Carmine scooted down the bed, until he was straddling Saint’s thighs. He could see the erection straining the fabric of Saint’s slacks, a damp patch spreading slowly, and he licked his lips. “So you weren’t impressed with the blowjob, huh?”

  Saint gulped. “I mean. It was… fine? I came, so I guess—”

  “I think I can do a lot better than ‘fine’,” Carmine purred. He flicked Saint’s pants open and dragged the zipper down inch by tortuous inch, watching the way Saint twitched and struggled to be still.

  “How come I’m naked but you’re not?” Saint said breathlessly.

  Carmine obligingly pulled his sweater off and Saint sat up, one tentative hand out. Carmine took it and guided it to his chest, and Saint ran his fingers through the soft curls there, eyes wondering and lips parted.

  Still, Carmine was on a mission, so after a minute he rolled off the bed and took his pants off before getting back in position. Anticipation was half the fun, and Carmine prided himself on his ability to drive his partner out of his mind with soft, barely there touches, always skirting the prize as he worked Saint’s pants down his hips. Saint helped him drag them off, and Carmine sat back on his heels between his muscled thighs and whistled, low and reverent.

  Saint was sprawled on the bed, chest heaving. His stretchy black boxers had a steadily growing damp patch at the head of his straining erection, and he was gripping the comforter in both hands in an obvious effort to keep still.

  “When’s the last time someone told you how beautiful you are?” Carmine asked, running a reverent palm over Saint’s knee.

  Saint blinked, mouth working. “I… don’t know.”

  “Good, then let me.” Carmine dropped a kiss on Saint’s flat stomach. “You’re so beautiful,” he said against his skin. “I’ve thought that for a long time, you know. Remember when you were telling me the rules of your house, all stressed and snippy?”

  Saint draped an arm over his eyes, groaning. “Please don’t remind me. I was such an asshole.”

  Carmine huffed a laugh and kissed his abdomen again. “I was into it—you—even then. You were so uptight. I wanted to lay you out and kiss you until you forgot your name.”

  “Is that—ah—still an option?”

  Carmine lifted his head, smiling wickedly. “Most definitely. But I have something else in mind right now.”
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  He hooked his thumbs in the elastic of Saint’s boxers and peeled them slowly down. Saint’s cock was a sight to behold, flushed dark red and leaking steadily in slow, sluggish drops. Carmine licked his lips, staring at it.

  “Caz.” Saint sounded desperate. “Please do something.”

  “I am doing something,” Carmine said. “I’m savoring the moment.”

  Saint groaned again. “I’m gonna die. You haven’t even touched me yet and I’m gonna—” He cut off with a yelp when Carmine wrapped a hand around him, abdomen tightening and hips jerking up sharply.

  “Don’t do that when my mouth is on you,” Carmine warned, stroking slowly. “Bad manners.”

  “I w-won’t,” Saint panted. “Please, Caz, please, I need—”

  “I’ve got you,” Carmine said, and Saint squeezed his eyes shut and moaned.

  Carmine spent a few minutes enjoying the weight and feel of him, the slide of his fist over satiny skin. He traced the flared ridges of the head, rubbing the sensitive spot underneath just to hear Saint swear in a thick, choked voice before stroking him again.

  “How am I doing?” he asked conversationally, hand still moving, and Saint cracked an eye open to glare at him.

  “You have to—fuck—ask?”

  “I like to keep the lines of communication open,” Carmine said, unperturbed. He twisted his wrist on an upstroke and Saint arched up off the bed with a bitten off shout. “I’ll take that as an endorsement,” Carmine continued, unable to stop his grin.

  Saint collapsed backward, chest heaving. “I can’t—I’m not gonna last.”

  “It’s not a race,” Carmine said, hand still moving steadily. He smoothed his free hand over Saint’s thigh, appreciating the thick muscle. “You can come whenever you want, but if you can hold on just a little longer, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He waited while Saint fought an internal battle and finally nodded jerkily. Then he bent and blew warm air over the head of Saint’s cock.

  Saint twitched, jamming a hand against his mouth.

  “You don’t have to be quiet,” Carmine said, not looking up.

  “I’m n-not,” Saint panted. “I’m trying not to lose it, goddammit, do—”

  Carmine swallowed him down, ready for the helpless buck of Saint’s hips and pinning him flat to the bed with both hands before he could choke him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Saint gasped. “Oh fuck, Caz, I can’t—”

  Carmine patted his side and set to work. He alternated soft, wet licks around the head with firm suction, one hand steadily jacking what his mouth couldn’t easily reach. Saint twisted and writhed beneath him, getting louder and louder until he was begging, something close to tears in his voice.

  Carmine had spent years perfecting this skill, and he was justifiably proud of his ability to drive his partner out of their mind, but he didn’t think he’d ever been with someone as responsive as Saint. Every pass of his tongue elicited a shudder. Dropping down and letting the head of Saint’s cock nudge the back of his throat produced a string of garbled filth. When he picked up the pace, it was a handful of minutes before Saint was clutching at his shoulders, his hair, hands desperate and shaking.

  “I’m gonna—Caz, I can’t—”

  Carmine took him deep again and Saint curled forward off the bed with a choked cry, filling his mouth with hot, bitter liquid. Carmine swallowed it all, slowing his rhythm as Saint went limp and then finally lifting his head.

  Saint’s arm was over his eyes again, mouth open as he panted for air. Carmine crawled up his body until he was braced above him.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “Saint. How are you doing?”

  It took Saint a minute to move his arm, and when he did, his eyes were wet. Alarm spiked in Carmine’s chest, but Saint smiled, soft and a little shaky.

  “That was—” He reached up and pulled Carmine down into an unsteady kiss.

