Chapter 11
ELEVEN
TREY
Asoft rushing sound came to me first, then a blinding pain. With a groaned, “FUCK,” I buried my head under the pillow.
Why do I do this shit to myself?
I knew the answer. I wasn’t an idiot. It always led back to the same fucking thing…person.
Donnie Malachek
Dad, if I ignored everything that title should mean.
Last night, everything was going fine until my phone blew the hell up with yet another Donnie tirade.
Fuck. My phone!
The sudden thought slammed into me. My eyes flew open, only to slam shut immediately. Even with my head buried between my arms under the pillow, the whiteness of the sheets was too fucking bright for my poor maltreated body.
One deep breath.
Then another.
And another.
The pulsating orb of agony behind my eyeballs dissipated somewhat, and I ran my hands around the bed looking for it, but it was nowhere near me.
I whimpered before pushing myself up out of the pillows and blankets.
My stomach churned with the sudden movement.
Nausea washed over me. My head hung between my shoulders, too heavy to hold up.
One breath.
Then another.
And another.
And again.
In a move so slow it could have been a video replay, I moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
Another wave of sickness washed over me.
I fucking hated puking, but it looked like that was on my to-do list for the morning.
Probably had been last night. And it was definitely for the best. My stomach was most likely still filled with a massive amount of liquor.
With a quick inhale that I held until my lungs burned, I slowly peeled open my eyes, shielding them with one hand while the other gripped the edge of the mattress.
The held breath hissed as it was released when my body refused to hold it any longer.
The hand over my eyes fell to grip the edge of the mattress with the other one.
Once I felt like puking and falling flat on my face had been removed from the URGENT! task list, confusion and questions set in.
Where the hell were the guys?
Hell. Where the hell was I?
My gaze swept the space around the bed.
A living space with the best electronics and luxury furnishings.
A large kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances, a massive island with expensive metal and leather barstools.
Definitely not a hotel. Looked more like a high-end loft based on the finishings. A fucking expensive one.
Had I hooked up with someone?
Coach told me to quit acting like a fucking fool, and less than two months later, I’m back to doing just that.
Fuck!
Were there photos?
Frantic anxiety flooded my system, shooting through me like a jolt of electricity. Please don’t let there be any fucking photos or videos. That was the last thing I needed with my dad always on my fucking ass and New York questioning whether to keep me or trade me.
Jumping to my feet, I renewed the earlier, half-hearted search for my phone. I had to fucking know. I needed to get ahead of this…
My eyes lit upon the nightstand. A piece of stationery covered in neat block letters lay under an empty highball glass.
Next to them sat a six-pack of water bottles still wrapped together in blue shrink wrap, a bottle of ibuprofen, another of acetaminophen, a box of hydration packets, a toothbrush, and toothpaste, both still in the package, some fizzy hangover tablets, and…
recovery patches? All of it still wrapped and sealed.
Ignoring my pounding head, I pulled the note out from under the glass.
DON’T PANIC
The items on the nightstand are all brand new and still sealed in the manufacturer’s packaging, so they are safe.
While the recovery patches won’t help you this time, the rest of the items will.
Take some ibuprofen, a dose of fizzy hangover tablets, and then drink a couple of bottles of water with the hydration packets.
You should start feeling better pretty quickly.
In case you don’t remember, my name is Slone.
You’re in a private apartment at EDGE, the kink club owned by my friends, Priest and Cam.
Their partner owns the Nighthawks. You met them last night at the game.
You were too far gone to put into a rideshare, even if you could’ve remembered where the team was staying.
I would’ve asked Alex and Aiden, but he’d already taken Aiden home, and he didn’t answer his phone when I called and texted.
No worries about where I slept. I slept on the sofa.
Thankfully, the open concept allowed me to keep an eye on you without being too intrusive.
As for your belongings…
Your phone is on the charging dock.
