Chapter 7 Wes #2
“What are you waiting for, Ryan? Suck it already.”
Surprise jolted through me. He only called me Ryan when he was taunting me. And right now he was taunting me about sucking his dick.
Jesus.
My bravado faltered, just for a second. Until I saw his pulse hammering in the hollow of his throat, and realized he was as nervous and excited as I was.
I took a breath and lowered my head.
Then I closed my mouth over his swollen tip and sucked.
Jamie’s hips snapped up instantly, his breath leaving his throat on a ragged shudder. “Oh Jesus.”
I remember wondering if he’d ever been blown before. The shock and awe in his voice had been so raw. So sexy. So I’d wondered, but not for long. Not when he started whispering the hottest, filthiest commands at me.
“More,” he muttered. “Take more. Take it all.”
I sucked him deeper into my mouth, almost to the base, and just when he moaned, I released him, gliding my tongue along the long, hard length of him until his dick was glistening. I lapped at the moisture leaking out of his tip, and the taste of him infused my tongue, making my head spin.
I was blowing my best friend. It was so surreal. It was what I’d dreamed about for so long, and the fantasy was nothing compared to the reality of it.
“Fuck, yeah.” Canning’s hips began to rock as I took him in my mouth again.
I licked the crown of his cock, teasing, savoring, then taking him deep again. I didn’t dare peer up at him. I was too afraid to look him in the eye—afraid he’d be able to see on my face how much I wanted him.
“Jesus, Wes, you’re way too good at this.”
The praise just lit me up. Holy hell. He was thrusting into my mouth because I turned him on.
His fingers suddenly tangled in my hair, tightening when I swallowed him as far as I could take him.
“Oh Christ. Keep doing that, man. Let me fuck your mouth.”
Every husky thing he said practically made me go up in flames. I knew I would enjoy this. But if he was too? Mind bending. I quickened the pace, squeezing his shaft on every upstroke, tighter than I thought he’d like, but he kept muttering harder, faster.
My eyes squeezed shut as I worked him over, determined to make him lose control, to make him feel the same urgent need wreaking havoc on my body.
“Wes…” A choked sound left his lips. “Fuck, Wes, you’re making me come.”
His fingers pulled my hair to the point of pain, his abs tightening as his hips rocked faster. A few seconds later, he groaned. The husky sound vibrated against my lips as he went still, thrust deep, and came inside my mouth while I swallowed up every last dro—
“You hoping one of those bottles holds up a little sign for you and says ‘order me’?”
A male voice jolts me back to the present. I blink, disoriented. I’m still at the bar, still standing at the counter and staring at the liquor bottles. Shit. I’d totally spaced out. And I’m semi-hard now, thanks to the memory of my last night with Jamie Canning.
Gulping, I turn to find a smiling stranger beside me.
“Seriously,” he adds, his smile widening. “You’ve been eyeing those bottles for almost five minutes. The bartender gave up on trying to ask you what you wanted.”
The bartender had talked to me? He probably thinks I’m a total weirdo.
The guy next to me doesn’t look like a weirdo, though.
He’s really good-looking, actually. Late twenties, wearing faded jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, a full-sleeve tattoo covering his right arm.
Tribal shit, mixed with skulls and dragons and some other badass imagery.
He’s skinnier than I usually like, but not anorexic thin.
Not entirely my type, but he’s not not my type, either.
He’s definitely hook-up material, and from the way he’s checking me out, I know he’d be down.
“You with those guys?” He gestures to the table of hockey jackets.
I nod.
“Whatcha celebrating?”
“We won the Frozen Four tonight.” I pause. “College hockey championship.”
“No shit. Congrats, man. So you play hockey, huh?” His gaze lingers on my chest and arms before sliding back to my face. “It shows.”
Yeah, he’d be down.
I glance at the table, where Cassel catches my eye. He grins when he notices my companion, then turns back to the guys, laughing at something Landon just said.
“So what’s your name?” my stranger asks.
“Ryan.”
“I’m Dane.”
I nod again. I can’t seem to muster up any charm.
No cocky remarks, no blatant come-ons. I won a championship game tonight—I should be celebrating.
I should invite this very attractive guy back to the hotel, hang the do-not-disturb sign on the door so Cassel gets the hint, and screw Dane’s goddamn brains out.
But I don’t want to. I’d just be trying to screw Canning out of my system, and I know I’d feel like shit after.
“Sorry, gotta get back to my boys,” I say abruptly. “Nice chatting with you, man.”
I march across the bar before he can say another word. I don’t turn around to see if he looks disappointed or to make sure he isn’t following me. I just tap Cassel on the shoulder and tell him I’m taking off.
It’s another five minutes before I’m able to convince him I haven’t been abducted by aliens. I plead a headache, blame it on the adrenaline and the beers and the temperature and everything else I can think of, until finally he gives up on coaxing me to stay, and I’m able to leave the bar.
It’s twenty blocks back to the hotel, but I decide to walk instead of cabbing it. I could use the fresh air and the time to clear my head. Except now I’m ten blocks into the walk, and my head still isn’t clear. It’s fogged in with images of Canning.
I can’t stop picturing the way he looked last night. His sexed-up hair, the flush on his cheeks. He’d either gotten laid or had been about to. And the chick had been hot, a tiny little pixie of a girl with big blue eyes. He’d always gone for the petite ones.
Gritting my teeth, I force the girl out of my head and think about the goodbye Canning and I shared.
The place isn’t the same without you.
It had sounded like he’d meant that. Hell, he probably had. We’d spent the best summers of our lives at Elites. Obviously one BJ hadn’t wrecked all the good memories for him.
I shove my hands in my pockets as I stop at a crosswalk and wait for the signal to turn green. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Probably not. We’re both graduating, about to start our post-college lives. He’s on the west coast; I’m heading north to Toronto. Our paths aren’t likely to cross.
Maybe that’s for the best. Two measly encounters this weekend, just two, yet somehow they’d managed to erase the four years I’d spent getting over him. It’s obvious I can’t be around Canning without wanting him. Without wanting more.
But this weekend wasn’t enough for me, damn it.
I grab my phone before I can stop myself, halting at a newspaper dispenser and leaning against the metal box as I pull up a web browser.
The site takes a while to load, but once it does, it takes no time to get to the contact page.
I skim the staff directory until I find the phone number for the camp director.
He knows me. He likes me. Hell, for the past four years he’s been hounding me to come back.
He would do me this favor if I asked him.
I click on the number. Then I hesitate, my finger hovering over the call button.
I’m a selfish bastard. Or maybe I’m a fucking masochist. Canning can’t give me what I want, but I still can’t stop myself from wanting it. I want whatever I can get—a conversation, a joke gift, a smile, anything. I might not be able to have the steak, but fuck it, I’m fine with some scraps.
I just… I just can’t let him go yet.