Chapter 28 Jamie
TWENTY-EIGHT
JAMIE
I wasn’t exaggerating before. I’m addicted to Ryan Wesley.
And right now I desperately need a fix. A couple of weeks ago, getting it on with a dude had freaked me out.
Now it’s as obvious as breathing that everything about this guy turns me on—his raspy voice, his powerful body, the tattoos inked all over his golden skin.
My mouth is on his in a heartbeat, my tongue down his throat as I straddle his muscular thighs.
He sighs against my lips. “You’re such a horndog.”
I totally am. I rock into his lower body, my palms skimming up and down his broad chest. The question now isn’t whether I want to fool around with this man. The question is how I’m ever going to give it up. I push that thought overboard, though, because I’m about to combust.
But I might have been too hasty with my choice of hook-up spots, because the front seat is too small to accommodate two horny-as-fuck hockey players.
My legs are already starting to cramp, and when I shift around trying to get more comfortable, my back hits the horn and a blast of sound hits the air.
Wes bursts out laughing. Then laughs harder when I make another attempt to reposition myself. “Backseat?” he chokes out.
Much better idea. He climbs over first, his butt cheek smacking me in the face as he heaves himself into the back.
I land on him with a thud, and now we’re both laughing our asses off.
It’s just as cramped back here. We can’t lie side by side, so I’m on top of him, and when I bend down to kiss him, my forehead slams into the door handle.
And when I grab my head in surprise, I manage to elbow him in the eye socket.
“Holy fuck!” Wes yells. “You trying to kill me, Canning?”
“No, but—”
“Abort!” he says between laughs.
Screw that. All this shifting and maneuvering has succeeded in my rubbing my aching dick all over his body. If I don’t get off soon, I’m going to lose my mind.
“We’ve got this,” I tell him. Then I sit up and bump my head on the car roof.
“Uh-huh,” he says solemnly. “Seems like it.”
“Hockey players like it rough,” I argue, reaching into the front seat for Wes’s shorts. In the back pocket I find his wallet. A second later, I flick a condom at him and order, “Suit up.”
“Yes, Coach.” He still looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but his gray eyes are now glittering with lust. Keeping our gazes locked, he eases his boxers down his hips.
I shuck my briefs as he covers himself, then curl over and take him in my mouth. The medicinal taste of the latex fills my mouth, but I ignore it. This is the first time lube hasn’t entered the equation, so I want to make sure the condom is nice and wet before I dare ride his cock.
God, and that’s something I never imagined I’d be doing. Riding another man’s cock.
“Baby,” his voice is low and husky. “I’m loving that, but you don’t have to do it. Give me my wallet.”
I fumble into the front seat one more time and pass it to him. He removes another packet and tears it open. This one is full of lube. A second later, a deliciously slippery hand slides up my crease, rubs my taint and makes me shiver.
“That’s handy,” I rasp.
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy working me open with his fingers.
When we do this, there’s always one awkward moment when he first breaches me. Before my body gets the joke. But now that I know how this works, it doesn’t even slow me down. I’m eager for it. And it’s only a couple of minutes later when I’m pushing Wes’s hand away and straddling his lap again.
The way I handle him is nothing like the way I’d touch a woman.
He’s as big and strong as I am, and I don’t have to worry about hurting him.
His broad shoulders make a sturdy place to put my hands.
Rising up, I wait for him. He positions himself beneath me, and we both hiss when I slide down over his hard cock.
For a moment I don’t move. We’re nose to nose, blinking into each other’s eyes.
Wes’s tongue emerges to slick my lower lip.
And I dive onto his mouth, jamming my tongue inside.
There isn’t a lot of space for me to move, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m riding him in short, fast strokes. The angle is heaven—I can bear down on him just where I need him.
Wes is cupping my ass in strong hands, and with each thrust, he lets out a sexy grunt. Our chests rub together as our mouths lock again. My dick is trapped between our stomachs, slicking us both with pre-come.
My climax takes me by surprise. One second I’m fighting Wes over whose tongue belongs in whose mouth. The next, I’m fighting the urge to explode. And losing. “Fuck. I have to come.”
Wes moans into my mouth, and I jam myself down on him one more time. That’s when I feel it—the whole-body orgasm. My limbs tingle unpredictably as I slump forward, my face landing in Wes’s neck. The world goes fuzzy at the edges, but I feel myself shooting all over him while he bucks beneath me.