Your clothes are in the wash. They might or might not be finished, depending on when you wake up. If they aren’t, there are some joggers, a t-shirt, and a hoodie laid out for you. They should fit.
Sneak out, or stay put. It’s up to you. There’s food in the fridge. The password to the WiFi is EDGENashPH1. The address is on the bottom of the stationery. And I’ve also included my number.
Memories of the day and night before, and the man—Slone, as the note reminded me, as if I could possibly fucking forget the sexy as fuck man I’d been drooling over since the first time I saw him at a game—and how he stepped in when I spiraled.
I didn’t know if there were pictures, and if there were…
well, then, there were. All that I could do now was mitigate and spin. And it could wait because…
This seemed so weird to admit, but Slone’s voice spoke to me. I didn’t read the note in as much as he spoke it to me in my head as if he stood before me giving a monologue.
And that voice.
Fuck me.
That voice.
So soft.
So…commanding.
All without being dictatorial or demeaning.
The tone, the inflection, and the care that eked out between the syllables of his words—words that felt intentional—they wove themselves through me, making me want—no, need—to obey.
As much as I hated being told what to do, I normally would be scathing at that thought, but I wasn’t. I felt…calm?
Did that even make any sense?
Or…
Was it the way he showed up game after game to cheer me on?
Or how friendly he had been before the night I went off the rails?
Could it be because he’d left me a note, giving me the information I would need and want without leaving me a stressed-out mess?
Could it be the care package he left on the nightstand for me?
Or the way he respected me even though I’m sure, given my usual behavior when I got this fucked up, I threw myself at him, offering him whatever he wanted?
Did it even matter?
Pushing the jumble of thoughts away, I did as he suggested.
Grabbing the package of water, I tore into it, twisting the cap off the first bottle I wrestled free.
I poured a small amount into the glass, then ripped open the hangover tablets.
Two plops followed by fizzing when I dropped the first one, then the other, into the glass.
As they dissolved, I mixed hydration packets into the rest of the water bottles and opened both the pain relievers, tumbling the correct dosages into my palm.
I tossed them into my mouth. Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back, draining the rest of the first bottle of water while I swallowed the tablets.
The room temperature liquid wet my dry mouth and soothed my parched throat.
Letting my chin drop to my chest, I sighed, then traded the empty water bottle for the glass of fizzy shit I hated but knew would help right the mess I’d made of myself.
I took it like the shot of tequila that put me in this hell, twitching with a bone-deep shiver.
No matter how many times I drank the stuff, the reaction was always the same.
The glass landed on the nightstand with a soft thud as I reached for a second bottle of water.
My hand never made it, stopping halfway as a set of toes, then feet and ankles appeared on the carpet before me.
My eyes traveled upward over strong, lightly haired calves, to defined, well-muscled thighs that disappeared behind white terry cloth wrapped snugly around trim hips.
The bulge behind the towel and the cum ditches above it made my mouth water.
Then came the abs, not overly cut, but still there.
But it was the thick slabs of muscle on his chest that took my breath.
By the time I reached the man’s face, the head between my thighs throbbed more than the one on my shoulders, and drool pooled in my mouth, forcing me to swallow as I drowned in his intense, honeyed whiskey gaze.
Holy fuck.
When did hallucinations become part of hangovers?
There could be no other explanation for the Greek god who sprouted up in front of me because, yeah, I pulled hotties galore, but this man?
Holy fuck.
Did I say that already?
He picked up a bottle of water from the nightstand, holding it out to me silently. Not a cock—fuck, my eyes dropped to the bulge between his thighs. Was it larger?
Focus, Malachek. Focus.
One breath. Then two.
Where were we? Oh, right. Water.
My gaze lifted to his, and even with me getting distracted by his dick, which was definitely bigger, I found the exact same—patient—look. Not even a cock of his brow or a twitch of his lips as he waited for me to decide if I would take what he offered, as if he weren’t sure I would.
