Chapter 14 Overtime #2
“I'm sorry,” he said finally, voice rough against my hair. “I'm so fucking sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it worse. For thinking I could protect you by pushing you away.” His hand moved to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “You're right. You're not him. And I'm sorry I treated you like you were.”
I pulled back enough to look at him, and his face was so close I could count the grey hairs at his temples.
“This is still a mistake,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“We could lose everything.”
“I know.”
“If anyone finds out—”
“I know.” I met his eyes, held his gaze. “But I don't care. Not right now. Not tonight.”
His thumb brushed along my jaw, and I felt the touch everywhere. “Jace—”
“Tell me no if you mean it,” I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. “Tell me no, and I'll stop. Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk away.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched the war play out across his face—duty against want, fear against need.
Then he said, “I can't.”
“Can't what?”
“Can't tell you no.” His voice was rough, wrecked. “I've tried. I've tried so fucking hard, and I can't.”
“Then don't.”
The space between us disappeared.
His mouth found mine, and the kiss was slow, careful, like he was giving me every chance to pull away. I didn't. I leaned into it, opened for him, let him in.
His lips were softer than I expected. Warm. The pressure was gentle at first, testing, and I felt his breath hitch when I kissed him back. My hands came up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that went straight to my cock.
The second kiss was hungrier.
His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and he tilted my head to get a better angle.
The grip was firm, possessive, like he was claiming me, and fuck if that didn't make my cock throb.
His tongue traced my bottom lip and I opened for him immediately, desperate for more, desperate for everything.
The kiss deepened, turned demanding, and I could taste coffee and want and weeks of restraint finally breaking. His tongue stroked against mine, exploring, claiming, and I sucked on it—hard—just to hear the groan that vibrated through his chest into mine.
“Bed,” he muttered against my mouth, and his voice was already wrecked. Rough and low and completely gone.
“Yeah.”
We moved together, stumbling slightly because neither of us was willing to break the kiss long enough to navigate properly.
His hands were on my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the muscle there, and I fucking loved it.
Loved that he was losing control, loved that I could feel how much he wanted this in the way his fingers dug into my skin like he was afraid I might disappear.
The back of my legs hit the mattress and I sat, pulling him down with me. He followed, bracing himself above me with both hands on either side of my head, and for a second we just looked at each other.
His pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the grey of his eyes. His chest was heaving, rising and falling like he'd just skated a full shift. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and I reached up to brush it back without thinking.
His skin was warm under my fingers. Slightly damp.
“Last chance,” he said quietly. “We can still stop.”
“I don't want to stop.”
“Jace—”
He kissed me again, and this time there was no hesitation.
No careful testing. Just raw hunger. His mouth was demanding, possessive, tongue stroking deep like he was trying to taste every part of me.
I gave as good as I got—biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss, sucking on his tongue, swallowing the groans he made.
His hands moved under my shirt, and I arched into the touch, desperate for skin on skin.
His palms were rough and warm as they slid up my sides, callused from years of gripping hockey sticks, and the texture against my skin made me shiver.
He pushed the fabric higher, fingers splaying across my ribs like he was measuring me, learning the shape of me.
We broke the kiss long enough to strip the shirt over my head, and then his mouth was back on mine while his hands explored. Tracing the lines of muscle. Finding the ridges of my abs. Mapping every scar from blocked shots and high sticks.
“Fuck,” I breathed when his thumbs brushed over my nipples. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent electricity straight through me. “Do that again.”
He did, harder this time, rolling them between his fingers until I was gasping against his mouth. The sensation was almost too much.
“So responsive,” he muttered, and there was something almost reverent in his voice. “Christ, look at you.”
I reached for his shirt, tugging at it impatiently. “Off. Get it off.”
He pulled back just enough to yank it over his head,
I stared at his body and I wanted to put my mouth all over him.
“You're staring,” he said, and there was the faintest hint of self-consciousness in his voice.
“Yeah, I am.” I reached up and traced the line of his collarbone, felt his breath catch under my fingertips. Felt his pulse jump. “You're fucking hot, Coach.”