  “So… better than fine?” Carmine asked after a few minutes.

  Saint’s laugh was wobbly. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

  Carmine smiled, tucking his face into the crook of Saint’s neck. Saint reached between them, fingers tentative as they wrapped around Carmine’s aching shaft.

  “Is this okay?” he asked.

  Carmine groaned, hips rolling. “Tighter. Can you—yeah, like that.” He rolled his hips again, grinding down against Saint’s thigh, fucking into his hand. He could feel the orgasm just out of sight, gathering pressure in his chest and the pit of his stomach. “Can I come on you,” he gasped, hips stuttering.

  “Yeah,” Saint said, wrapping his free arm around Carmine’s neck. “Please, I want you to.”

  The bliss broke free and Carmine froze as he came, spilling over Saint’s thigh in heavy, erratic spurts. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, the ecstasy lighting up his nerves like fireworks under his skin until he finally fell forward, limbs suddenly too heavy to move.

  Saint grunted but held his weight, hands stroking up and down Carmine’s sides in soft, slow motions.

  “I get what the big deal is now,” he murmured after a few minutes.

  Carmine huffed a quiet laugh and rolled his head to press a kiss to Saint’s throat. “Even bad sex is still sex, but that—that was definitely not bad sex.” He slid sideways onto the bed and gathered Saint in close, tucking their limbs together and wrapping his arms around Saint’s chest. “Is this okay?”

  “Yeah.” Saint sounded faintly surprised. “I like it when you hold me.”

  “Mind if I sleep for a minute?”

  Saint shook his head. “This is nice.”

  Carmine squeezed his side gently and fell asleep.

  22

  Saint woke up alone in Carmine’s bed. He stared at the ceiling for a minute, trying to get his bearings.

  He’d slept with Carmine. He’d let his guard down and invited someone else into the most private parts of his life, but somehow the panic was nowhere to be found. He stretched, yawning, and sat up. No matter what had happened, they had a game that night. The rest could wait.

  Carmine was in the kitchen when Saint stumbled out, stirring something on the stove. His smile warmed Saint to his toes.

  “Morning,” he said. “I set out the stuff for your oatmeal but I didn’t make it for you.”

  Saint didn’t bother to answer. Instead he just wrapped his arms around Carmine from behind, pressing his cheek to Carmine’s shoulder blade.

  Carmine made a pleased noise, turned off the stove, and shuffled around so they were facing. “Hey,” he said quietly.

  Saint pushed his face into Carmine’s chest. “Hey.”

  They stood like that for a minute, until Saint finally loosened his grip and stepped away with a reluctant sigh.

  “Game day,” he said. It was an explanation, of sorts, and somehow Carmine got it. He nodded, a smile creasing his eyes, and turned back to the stove.

  Saint made himself coffee, then oatmeal as soon as Carmine stepped aside. They ate sitting across from each other, neither speaking. When Saint was done, he watched Carmine eat for a minute.

  “We should talk,” he finally said.

  Carmine arched an eyebrow, his mouth full.

  “Not now,” Saint said hurriedly. “And it’s not bad, I just—”

  Carmine swallowed. “You want to figure out what we’re doing.” There was no judgment in his voice, but Saint hunched his shoulders anyway. “Hey,” Carmine said. He reached across the table and took his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to know where we stand.” His hand was solid and warm.

  Saint looked at where their fingers were intertwined and finally nodded.

  “After the game.” Carmine squeezed his hand and let go.

  Things went wrong almost immediately.

  At practice, there was a nick in Saint’s skate blade, and someone had borrowed his stick tape. Saint stood in front of his locker and took several deep breaths. Sharpen your blade, he told himself, touc
hing the tips of his fingers to his thumbs. Find your tape, use someone else’s, it’s just tape, this isn’t a big deal.

  David was in an even worse mood than usual, shoving a rookie who got in his way, snapping at Saint, and firing pucks at Felix with far more force than was necessary. After one particularly hard shot, Felix pushed his helmet up and shouted at him in furious French. David flipped him off and skated away.

  Saint went after him, motioning for Roddy to talk to Felix as he left the ice.

  David was in the locker room, furiously yanking at his skate laces.

  “Fuck off,” he said before Saint could say anything. “Just—don’t.”

  Saint sat down a few stalls away. There were lines in David’s face, carved deep around his face and eyes, and his hands were shaking as he jerked his skates off and dropped them beside him.

  “What happened?” Saint asked quietly.

  “Women are bitches,” David said, standing. “Don’t ever trust them.”

  Saint swallowed the sharp comment. “Do you need to speak to a therapist?”

  David scoffed. “Like they could help.” He shoved his pants off, dragged his shirt over his head, and stalked for the shower.

  Reluctantly, Saint followed him in.

  “Are you good to play?”

  “I’m fine,” David said without looking at him. “Go away.”

  Saint hesitated a minute longer, but finally left.

  Roddy found him in the hall. “What’s going on?”

  “Breakup, I think. He wouldn’t talk to me.”

  Roddy swore under his breath. “He okay to play?”

  “I think so. It’s Coach’s decision, anyway. Do you know who he was dating?”

  Roddy shook his head.

  “Ask Sergei. They’re friends.”

  “Not sure anyone’s really ‘friends’ with David, but I’ll ask,” Roddy said.

  Saint nodded abruptly and headed for the exit.

  He couldn’t sleep during his usual pre-game nap. Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, he ran through his breathing exercises, touching his thumbs to fingertips, then knuckles, over and over in a vain attempt to get himself back on track. He wanted to go to Carmine, crawl into the bed beside him and be drawn into his warmth. He wanted Carmine’s long arms around him, his nose in the hair at the nape of Saint’s neck.