The man must be nuts. I’d take anything he offered. Starting with the command in his note and now the bottle he held out to me. The hard plastic that touched my lips was the last thing I wanted to taste, but something in me wanted to please him.
After several gulps so loud in the silence between us that they felt like a third being in the room, I lowered the bottle only to stop when his hand bounced palm up as if he were encouraging me to lift the bottle back to my mouth to drink more.
Doing as he asked, he smiled and spoke for the first time. “Good boy.”
The words should have infantilized me, but instead, they lit a fire in my belly that spread a warm, tingly feeling through me, but not slowly.
No, it burst from the center of me like fireworks in a dark summer sky.
The tiny embers landed and set fire to everything inside me that they touched, engulfing me in an inferno of…
something I don’t know I’ve ever felt before.
Once the last drop slid down my throat, I lowered the bottle.
He took it, dropped it in the trash next to the nightstand, and held out his right hand.
Rough skin rasped against rough skin as I pulled myself to my feet with the hand I placed mine into.
His stoic face finally showed emotion. At least, that was what I told myself the meaning behind the nearly indiscernible widening of his eyes and the twitch in his brow meant.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered, going out on a limb with the honorific.
“Do you know what that means?”
“Respect?” My statement turned into a question as my voice lifted at the end. Unintentionally.
I overheard Aiden, Gavin, and Shane when they were talking kink the night before.
Sex and I were old friends. I lost my virginity at fourteen (girl), but my first blowjob happened at thirteen (guy).
First threesome was at sixteen (guy & girl).
But I’d never dipped my toes in the kink pool.
I preferred sex with guys because I liked being spoiled and taken care of.
Not saying girls didn’t do that shit, but every woman I’d ever been with expected me to be the man with the plan between the sheets.
It felt fine. I made sure they enjoyed themselves, but…
I hadn’t really enjoyed myself because the role felt wrong.
They were hot as fuck, and my cock was all in until we got down to business. Then it fell apart.
He leaned against the wall next to the bathroom door, his arms folded over his chest, before saying, “That’s what I thought.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
His eyes shifted, and mine followed, landing on the nightstand.
“Did you read the note?”
“Um, yeah.”
He nodded, rubbed a hand over his mouth and beard. “Good. So you get that you’re in an apartment above a kink club?”
“Yes, and you said your friends Priest and Cam own the club.”
He nodded again, slowly.
“And I heard you own the location in Manchester.”
“With Ewen.”
“Yeah, that was really weird.”
His brows drew together, creating deep grooves between his eyes. “What’s that?”
“Partying with Coach Grigor’s younger brother,” I smirked. I couldn’t imagine Coach Grigor being a party animal. The man was locked down tighter than a virgin’s asshole.
“But not Alex?” he asked.
Alex? “Oh, you mean Sasha.” At Slone’s nod, I continued, “No, and I can’t really say why.”
Slone’s head fell forward as he laughed.
How the man laughing like a loon made him sexier I couldn’t explain, but it did.
It also loosened the towel knotted at his waist. The white terry cloth fell open, and the waterworks in my mouth turned on full blast. Drool pooled.
I swallowed, but I still had to wipe my mouth and chin.
I dropped to my knees in front of him, sucking his dick down in one go.
“Fuck, kid. Give a guy some warning,” he cursed, one hand tilting my jaw up, so he slid into my throat while the other buried itself in my hair on top of my head.
I’d show him just how much I wasn’t a fucking kid. Hollowing my cheeks, I sucked him in until he thickened against my tongue, the head of his cock filling my throat, forcing me to breathe through my nose. Water flooded my mouth, mixing with the salty taste of him.
“Your mouth feels so fucking good wrapped around my dick,” he said with a tiny push, going deeper into my throat. I loved it, but I needed more. I wanted more. Wanted him to fuck me. My face. My ass.
Especially after last night. After he denied us both because I was drunk. No one had ever done that before. Every man I had ever been with took whatever I offered, no matter how drunk I was at the time.