“Grant.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “When we're like this, it's Grant.”
“Grant,” I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. It felt intimate. Dangerous. Right. Like crossing a line I could never uncross. “Come here.”
He lowered himself back down, and the feel of his bare chest against mine made me groan. Skin on skin, heat and pressure and the scratch of his chest hair against my smooth skin. The weight of him settling between my legs, solid and real and finally, finally mine.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, rolling my hips up to grind against him.
We were both hard. I could feel the thick line of his cock pressing against mine through our pants, and the friction was almost too much and nowhere near enough.
I needed more. Needed to feel him without barriers, needed to know what he felt like, what he tasted like, how he sounded when he lost control completely.
“Fuck,” he groaned, hips jerking forward involuntarily. His cock dragged against mine and we both shuddered. “You're going to kill me.”
“Good way to go.”
His laugh was breathless, almost helpless. “Greedy little shit.”
“You have no idea.”
His mouth moved to my neck, sucking and biting his way down to my collarbone. I tilted my head back, giving him access, and my hands moved to his back—feeling muscle shift under skin, feeling the way his body tensed when I dragged my nails down his spine hard enough to leave marks.
He bit down on the junction of my neck and shoulder—hard enough to sting, hard enough to bruise—and I gasped. The pain bloomed into pleasure and I felt my cock leak.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against my skin, voice muffled.
“You. I want you.”
“More specific.” His teeth closed on my collarbone, not quite hard enough to hurt. “Tell me.”
My brain was already fuzzy with want, thoughts scattering every time he bit down or sucked a mark into my skin. But I forced myself to focus. Forced myself to say what I'd been thinking about for weeks.
“I want you to fuck me. Want to feel you inside me. Want you to make me come so hard I forget my own fucking name.”
He groaned, and I felt his cock twitch against mine through our pants. “Jesus Christ.”
“That specific enough?”
“Yeah.” His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. “Yeah, that works.”
He kissed his way down my chest, pausing to bite at one nipple while his hand worked the other. I gasped, back arching off the bed, and he made an approving sound low in his throat.
“So sensitive here,” he muttered, almost to himself. Like he was cataloging my reactions for future reference. “I'm going to spend hours on these. Going to make you come just from this.”
“Fuck, Grant—”
“But not tonight.” He kissed his way down my stomach, tongue dipping into every ridge of muscle, and I felt him pause at my navel. His tongue circled it, then dipped inside, and the sensation was so weirdly intimate I shivered. “Tonight I need to be inside you.”
My hips bucked at the words. At the promise in them. “Then get on with it.”
He looked up at me from where he was positioned between my legs, and the look in his eyes was pure sin. Dark and hungry and completely focused on me.
“Patience.”
“I don't have any.”
He popped the button on my jeans and dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, knuckles brushing against my cock through my boxer briefs.
“Lift up.”
I did, and he pulled my jeans and boxer briefs off in one smooth motion. Then I was naked beneath him, completely bare, and his eyes traveled over me like he was memorizing every inch.
The air conditioning hit my skin, making me shiver. Making my cock bob against my stomach, flushed dark and dripping. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. And fuck if that didn't make me harder.
“Fuck, you're beautiful,” he said quietly.
My face heated. “I'm really not.”
“You are.” He ran his hands up my thighs, spreading them wider, and I felt the calluses on his palms catch on my skin. “Perfect.”
Then he leaned down and pressed his face against my inner thigh, inhaling deeply, and I realized what he was doing.
My breath caught. Nobody had ever—
“You smell so fucking good,” he groaned, and his tongue traced a line up the crease where my thigh met my groin. Not quite touching my cock, not going where I desperately needed him. Just tasting my skin like he couldn't get enough. “I want to bury my face in you.”
“Then do it.”
But he didn't go where I expected. Instead, he moved up my body, trailing kisses and bites across my stomach, my chest, until his mouth was at my armpit.
I froze. “What are you—”
“Just let me,” he muttered, and then his tongue was there, licking a broad stripe across the hollow of my armpit.