Falling for the Felid (Elf Magic #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Felix

SEPTEMBER

“Please, let me,” he breathes, a desperate edge to his voice as he gazes up at me pleadingly. “I need to taste you… to make you feel good.”

I can’t deny the thrill of satisfaction that courses through me.

Those words, that tone, the sight of him on his knees, begging to suck my dick…

yeah, that pushes all my buttons. I’m so hard, it actually hurts.

In a minute, I’ll benevolently allow him to pleasure me, but first, I need to torture him a little bit more.

After all, he deserves it.

I slide my hand into that long, silky brown hair and pull his head back. He was already looking at me, so this is purely about the power trip. “You need to, do you?” I ask. “And why should I care about what you need?”

His shaky exhale and dejected yearning go a long way toward soothing all the inner bruises he caused me, but I’m a petty bitch, and I want more.

“You shouldn’t,” he admits. “You should kick me in the face and step on me as you walk away. It’s what I deserve.”

Damn right.

“But I want to make it up to you,” he continues. “Please, Felix. Use me. Let me earn absolution in service to your body.”

Yeahhh… it’s hard to say no to that.

“I’ll do anything,” he promises. “You can do anything to me.”

“Hmm.” I pretend to be thinking about it, as if any sane man wouldn’t agree enthusiastically to an offer like that, freely given.

His breath hitches as I tighten my hand in his hair, then let go and graze my thumb over the tip of one pointy ear.

I so badly want to suck on those ears. The Lord of the Rings movies were a seminal part of my early adulthood, and the arrival ten years later of actual elves to this world seemed like a dirty dream come to life.

Now I have my very own pointy-eared elf kneeling at my feet, begging to fuck me.

“Okay, then,” I concede, gesturing to my crotch. “Prove yourself.”

Gratitude fills his expression, and he reaches for my belt.

What follows is the thing dreams are made of.

His mouth is hot and wet, the suction is perfect, and I swear I could die right now and be happy.

The sounds of him giving me a sloppy blow job are like music, flooding my whole body with waves of tingling heat.

My hands are back in his hair, guiding him to exactly where I want him, but he barely needs it, seeming to know what I want and how I feel before I do.

I’d forgive him anything right now.

“I’m coming,” I warn, the words barely a gasp. “Swallow it all, Ari.”

The fervency in his gorgeous brown eyes assures me he never dreamed of doing otherwise, and that kills my last remaining threads of control. My orgasm blasts into me with the force of a speeding truck. “Ari!”

brIIIIING!

I jolt awake, the strident tone of the phone mingling with the remnants of my dream to make for a confusing happy ending. By the time awareness comes back to me, the phone’s stopped ringing and my dick is limp.

Heaving a sigh, I scrub my hands over my face and wonder how much longer this fucking puberty bullshit is going to continue.

Nightly wet dreams are wreaking havoc on my sheets, and I’m sick of doing laundry every day.

And that’s before even considering how it affects me while I’m awake.

Inconvenient boners at random times, surges in emotion—mostly the kind that convince people I need anger management therapy—and the constant inability to think clearly.

I used to be considered smart and strategic, but the last couple of years has killed that reputation and replaced it with one for being angry, aggressive, and out of control.

Which is what led to me meeting Ari Oensjord in the first place.

I haul myself into a sitting position solely so I can then bang my head against the wall.

The ironic thing is, the incident that brought me to Ari’s attention happened years ago, way before reproductive puberty made me…

unhinged. It was still a little excessive, but the worst part was an actual accident, and I’m pretty sure if my current reputation hadn’t been what it is, he wouldn’t have prejudged me so hard.

Was he a dick for doing so? Fuck yeah.

Did he deserve the dressing down my friend Dáithí assures me he got from his boss? Also yes.

Was his awkward, uncomfortable apology to me the least he could have done? Definitely yes.

Does he still think I’m on the same level as shit he’d scrape off his shoe? Sadly… yes.

My hopped-up hormones didn’t take it well when the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen treated me like public enemy number one. I’ve done my best to pretend I’m not attracted to him, and I think I’ve fooled everyone… except myself. Dreams like that are hard to ignore.

For a moment, I let myself remember the details, but somehow, now that I’m awake it’s not as satisfying—no pun intended.

I’m not really the type of guy who gets off on making my partners beg, and sure, it might be nice to see Ari looking at me like I’m the sun his whole world revolves around, but a huge part of what I’m attracted to is his arrogance.

No, not arrogance. That implies he’s overbearing. Confidence, maybe? There’s just this air about him, like he knows everything around him will do exactly what he wants it to. It’s the kind of thing you’re born with, like it’s bred into you, that natural assurance.

It’s so fucking sexy.

So yeah, dream me might have loved humbling Ari, but real me would rather see him with a bit more spark. Still on his knees, though. That was hot.

The phone rings, and I glance over at it, remembering with surprise that it woke me up. Who’s calling me at seven in the morning? I grab the handset, and the name on the screen causes a lump of dread in my stomach. Why is work calling? I’m not due back for two more days.

Unless they’re going to tell me not to bother.

I push aside that thought and answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Felix. It’s Lurlene at the clubhouse. You need to come in for a team meeting this morning at nine.”

What the fuck? I guess that’s a good thing, though—they wouldn’t call the whole team in just to fire me.

