Chapter 21
WYATT CHASE
Asher looks so goddamn innocent that it feels like the calm before the storm, where I’m right on the horizon of my intentionally sterile world blowing up.
At least he doesn’t torture me with uncertainty for too when he says, “I mean… I trust you. And, would it really be that bad for you to show me the ropes?” I’m about to disagree, even as my stomach flutters, when he adds, “Not like a relationship or anything. Just to help get me more comfortable with my sexuality. It’s not that crazy, right? ”
No, it’s not crazy. What it is is batshit fucking insane.
And I’m definitely not considering it.
Am I?
No, I’m not considering it. What he’s proposing is a terrible idea. Idiotic. Still a fireable offense.
I shake my head, like it’s going to make my mind agree with my body, which is already buzzy with anticipation for a path that I absolutely cannot walk down.
Only, something about the idea that it would be to help him instead of me getting off makes it settle somewhere completely differently in my mind. Like, if I look through a slightly different angle on the kaleidoscope, it doesn’t seem all that ridiculous.
The beer must have gone to my head. I set the empty bottle down on the coffee table and look at him incredulously. “Asher,” I whine. There’s no other word to describe my slightly petulant, frustrated tone. Because what is this man doing to me?
It doesn’t help that I haven’t gotten laid in years. And more than that, it’s been so long since someone’s looked at me the way that he’s looking at me now. Like all he wants is to drown in this tension between us.
I want him, and some part of him knows it. The part that isn’t afraid to say what he wants and put himself out there.
I mean, who knows what rejection could do to his self-esteem? I’m embarrassed at myself for that one. My motives are far less than altruistic.
But there’s something about the juxtaposition of him being built like a brick house but also so sincere and asking for my help that’s so goddamn attractive. My incredibly disloyal body is responding to the proposition.
“I just feel really comfortable with you, and that doesn’t happen with many people. And a friends-with-benefits thing isn’t that weird, right?” He bites his lip then, giving me time to consider his words.
“Except that I’m still your physical therapist.” I’m getting tired of saying that, even though it’s still true.
“For another few months. And if you felt like something between us was interfering with my recovery, I’m sure that you’d put a stop to things. I always know that you have my best interest at heart, even if it’s not what I want to hear. Could you say the same for someone else?”
Well, that’s not fucking fair. He’s hitting at a place deep inside of me that he can’t even know exists. One where the idea of someone looking at me and seeing to the core of who I am as a person makes me feel worthwhile in this world.
Not because I’m Wyatt Chase, the former professional hockey player, but because I’m a person who always tries his best and wants to do the right thing.
I’ve found myself in a bit of a paradox. He sees the person I try to be, but if I give in to him, am I still that person anymore?
“Wyatt? Are you okay?” he asks, using my first name again. God, I’d love to hear my name on his lips while he comes undone at my fingertips. Or tongue.
I hold my hand up, trying to hang onto my last bits of fight. “There would have to be rules,” I say, mostly to myself.
Except that all it makes him do is scoot closer. “What rules? I love rules.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “Of course you do.”
He beams at me. “I mean, who’s in a better position to make sure that I don’t hurt myself? Just consider it a very important consideration in my return to sport plan.”
My stomach bottoms out, imagining all the positions that we could find ourselves in.
The reality is, this thing between us isn’t fizzling out.
Fighting it is getting harder by the day.
If I finally give in, I can control it on my terms. No more longing glances.
No more being wound so tight that I feel like I’m going to break in half.
I try to clear the lust from my voice when I tell him, “Whatever happens needs to stay between us. And it can never happen at school, okay?”
He nods enthusiastically, and I try not to be too charmed. “Yes, whatever makes you feel the most comfortable.”
“Your comfort is important too,” I stress. “There is no right or wrong way to do this, and I need you to be honest with me, always.”
“I can do that,” he agrees quickly.
Asher’s attracted to me. I’ve known that for weeks. Now, we’re just acting on it in a controlled environment. As long as we keep the lines clear, everything will be okay. And really, I don’t think my sanity would survive if I tried to fight against this much longer.
He scoots closer so that we’re almost touching but not quite. “Can I kiss you?”
I nod. No time like the present, I guess, even as I’m more nervous than I’d expected to be.
I think he’s going to go straight for my lips, but he nuzzles his beard against my cheek, inhaling my scent. “You always smell so fucking good,” he murmurs against the shell of my ear, sending little shocks through me.
For whatever experience he lacks, he makes up for it with sheer intuition. At least where I’m concerned.
When he ghosts his lips cross my jaw, my mind blanks out. I lean my head back against the sofa and he follows the movement, his broad chest pinning me against the cushions.
I curl my fingers into the soft material of his hoodie and pull him closer. I wish he’d just crawl into my lap and give me the friction that I couldn’t get in the hot tub, but I don’t want to push him. It’s agonizing, but I’m trying to go at his pace. This is, after all, for him.
Though, my cock seems to be liking what’s happening since I’m already hard. Thinking about him and experiencing him and finally getting a little bit of relief from this back-and-forth between us has me going zero-to-a-hundred embarrassingly fast.
“Asher,” I pant as his hands start to explore underneath my own hoodie. I took a quick shower after the game in the staff locker room and changed out of my requisite khakis and three-quarter-zip that I wear on the ice.
Now, I’m dressed almost exactly like him–in a Renegades hoodie and a pair of black joggers that provide way too much access. If he shifted his hands down a few inches, under my waistband, he’d be right on top of my throbbing cock.
I shudder with the realization and it causes him to lean back and look at me. “Is this okay?”
Suddenly, I’m feeling like the inexperienced one, wondering how far this is going to go and if I’m going to come in my pants before we even move past first base.
And then he says, “Can I touch you?” and I feel like I’m going to come undone under his piercing stare.