Chapter 8
Eight
Quinton
There are days I really wish I was less of a manwhore.
It’s not often, seeing as the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks when everyone involved is on the same page.
But today?
As I’m shoving my way out the door of the frat house?
Well, let’s just say I wish I would’ve mastered the art of self-control. And willpower.
My only saving grace in this whole scenario is that I bolted before Oakley had a chance to: A, make himself presentable again.
And B, follow me. Not that I think he’d follow me, necessarily.
From the way he stared at me—somewhere between pure bliss and abject horror—when I told him he could get a repeat if he played well tomorrow, I don’t think following me would’ve been high on his list of things to do.
Unless it were to kick my ass for the stunt I just pulled. Either way, I wasn’t about to stick around and find out once his orgasm high wore off.
Fuck, what the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the problem.
My brain was all over the goddamn place. The shit with my parents after the game hung over me like a storm cloud, souring my mood, even when I was doing my best to let loose before heading home and sleeping the shitty day off.
But then finding Oakley at the party after he’d bore witness to it all only made it worse.
The verbal smackdown between us was the fucking cherry on top of a shit sundae.
And that only led my instincts in the exact wrong direction. The one where the obsessive need to prove him wrong took over, feeding this stupid competitiveness I have with him. Building inside me more and more until I just...snapped.
Or blew, considering the circumstance.
I don’t know whether I’m proud of the way I got him to lose his mind with my mouth or if I’m terrified about what this means going forward in this so-called rivalry we have. Because I can only imagine that licking him like a lollipop will make things much, much worse between us.
I round the corner of the house and take off at a jog down a couple blocks, making a beeline for my Indian Scout. Not bothering to throw my helmet on, I bring the bike’s engine roaring to life and hightail it toward my apartment.
Normally the wind whipping around me while I ride is enough to cool any building anger or tension within me, but nothing is enough to get me out of my head right now. Not for more than a minute or two at a time. All my brain seems to want to do is replay what happened in the bathroom.
My dick twitches at the thought of tasting him again, and I’m floored by the realization I wasn’t kidding when I offered a repeat. I mean, sure, it was said as a taunt—half the things I say to him are—but I’d do it again without thinking twice.
And I’m not even into dudes.
Right?
After pulling into the garage at my apartment, I burst through the front door, so caught up in my tormented thought process, I don’t even notice Hayes sitting on the couch in our living room.
“Jesus, where’s the fire, Q?”
The sound of my roommate’s voice momentarily causes me to halt in my path toward my bedroom, and I turn to him. “What?
His dark brows hitch up, and he motions to me with his chin. “You seem a little out of sorts. Everything good?”
Hayes knows me better than pretty much anyone in the world.
We’ve been friends a long time, an entire decade between our time at Centre Prep and here.
I’d tag along on vacations with him to the beach or the mountains, seeing as my parents never took us anywhere during the holidays.
We’d stay up at all hours of the night, binge watch horror movies or trash talk to each other while playing video games.
Hell, I even helped him sneak out of his parents’ house so he could get laid for the first time.
If all that doesn’t make him my best friend, I don’t know what would.
So this is something I should be able to trust him with, right? To talk about with him while I try to get my head on straight?
Or not-so-straight?
Scrubbing my hand over my face, I decide to keep this to myself. For now, at least. There’s no use in telling Hayes I got on my knees for the one guy in the world I can’t stand and blew him—to completion—when I doubt it’ll ever happen again.
With Oakley, or with anyone else.
“I’m good, yeah. Sorry. Just realized it’s late, and I need to get some shut eye so I don’t play like garbage again tomorrow night.”
His blue eyes—more royal blue compared to my icy ones—narrow on me, searching for my lie. But thankfully, if he finds it, he chooses not to call me out.
“Okay. I’ll still be out here for a while, as long as that’s cool.”
I nod, seeing as he’s such a quiet roommate, he might as well be a mouse, and start for my room again. As I’ve reached the door, he hollers for me again.
“Hey, Q?” When I turn, I find him looking at me from over the back of the couch. “Don’t be so hard on yourself about the game tonight. You’re fucking good at what you do, no matter what anyone says.”
