Epilogue #2
Two hours later, I let myself into Slone’s loft at EDGE, and I dropped my keys in the bowl next to the door, smirking at it while I ran my fingers around the edge.
If the any of the team told me their person got them a bowl for their keys because they’d lost them, I’d have laughed them out of the locker room, but then my bowl showed up.
I hung my coat on the hooks in the entryway closet, then slipped off my shoes and placed them on the shoe rack in the closet.
“Slone?” I called out.
The sound bounced back at me in the cavernous room.
If Slone were here, he would’ve heard me.
The loft bedroom opened onto the rest of the apartment.
The only divider was the metal banister that ran up the stairs and along the edge of the upper floor.
I loved this space. Big, loud, and open. Just like me.
My stomach growled, and I sighed. Exhaustion reigned supreme at this point in the season; eating came second to sleeping. I turned to the fridge, connecting my phone to the sound system with a few taps on the screen, and then hitting shuffle on my Slone playlist.
Music blared through the loft. I wiggled to the beat as I started foraging for food. Shuffling some things around, I found a few containers in the back with tape on them. Hockey tape. Pulling them out one by one, I lost it.
He’d written notes on them. Hands off notes.
Don’t touch
I’m talking about you, Ewen
This is for Trey.
Trey. NOT Ewen. Trey
Keep looking, Ewen
It’s still no, Ewen
Hands off unless you’re Trey
I couldn’t breathe from wheezing and snorting. Tears rolled down my face. Warmth flooded my chest. I couldn’t recall anyone doing something like this for me who wasn’t paid to do it. And the notes didn’t count. Those just made it even sweeter.
Slone took feeding people seriously. Real fucking serious.
He cooked for me and Ewen and their buddy Taz, and Ewen’s little brother Ollie and Coach Grigor.
He even cooked for the Grigors’ mom and dad, who I recently learned the brothers and Slone took turns caring for because of their health issues.
All that cooking meant the fridge stayed full of leftovers because the man seriously had no clue how to cook small portions.
He’d told me from the start I was welcome to anything, but this…
It made me want to sob.
And throw him to the floor and ride him and suck him and tell him I love him at least twice, but probably more like fifty times, especially when he edged me until I cried.
Fuck, now I was getting hard. Not that it would do much, or that I even could.
The cock cage I wore would make it deflate.
Daddy wouldn’t let me cum anymore without his permission.
Or his presence. Our Free Use rules went both ways, but sometimes Daddy took control when I dropped to my knees for him or climbed onto his lap to warm his cock.
I didn’t mind. It was Daddy’s right to do with me what he wanted.
I groaned, putting one of the meals in the microwave, slamming the door, and punching the buttons.
My stomach churned with the need clawing at me, wanting my cock to get hard.
It was the worst and best kind of torture being caged for extended periods of time.
I loved it, though. So damn much. I loved that Slone locked it on me.
That he wore a key to it around his neck.
The rule allowed me to remove it myself for hockey stuff, but I always asked Slone to unlock it for me, even though I carried a key as well.
The carnival tilt-o-whirl my mind rode on continued spinning out of control.
Spinning on my heel, I put away the other containers.
With the life-altering, emotionally aggressive mindfuckery out of sight, I contemplated banging my head on the soapstone countertop, but a concussion at this point in the season wasn’t ideal.
Taking me out of the game wouldn’t help.
It would only remove the biggest distraction to what had just run through my head.
Sometimes, like Daddy, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I’d been so worried. Daddy had too, even if he had said nothing. That was okay. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew. He worried where I’d be going, if I’d be leaving him.
As if.
Ugh! I was driving myself nuts.
Like, seriously nuts. Like a full bag of mixed nuts. All the nuts. All the nuts from all the places that had nuts, kind of nuts.
The track switched. That song came on, and my body immediately swayed to the music.
The runaway emotional minefield slowed as my new favorite song blared to life and filled the loft.
I stumbled across it on social media. It trended on all the short-video apps, and it got stuck in my head.
Now, I couldn’t listen to it just once. Whenever it came on, I hit repeat.
I had to. People, aka the boys, could not find out the number of times I’d listened to this song in a row. It was…embarrassing how hooked I was.
Hitting repeat, despite the embarrassment, I cranked the volume, dancing around the kitchen while singing along. The microwave dinged, and I pulled out my food, setting it aside to dance. Arms thrown out to my sides, I wiggled to the beat, gathering a plate and utensils, setting them down…