Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Luka
“You know we have a game tomorrow,” Reid says as I walk as slowly as possible toward the door to his place. He’s standing in the door frame, watching me with his lustful stare.
“Are you saying I should go home?” I ask, pretending to take one step back.
“Not yet,” he replies, trying to sound like he might actually change his mind about me coming inside.
“It is late,” I say, checking my watch. I’m not actually lying.
Burgers with the guys took longer than I thought, and both of us should get a good night’s sleep if we’re going to be in top form tomorrow.
But I can’t walk away now. My cock would never let me live it down.
All I’ve been thinking about all day is how much I want to taste him again.
“We’ll be quick. Unless you don’t want to . . .” he says, and this time he’s actually serious. I jog the last few feet to him and wrap my arms around his waist.
“I want to,” I say, pressing up on my toes and kissing him quickly.
“First one to your room gets to come first,” I say, and then I take off up the stairs.
The house is quiet, so both his brothers must still be out with their dates, which also means we don’t have to worry about them hearing us.
Although with how loud they play their music, they’d have little hope of hearing us anyway.
My legs burn from the day of training as I round the banister at the top and sprint toward his door. Heaving over and panting, I check behind me and find Reid walking slowly up the last of the stairs.
“You didn’t even try,” I complain, and he chuckles.
“Yes I did. We were both just after different prizes.”
“Ohh.” Realization kicks in. “Well, I guess we both won, then.”
“I know I did,” he says, and he closes the door behind him as I strip off my shirt and make a start on my jeans.
His gaze trails down my body as his tongue teases at his lips.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, and I resist the urge to turn away.
I’ve never been called that in my life. Girls I dated would say I was hot or sexy or handsome, but the guys I hooked up with didn’t really say much at all.
Reid is different, though. He’s so sure of himself and what he wants.
Fuck, I’d love to have that kind of confidence.
It radiates off him in everything he does, and right now it looks like he wants to do me.
He steps closer, kneels in front of me, and holds my hips in his large hands as he presses a soft kiss to my stomach. Tingles spread across my body, my cock already hard and leaking.
He works my pants down over my ass, lifting his chin to fix his stare on mine as he grips my base and slides his tongue up my length.
“Now who’s the tease?” I ask, and he smirks.
“I thought you said I could make you pay.”
“I did,” I whine. “But now your mouth is right there, and all I want to do is fuck it until I fill your throat.”
“Show me,” he says, letting my cock go and linking his hands behind his back.
His lips are parted, and his attention is still locked on me, a devilish glint in his eye.
I stroke my cock from tip to base with one hand as I run the fingertips of my other hand along the bulge of his shoulder, up the base of his neck, until they’re tangled in his thick brown hair.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, sweeping my tip along his lower lip, coating it in precum.
His tongue circles my knob, and that’s the only confirmation I need before I push inside. His lips wrap around me tight, and I’m careful not to push too far too fast. But he’s using his tongue in fucking glorious ways, and I’m already struggling to maintain my composure.
I can’t tear my eyes away from his hungry stare.
It’s like he’s talking to me through his gaze alone, telling me to fuck his perfect mouth harder, faster, deeper.
My fingers pull on his hair when he tries to go deeper, and I give in to his need, the heat of his throat wrapping around my cock head for a moment before coming off. He swirls his tongue as I pull back.
“Fuck yeah, I love watching you do that,” I moan, and we start building up a rhythm, moving together, his hands still clasped tight behind his back, his throat taking me deeper with every thrust.
I don’t want it to end, but the pressure inside is building, a raging swarm of electricity surging through my body. My breaths coming ragged, I grip his hair tighter, his head bucking back a little and his teeth skimming along my cock . . . and I’m gone.
“Oh god. Oh. Oh. oh. Fuuuuuuuck,” I cry out as my orgasm hits, and I slam my cock into his eager mouth, my cum spilling over his lips.
But not once does he break our stare, not even when my cock slips from his mouth and he moves back to rest on his heels, running his finger up his chin and then sucking it into his mouth.
“Fucking delicious,” he says, and I drop to my knees and kiss him.
***
Game days are like trips to Disneyland as a kid.
The excitement builds through the morning, and when the puck drops, it’s like that first ride taking off.
Then adrenaline pumps every second, until the very end, when you collapse from both mental and physical exhaustion.
Only we’re not done out here yet. We’ve got one more third to play, and right now the score is tied.
“We got this,” Reid says as he rallies the team in the locker room. “I don’t care about the last two periods. I only care about what you do next. This is our game. Let’s show them whose house they’re in.”
“This is our house,” Colt cheers, raising his stick, and we follow Reid out, each of us tapping Colt’s helmet for luck as we pass.
I might not be big on superstitions, but this is as much a tradition as it is an act of good luck.
It’s kind of like nodding to Reginald Ducksworth whenever a brother entered the frat house back in college.
The pressure of playing for Boston U was all about trying to prove we belonged in the NHL.
Now, it’s about proving we deserve to stay here, and winning not just the cup but the crowd’s hearts.
I’ve been doing okay at the hearts part, grabbing the attention of the younger generation at least with my trick plays. But they won’t stay fans for long if we can’t win enough games to make the playoffs, let alone win the cup.
The puck drops, and I watch from the bench, heart pounding so loud it’s muffling the screams of the crowd.
We get in a shot, but their goalie blocks it.
They gain control of the puck, and after getting past our guys, they’re coming up on Colt.
He’s zoned in, they take the shot, and Colt drops his knees just in time.
But then their winger tries to scrape the puck, and instead of keeping his stick low, he lifts it high with a full-force back-swing, and it connects under Colt’s helmet, jolting his head back before he falls.
The whistle blows just as two of our guys slam into their winger, sending him flying.
I’m on my feet, heart in my throat as I try to see what’s happening with Colt and the shoving match taking place to the right of him.
“Get ready,” Reid says, suddenly by my side.
Colt gets to his feet, taps his posts, and raises his stick to the crowd as a sign he’s okay. Everyone cheers, even the other side’s fans. No one wants to see a goalie or any other player actually hurt.
The ref calls a two-minute penalty, and Coach yells, “Raines.”
It’s our queue to get the top unit out there, and we’re over the rail a moment later, ready to make the most of our advantage.
We’ve run these plays a hundred times or more.
We’ve set up variations on variations, all reactive to what the other team might do, but it’s not until you’re actually running the plays that you find out if your mind and body can actually pull them off.
We win the face-off, and we’re like a well-oiled machine moving down the ice, passing back and forth to keep the attention of their players constantly shifting.
Then I get the puck and spot a chance for a breakaway, if I can pull off a spin around their D-man headed my way.
I glance at Reid. As if in that split second I can see his answer to my question, I pass the puck the way we’ve planned it instead, and then when it drops back to White, and he shoots, and that buzzer sounds, we slam into each other in celebration.
I catch Reid’s gaze, his smile wide and directed straight at me.
My chest swells. Sure, I might have been able to pull off the trick play and win the crowd’s cheers, but at what cost?
Reid would have been pissed at me, and I’d rather play it safe if it means I get to see him smile at me like that every game.
The coach calls the line change, and we reset for a center dot face-off.
Reid sits beside me, nudging my knee with his.
“Nice moves, rook,” he says without looking my way, but I can still see the smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.
“You too,” I reply, nudging him back. Only, after I do, he adjusts his leg so that his knee stays right beside mine and sends heat flooding to where we touch. I know we said we’d keep things separate, but maybe this showed him that we can handle blurring the lines a little.