Chapter 22
Theo O'Keefe
My heart beats so loudly I’m sure Jamal can hear it. I stare as he licks his lips. They’re so full and soft and taste so good. Last night I stupidly ran when I thought he was going to kiss me. He’s damp from the shower, and drops of water cling to him as if they don’t want to let go. I can relate.
My pride got in the way, thinking it was a pity kiss. I’ve never told anyone about my past. Sarah lived most of it with me in real time, so she’s the only other person who knows.
There isn’t an ounce of pity in his eyes tonight, but there are hundreds, maybe thousands of people still in the building.
“Are you going with the guys tonight?” I ask instead of kissing him.
“Yeah,” he grumbles.
“Don’t sound so excited to celebrate an amazing win.” I force a laugh out.
“Are you going?” Jamal scratches the scar under his chin.
I shrug. “Probably not.”
“You should. You played amazing and had a couple assists. We wouldn’t have won without you.” His aqua eyes fill with sincerity.
“Ooor,” I say, dragging out the word. “I could show you where I thought you spent all your Christmases, and you can console me by telling me how great I played.” My feet shuffle without my permission, but I maintain confident eye contact while my stomach crashes into all my other organs.
“That would be complicated,” he says softly, letting me down easy.
“No, you’re right. Stupid idea. Have a great night.” I return to my locker and dress in ten seconds flat.
“Theo,” he calls after me, but I jog away, down the hall and out the door.
Cold air fills my lungs and cools me from the inside.
I’d be easy to spot with a heat sensor since I’m flaring at a million degrees.
My feet take me across the street, and I keep my head down so I’m not recognized.
I’m in Enforcers gear, but so is everyone else.
I’d be more recognizable if I’d put my suit back on.
Diehard fans hang around, and I don’t need to be seen sulking because my stepbrother turned me down. I wish I could excuse my behavior as impulsive, but I knew exactly what I was doing.
All I could think about was kissing him again and the way his body felt under mine last night. Jamal pulled me on top of him. Fuck, I can’t think about it.
Someone yells my last name, but I keep walking. There might be stories tomorrow online about how rude I am, but that’s not new info. I have to cool down. There’s a subway station a block up, but I’m still not sure which train to get on, and I can’t ask.
A hand closes on my arm, and I turn, ready to strike, but it’s Jamal.
“Jesus, could you slow down? I’ve been hollering at you for a block, and I’m not some bloodhound able to track you.”
I stare mutely.
“We were on Park Ave, right? Are you walking all the way, taking a train, or should we call a car?”
“I don’t know which train,” I admit.
“I do.” He steers me toward the subway with a hand on my coat sleeve.
Now that I have what I want, I’m jumpy, afraid of being seen with him.
He’s right, we’d be complicated, and it would be insane to start something.
But I don’t ask what he’s doing or if he’s going home with me or making sure I get home.
My dick wants him to come home with me, but my brain is screaming danger. I can’t trust that he won’t use what I told him against me.
I’ve got on a baseball cap, and he’s wearing the do-rag I gave him in Detroit. We keep our heads down so no one recognizes us. He nudges me at our stop, and I follow him up to the street. We walk in silence, and I’m out of words. Anything I say could burst this bubble, and he’d leave.
The doorman is ready for us, opening it with a slightly bowed head.
“I’m sure you remember John’s son, Jamal King. He’s been here every year for Christmas,” I say to the confused doorman. He smiles and lurches ahead of us to press the elevator button.
“Good day, sirs.” He tips his hat as the elevator doors shut.
“What the hell was that?” Jamal says with amusement.
“It’s fun for me to paint John as a liar, even if he never knows.” It’s petty, but I don’t care.
“Home sweet home.” We exit the elevator, and I open the door with a flourish of my arm.
“What. The. Hell. Is. This?” He strides down the hall to the huge living room windows, taking it all in. “You live here?”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Not by choice,” I say defensively.
Jamal runs his hand over the back of the couch, then rounds it to push on the cushion. My mom would faint at the impropriety of bringing John’s bastard son here.
“It’s so…”
“It’s gaudy and ugly and totally terrible,” I supply.
“People live here? You live here? Here?” His arms flail.
“I promised my mom I would live here to be safe.” I can barely restrain my eye roll.
“You’re not safe from obscenely bad taste that… No, I won’t insult your home. I’m sorry.”
I rub the back of my neck. “No, it’s fine. I hate it here.”