Would they?

Coach hates me, and I’ve got no doubt he’d enjoy firing me in front of the rest of the team, but I doubt he’d go to this kind of trouble. Nobody’s going to be happy about a meeting when we’re still technically on vacation.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll be there. Any clue—”

“Thanks, bye.” She hangs up abruptly. Damn.

Was that because she’s got calls to make or because she’s already been asked that question by a bunch of my teammates and doesn’t want to hear it again?

Does she even know why we’re being called in?

She’s got superpowers when it comes to knowing what’s going on within the team, but occasionally the management team still manages to keep things secret.

Whatever. I’m not going to find out anything if I don’t get moving.

I toss back the covers and get out of bed, grimacing as the clammy, cold cum in my boxers makes its presence known.

I hoped that wearing underwear to bed would help to mitigate the sheet-washing situation, but this is so gross, I think I’d rather do laundry every day.

I’m at the clubhouse in plenty of time and make my way to the dressing room. It’s the most likely place for a team meeting, or at least where a bunch of people will be. Someone will know where we need to go.

As I guessed, nearly the whole team is there already, but the mood—and the noise level—is a lot lower than usual.

Did… did someone die? I do a quick head count, then breathe a little easier.

Two guys are still missing, but they’re both always chronically late.

Their deaths would be an unlikely coincidence.

Ignoring the complete lack of logic behind that thought, I head toward my cubby.

As usual, my teammates get out of my way, and as usual, that combined pang of smugness and regret hits me.

Sure, most of them are assholes, and sure, some of them don’t deserve to be here, but there are some decent guys as well, and I…

I’m not lonely. But my shitty attitude that led to my teammates avoiding me also means that I don’t often get to experience the camaraderie of being on a team.

They love it on the ice when I’m mowing down the other team, but that doesn’t mean they want to hang out with me.

Not that I want to hang out with them… mostly.

Just, with our weird work schedules and traveling so much, sometimes they’re the only ones available to get a beer and talk about shit with.

On that despondent thought, I thump down onto the bench in front of my cubby.

“What’s wrong?” Gline asks, and I turn my head to look at him.

He’s not sitting or standing—oh, no. Gline is squatting on his bench, eyes closed, arms crossed in an X over his chest, back perfectly straight, weight on the balls of his feet.

I have no idea how long he’s been like that, but he’s rock solid, not a wobble or tremor in sight.

Goalies are fucking weird, but I guess I shouldn’t complain.

His weirdness is probably the only reason he’s willing to be somewhat friendly with me.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I assure him. “Just wondering what this meeting’s about.”

His eyes pop open, and his gaze slides toward me. My heartbeat picks up.

“Do you know something?” I lower my voice. “You know something.” Of course he does. He’s fully hardwired into the team and the club, our longest-standing veteran. I’m pretty sure he’s also got some kind of mind-reading ability. Maybe he links into our brains when we give him helmet taps.

He uncurls from his inexplicable squat and sits on the bench like a normal person. “I… might have heard something.”

I lean a little closer. “Feel like sharing?”

Doubt crosses his face, and that ball of dread returns.

“I mean, you don’t have to share,” I assure him, backpedaling. “Only if you want to. Or… not to sound conceited, but is it about me?”

His face doesn’t change, but he looks away, and my heart drops to my feet.

“Gline, am I getting fired?”

That brings his head back around fast, shock taking over his expression, and I’m not sure if it’s because I guessed right or because he never considered that option.

Before he can clarify, the already subdued room falls silent, and we look up to see that the general manager, Craig, has entered, along with the head of HR, Erik from Marketing, and some guy who’s kinda famil— Wait. Is that Henry Locke?

“Thanks for coming in on such short notice,” Craig says.

Like always when he’s talking to the team, he doesn’t bother to raise his voice, but he’s got the kind of natural charisma that means everyone shuts up so we can hear.

“I know you’re still on vacation, and we won’t keep you long.

There have been some changes here over the summer, and we wanted to communicate them before press releases go out. ”

That sounds… somewhat threatening.

“As of 11:59 last night, Coach Franks is no longer a part of the Warhammers organization. We thank him for the years he’s dedicated to this team and wish him all the best with future endeavors.”

Shock ripples around the room, but I sit like a stone statue. Franks, gone? That’s… Am I still dreaming?

I study Craig’s face carefully, looking for any hint that maybe I misheard or misunderstood him. There’s nothing, except… maybe he doesn’t actually wish Coach Franks the best. That’s not super surprising, since they clashed pretty much from the day Craig first got here.

Okay, so Franks is gone, hip hip hooray, someone organize the parade. But that means we need a new head coach…

My gaze darts back to the man I’m ninety-nine percent sure is Henry Locke, former NHL All-Star and, more recently, assistant coach for a team that’s made the NHL playoffs three seasons in a row. It has to be him, right? The new coach? Why else would he be here right now?

As though he can hear me thinking, his eyes lock with mine, and then Craig says, “I’d like to introduce your new coach, Henry Locke. We’re excited to have him aboard and look forward to great things.”

Coach Locke steps forward, his gaze scanning the room. “Good morning. Like Craig said, we won’t keep you from the last days of your vacation. Enjoy every second of your break, gentlemen, because when training camp starts, we’re making some changes.”