Hayes doesn’t know a ton about hockey, even if he is my best friend. He’s got just enough knowledge to come to games whenever he’s not busy being the wicked smart, always studying, lives-in-the-library nerd he usually is. And I say those things with all the love in the world.
But the knowledge he lacks when it comes to hockey, he makes up for with knowing me. My life, my history, my family. Hell, Hayes is my family more than the two people who brought me into this world.
Which is why, when he says anything like that, I know I should take it at face value.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him. “Have a good night.”
Once I’m locked inside my room, I strip down to my underwear and slide between my sheets, ready for this day to be over.
But while my body is exhausted, my brain is wired.
Under normal circumstances and it being the night before a game, I’d be able to crash immediately once my head hit the pillow.
Yet tonight, the only thing I can do is stare at the goddamn ceiling and contemplate what made me lose all sense of reason the second Oakley said, “I’ll believe it when I see it. ”
I love to prove him wrong and make him eat his words, all in the name of this damn rivalry he won’t let go of. But blowing him has to be taking it a step or eighty-four further than normal.
So, what? Am I bi now? Does sucking one dick make me bi?
I let out a tortured sigh, because in reality, I know that’s not how sexuality works. Like if I would’ve kissed him, it wouldn’t make me bi either.
Sexuality is about so many other things, but most of all, it’s want. Desire. Attraction.
So…am I attracted to Oakley? Do I want and desire him the way I’ve only ever wanted females in the past?
From the tent pitching my briefs just thinking about this, I’d say yes.
“Fucking hell,” I groan absently, because this is the last thing I need. Literally dicking around with Oakley is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. Which is saying something, because I love to think up stupid shit. And follow through on it, apparently.
First with letting him shove his dick down my throat and swallowing his cum like it’s a fucking Slurpee. Then again, as I yank my dick free from my underwear, spit in my palm, and start stroking.
All with two brown eyes full of hatred rolling around in my mind, the star of the show.
My fist shuttles faster as images of tonight come flooding back to the forefront of my mind, this time, without me trying to stop them.
The closeness in the bathroom, the anger in his eyes.
The breathy sounds, the bites of pain from him gripping my hair tight enough to yank it right from my skull.
The ruthless way he held himself deep in the back of my throat.
The intoxicating scent of his woodsy body soap in my nostrils as he filled my throat with his length, then again with his cum.
I welcome each and every thought; their presence bringing me closer and closer to a desperately needed release.
But then they take a turn, and just like that, Oakley and I have traded places.
He’s the one on his knees, taking my cock all the way to the back of his throat.
He’s the one swallowing down my cum, milking me for all I’m worth.
He’s the one who’s left a panting, breathless mess on the floor.
He’s the one who can’t get enough.
He’s the one destroyed by what we just did.
Him.
My feet dig into the mattress below me, a mixture of memory and fantasy swirling and blending in my mind. Building my climax until the only thing left to do is to fall over the edge…and I come.
I come harder than I have in my entire fucking life.
I come with the taste of his still on my lips.
Not allowing myself to linger in a blissful, post-orgasmic state, I make a move to clean up the remnants of my release still coating my hand and stomach, all the while a low, churning feeling settles low in my stomach. One I recognize as frustration.
Climbing back into bed, I yank the sheets over me and slam my head against my pillow with enough force, I’m able to feel something hard beneath it.
My lucky puck.
My superstition.
I shift, shoving my arm beneath my pillow until I find it. My fingers travel along the cool, smooth rubber disk, allowing the texture to calm the countless overwhelming emotions ebbing and flowing through me.
Taking a deep breath, I fiddle with it more until my racing heart subsides into slow, steady beats. And it works. Soon enough, I’m relaxed again. As much as I can be, focusing on the things I know and have control over rather than all the unanswered questions lingering in my brain to torment me.
What I don’t know is if my dick likes all dudes, some dudes, or what.
But I do know he definitely likes the one person he really fucking shouldn’t.
And I don’t think a dump truck full of lucky pucks would be enough to help me work through that unfortunate fact.
The last thing I needed this morning was to be running late. Again.