“Why don’t you leave?” He drags me over to sit on the antique couch that’s less comfortable than a wooden chair.
“It’s complicated,” I throw his words back at him.
“I deserve that. Tell me anyway.” He’s determined, but I’m stubborn.
“It’s a long, boring story for another day.” A day that will never come, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Jamal agrees with the lift of his chin. “For real, the two of us?” He points between us.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I’m not sure how to be his friend, but I’m not forcing myself on him.
“I’m an overthinker,” he blurts out, and stands to pace. “I worry about what other people think or say. Second-guessing myself is a full-time job. I admire you.”
“What?” All I can think is he hit his head in the game when I wasn’t looking.
“You’re willing to put yourself out there and say what’s on your mind and damn the consequences.”
“Don’t admire that. I have one friend and teammates who tolerate me. People genuinely like you.” I catch his wrist so he stops pacing and faces me. “You see the big picture, long-term outcomes, while I’m impulsive and reckless.”
Jamal leans forward in slow motion, staring at my lips, and I’m mesmerized. I’m not sure if he’s giving me time to say no or working up his courage. I’m immobile, willing myself not to wreck the moment. He smells like his body wash and something uniquely him. It scrambles my brain.
His mouth is centimeters from mine, and he whispers my name. I love the way he says it, like it’s a full sentence or a longing only I can quell. Jamal’s lips brush against mine in the barest of touches. I ache all over.
He says my name again, testing out the sound with our lips touching. I’ve never been kissed gently. Reverently. As if I matter.
I’m squeezing his wrist too hard and move my hands to his hips. I want to touch him all over. Learn the curve of his muscles, trace the veins in his arms to identify where his life’s blood is most precious, most vulnerable.
Jamal groans into my mouth, and it changes everything.
He crashes against my chest, kissing me frantically as if he’s trying to prove me wrong.
That he can be impulsive and reckless too.
That doesn’t bode well for either of us.
When his tongue meets mine, I stop caring about why it’s wrong and deepen the kiss.
He tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted.
His arms wind around my neck, and his fingers twist in my hair. I’ve got my hands full of his ass as we move together. Jamal circles his hips, and his muscles flex under my grip. The man has an ass. Hockey players are known for great asses, but his is meaty, powerful, and strong.
Jamal’s hard cock grinds on mine, and a strangled gurgling sound escapes my throat. I want to see him—all of him—naked.
Fuck.
I’m going to come at the thought of all his smooth brown skin. I need time. I’m greedy and crave time to explore every inch of him, time where it can be just us, time where nothing else matters.
“Are you okay?” He pulls back and adds, “You said ‘fuck.’”
My mouth starts talking before my brain can stop me. “Well, you got me worked up and on edge.” I sound like a middle schooler who has never gotten his dick wet.
“Me too,” he murmurs, nipping at my lobe. “I’m sort of clueless,” he says shyly.
I let go of him, and he balances on my thighs. The couch groans under our weight.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks softly, biting his lip. “I understand if messin’ with somebody this green doesn’t do it for you.” His unsure gaze drops to the floor.
The impact of his words is like a slap to my face and jolts me back to reality. He’s not saying he regrets this, he’s… I’m not sure what to think.
“I like the way you talk to me.” I kiss his down-turned lips. “You don’t pretend, and I like it.”
“How do I normally pretend?” he grumbles, inching away.
“Pretend is the wrong word. You’re guarded, always watching and weighing your words.” My hand on his ass keeps him in place. “Sometimes—like now—you relax and…” I can’t say that he makes me feel special because that isn’t what this is.
Instead, I hitch my hips and palm my erection. “Does this seem like you’re not doing it for me?” I splay my fingers so he can clearly see the outline of my very hard length. He tilts his head as if to say he doesn’t know.
“Can I touch you?” The curious side of my lust takes over, and I cup his bulge when he nods. “Oh my fucking God! This is a weapon. How do you hide this thing so it doesn’t enter the room five minutes before you?” He’s so thick.
His dick jumps in my hand, and I take the hint, stroking it. Jamal’s skin darkens a shade, with a blush. My insides are doing backflips as I bring him closer to attack his mouth.
“Is this okay?” I ask as my hand hovers over his waistband, and when he moans, I take it as consent and dip my hand into his sweatpants.
Luckily for me, I’m too busy kissing him to blurt out all the thoughts in my head.
He’s got the biggest dick I’ve held, and I can’t believe he doesn’t have men trailing after him like groupies.