Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
KELLAN
Ifeel like I’m waking up from a dream. I blink once, then again.
The room’s coming into focus, but I push it away.
The air is vibrating around me like it’s a living, breathing thing, but all that matters is that my cock is throbbing, and I’m seconds away from shooting thick ropes of come onto myself and Wells and anything else in my wake.
“Look at me,” Wells says forcefully, his index finger running along my jutted chin, my head leaning against the wall. It feels so good, to be touched with so much intention.
I meet his stare at the same time his finger runs along my bottom lip. I don’t even have the ability to be embarrassed. Or confused. Or to wonder how we ended up in this situation.
Because the only thing I can think about is how I didn’t know how much I needed this. And I don’t know what game Wells is playing at, but I can’t seem to care.
All I do, every second of every day, is think and plan and try to keep my head above water.
But right now, I’m not worried about any of that. I’m not worried that my bare ass is pressed up against the wall of this piss poor excuse for an office. Or that someone who looks at me with so much open hostility is the key to making me come so hard I think my knees will probably give out.
“Suck my finger.”
My stomach bottoms out, and I obey immediately.
No doubts. No reservations. No concerns about what happens after.
I pull his finger into my mouth and suck on it, using my tongue to lick at the tip.
And it’s good. It’s so fucking good. Even though I’m used to coaches telling me what to do, this is different.
There’s this tone in Wells’ voice that’s so seductive, like a siren calling me to the rocks.
To give in. To let go. Even if it wrecks me in the process.
In fact, maybe that’s part of the allure.
I’ll do whatever he tells me right now, just to feel the explosion of release that’s building at the base of my spine, threatening to unravel me in a way that hasn’t happened in years. Maybe ever.
It’s Wells who got me here, and I don’t know why–maybe it’s the confidence in his voice–but I’m afraid that if I don’t do what he says, it won’t be as good as it can be.
And I need this.
I feel like I’m hypnotized, as I suck at his finger harder, imaging what it would feel like if he was sucking on my cock.
He has an incredible mouth, even if usually all he uses it for is to berate me.
But now I’ve spent hours watching how his smile lifts up at the side when he’s taunting me.
Or the way he does this little pout, the ridges of his expressive brow drawing together when he’s orienting himself to whatever we’re studying.
I don’t realize I’m doing it, but one of my hands has moved to my joggers, and I start working up and down my shaft through the fabric. Release is all I can think about.
I’m good at putting things in boxes. Definitely the bad stuff.
Like the way my step-dad treated me growing up.
Or the worries I have about my mom and brothers.
But usually I section off the good things, too.
Like the hope that I’ll one day play pro.
Or that I’m in the throes of unlocking an entirely new side of myself–or at least Wells is unlocking it, and I’d do anything to stay on this ride.
“Pull your pants down,” his voice commands me. “I want to watch you jerk yourself off.” His eyes are hungry, prowling down my body so intensely that I can feel it like he’s physically touching me.
Excitement and anticipation shoot through me, and with my free hand, I push down my joggers and briefs.
They bunch around my thighs, my muscles straining.
“Don’t fuck me over again,” I try to threaten, but any menacing tone is lost when I lean my head back against the wall and let out a deep sigh that’s punctuated in the small room.
Wells takes a step closer, our bodies not touching except that when I work my hand up to the tip of my cock, my knuckles ghost across his hard stomach.
Impulsively, I inch under his shirt–it is actually as stupidly soft as it looks–just to feel his skin.
I feel like I’m spinning out, needing so badly to find purchase.
Instead of stepping back, he wraps his hand around my own and lifts my palm toward him before spitting in it. “That’s as close as you’re going to get to touching me again,” he says while he guides my hands back, “so I hope you enjoy the gift you’ve been given.”
I start stroking myself again, the ease his spit provides lighting my body from the inside out. “You sure have a lot of rules.”
Wells crosses his arms, and I still can’t figure out if he really wants to fuck me or fight me. “I’m disciplined.”
And he’s not wrong, but I can also start to see the cracks. The outline of his cock growing larger, visible through his impeccably tailored pants–the type I’d only wear to a special event. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are laser-focused on my hand as I continue working myself.
“But you like this,” I push, missing his instruction. I want his direction. I’m so, so fucking close. And I need him here with me, in whatever way he’ll give me.
His gaze flicks from watching me touch myself up to meet my stare, and he levels me with a self-satisfied grin.
“I like how easy you are,” he taunts, and it only makes me edge closer to exploding.
“That if I’d have put my lips on you, I’d have already milked you dry.
But you don’t deserve that. You deserve your hand, and you got the spit as a consolation prize because you played by my rules. ”
I stroke harder, meeting his deep green eyes before making a very educated guess. “I know you want to see me come.” I surprise myself with the needy tone in my voice, but I don’t stop. Not for a second.
There’s a moment, when his body moves imperceptibly closer. Hockey is about anticipation, and he may not even notice it himself. But I do.
And with the thrill of that knowledge, that I’m not in this alone, I explode.