He lets loose a growl, and the muscles in his neck tighten all at once. Then he drops his head back and shudders through his release.
Heavy breathing and thudding hearts are all that can be heard in the car afterwards. I’m lazing against his sticky chest, too blissed out to move. His hands trace lazy patterns over my back.
I could get used to this. I really could.
After a bit, Wes slaps me on the ass. “Up, baby. We can’t stay here forever.”
I hate the way that sounds, but it’s hard to argue the truth. So I peel my satisfied body off his, and we begin the ridiculous process of trying to clean up in a confined space without further injury.
We manage, but just barely.
Wes and I drag our bleary selves out of bed the next morning and book it over to the rink, where the other coaches already congregate.
The parents are arriving at nine, the first scrimmage is scheduled for ten, and Pat has a prep list that’s a mile long. He begins to bark instructions once Wes and I round out the group, then stops midsentence when he notices Wes’s face.
“What the hell happened to you, Wesley?”
I press my lips together to fight a laugh. Our sexual circus act in the car last night left Wes with a nice shiner on his left eye, courtesy of my wayward elbow. It’s not black, but definitely purplish, and visibly swollen.
“Canning beat me up,” he says gravely.
Pat flicks his gaze to me, then back at Wes. “What’d you do to piss him off?”
Wes mock gasps. “You saying I deserved it, Coach?”
“I’m saying you’ve got a smart mouth and it’s a miracle you don’t get wailed in the face every day of your life.
” But Pat’s grinning as he says it. Then he claps his hands and gets back to business.
“Maybe you boys can kiss and make up on the trip to the supermarket. You’re on ice duty.
Make sure you use some of it on that eye. ”
I feel my neck heat up at Pat’s mention of kissing. Coach, if you only knew…
Wes lifts a brow. “Ice?”
“Machine in the cafeteria broke down, so I need you to drive to the market and grab a dozen bags.” He’s already dismissing us, turning to Georgie and Ken. “Check the equipment—we need the extra helmets and pads out of storage for any parents who want to scrimmage with us later.”
Wes and I head out while Pat is still playing drill sergeant. I slide into the passenger seat of his car, grinning at him as I remember last night’s automotive adventures.
He casts a rueful glance over his shoulder. “I can never look at that backseat the same way again.”
“Wait, you’re saying you never hooked up in your car before yesterday?”
“Nope. I had a single at Northern Mass, so I usually brought hook-ups home. Or I went to their place.” He pauses. “That was the better option. Means I didn’t have to kick ’em out when they wanted to spend the night.”
I furrow my brow. “You’ve never spent the night with anyone?” He and I have been sleeping together regularly.
“Nope,” he says again.
“Why not?” I’m suddenly curious to know about his love life.
Not the sex—the idea of him with anyone else bugs the shit out of me—but the relationship stuff.
For as long as I’ve known him, Wes has been single.
Now, knowing he’s gay, it makes sense why he never had a girlfriend. But has he had a boyfriend?
“I didn’t want anyone getting too attached to me,” he says with a shrug, his eyes focused on the road.
The response only makes me more curious. “Did you ever get attached to them?”
“Nope.” This is his go-to answer for the day, apparently.
“Have you ever gone out with anyone?” I ask slowly.
He’s quiet for a moment. “No,” he admits. “I don’t do boyfriends, Canning. It’s too messy.”
For some reason, my gut clenches. I want to ask him what I am, then. An extended hook-up? A summer fling? I knew this thing with us was bound to end eventually, but I at least thought the time we’ve had together has meant something to him.
Because it means something to me. I’m not sure what, or why, but I do know that this isn’t just about sex for me.
“And once I’m in Toronto, I won’t be doing anything,” he says glumly. “Celibacy is gonna suck.”
An uneasy feeling washes over me. “Did you talk to your dad about the Sports Illustrated thing?”
“Haven’t told him yet. But I’m not doing the interview. That’s not a can of worms I’m interested in opening.” He swiftly changes the subject, as he usually does when the conversation is too focused on him. “What about you? Have you bought a ticket to Detroit yet?”
Great. He picks the one topic I don’t want to discuss. “No.”
“Dude, you need to get on that.”
Wes parks in front of the supermarket and we hop out of the car. I hope he’ll drop the subject now that we’re here, but he’s still talking about it as we walk into the air-conditioned store.
“You’re supposed to report there in three weeks,” he reminds me as he grabs a shopping cart. “You thinking of renting a house in the suburbs? Where do the Detroit players tend to live?”