Chapter 5 #2
His gym shorts are tented by his erection.
I press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, softer this time, almost tender. My thumb strokes the inside of his wrist where he grips me, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”
He closes his eyes like the weight of it is too much. His silence has shifted now—not defiance, but something closer to surrender.
Fuck, he’s pretty. His big eyes almost make me melt.
An animalistic sound rips from my chest. “Get on your knees, Leander.”
“What?” Leander’s sweet voice is laced with shock, making my dick impossibly harder.
My hands shove him to the ground. He doesn’t fight me, doesn’t even resist me peeling off his shirt from behind his neck. He’s breathing hard, the war obvious in his eyes. His tan skin is still slick with sweat.
I start unlacing the waistband of my joggers. Leander’s eyes stare at the large bulge in front of his nose, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed.
My cock is hard and already beading with cum on the tip as I pull it out. He doesn’t know it, but Leander’s jaw releases like he’s already planning on shoving it deep down his throat.
“Open your fucking mouth and take me like a good boy.” I stroke my shaft once, twice.
Leander’s eyes fog over as he pops his mouth open, saliva dripping from his tongue like he had been salivating for me.
I press the head of my dick against his tongue, groaning from the warm, wet sensation of him. He makes a dirty little show of sucking me off, his lips tracing the seam.
“Fuck,” I pant.
Leander pulls my hips closer to his head, sinking my cock deeper into his throat.
The small action of him pulling me closer sends me over the edge.
My fingers rake through his hair, pulling on his sandy brown locks harshly. He needs to be punished for denying me for so long. But Lee just hums happily against my skin, a wet spot forming on his grey gym shorts.
I pull myself from his mouth, a whimper escaping from his empty throat. My hand begins pumping my dick, Leander’s saliva making it feel like a fucking masterpiece.
“Touch yourself.” My voice doesn’t sound anywhere like me.
Leander’s pouts. “Phoenix—”
God, the way he says my name. Like only that word can make him feel good. “Now, Lee.”
He pulls himself out, and my mouth almost goes dry from the mere size of him. Jesus Christ.
I push his shoulders back against the lockers, the rough metal rattle almost covering Leander’s sweet gasp.
His cock stands at attention from his slender hips. I lean over and spit on the head of it. “Make it feel good.”
Leander’s hand begins rubbing hard against his shaft.
I pinch his cheeks to make him open his mouth again before shoving myself deep into his throat. He chokes, tears welling up in those soft hazel eyes. His fingers dig into my ass as he tries to put space between us, but I want his throat bruised, his jaw aching.
I glance down to make sure he’s not on death’s door, but my boy is taking me so well.
Tears stream down Leander’s cheeks, his rough moans vibrating to my balls. His gym shorts are pooled around his knees as his hand moves up and down his length. The delicious sounds of my spit on his cock and his gagging ping around the locker room.
“Lee, I’m gonna—”
Leander starts bobbing his head faster, his left hand squeezing my thigh.
It’s too much. It’s too good. I cum hard in his mouth. He moans as his own release makes a sticky mess of his hand.
Annoyance rolls through my shoulders. I yank him off of me by his hair. His cheeks are pink and tear stained.
“I didn’t say you could come, did I?” I spit.
Leander shakes his head, puppy dog eyes almost making me forget that this was a punishment for ignoring me today.
“So, why did you?”
He doesn’t answer. I can tell he’s holding my cum in his mouth waiting for an opportunity to spit.
“Swallow.”
He follows my instructions, panting heavily. A ditzy smile curling on his mouth. “I couldn’t help it.”
I release his hair, pulling up my pants. Once I’m covered, I start to see panic sinking into his face. Oh, he’s gonna flip.
He sits there, shocked. Reality clearing his eyes. “What the fuck did we just do?”
I grab a hand towel from the rack and run warm water over it. “I fucked your mouth.”
“That’s not what I meant!” He stands, pulling his shorts up like he’s some ruined whore. “We weren’t—”
I stride back to him, the long practice and post nut weighing heavy on my shoulders. I lace my free hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I got you.”
He shudders against me like he’s feeling something harsh and raw.
I begin by wiping his face gently with the warm rag before cleaning his chest and hand of his mess. He looks as shocked by my gentle actions as I am.
“Don’t freak out. You’re okay,” I mumble.
I normally just get off and leave, but something inside me wants to care of him. Like he’s cherished.
Like he’s mine.
I claim his mouth softly, my hands pulling his hips to mine. He tastes like me and those shitty cinnamon mints that sociopaths like.
My new favorite flavor.
I cup his face in my hands, smoothing his hair back. His eyes are less scared and panicked now. His pulse slows against my fingers.
“Don’t ignore me at practice again,” I whisper against his mouth before leaving him in the locker room with the taste of me still on his tongue.
The night air bites at my lungs when I finally step out of the rink. The lot’s mostly empty, just a few stragglers hauling their bags to dented cars, but I don’t see them. I barely notice the steam rising from the vent near the building or the thin crust of frost forming on windshields.
All I see is him.
Leander’s face, tight with defiance. The way his hands trembled even as he kept them steady. The silent fury in his eyes when I kissed him, like he wanted to kill me—and like he wanted to give in.
I walk faster, hockey bag slamming into my side, heart pounding like I’m still mid-game. The echo of our bodies pressed close hasn’t left me, not in my muscles, not in my skin. It’s in my blood now, burning.
When I get into my car and slam the door, the silence hits hard. No skates carving ice, no stick claps, no boys laughing. Just me, alone, with the ghost of his pulse still racing against my palm.
The engine growls to life, headlights cutting across empty asphalt. I grip the wheel too tight as I pull out, knuckles whitening, trying to drive the tension out of my body. It doesn’t work. Every red light feels like a test of will. Every turn feels too slow, too calm, when all I want is speed.
Intensity.
That’s the word for it. That’s what I chase in every corner of my life. On the ice, in bed, even in fights that I’m stupid enough to start when I know I shouldn’t. The rush. The control. The high that comes from someone giving in or from me forcing it out of them.
That’s what the locker room should’ve been. And for a while, it was.
I drove into him like I always do. No hesitation, no holding back, nothing careful about the way I took him. He wanted to fight, and I wanted to break that fight into something ragged and desperate.
Every thrust was sharp, punishing, the way I always play this game. It was supposed to end the same way it always does—with me walking out, leaving them used up, ruined, done.
But it didn’t. That’s the fucking problem.
Because after it was over—after Leander’s nails raked down my thighs, after his jaw vibrated with the sounds I tore from him—I couldn’t just pull out and walk away. Couldn’t shove him aside and throw on my gear like I usually do.
No, I stayed.
I found myself brushing his damp hair back, breathing against his shoulder while he steadied himself. I held him close enough to feel the uneven rise and fall of his chest. I caught myself whispering, “You’re okay,” like he needed to hear it. Like I needed to say it.
I was doing aftercare for someone I wanted to ruin. The word sits on my tongue like something foreign, something dangerous.
I’ve never done that before. Never given anyone more than what they begged for in the moment.
Afterward, it’s always a clean break, no strings, no softness.
But tonight I did it without even thinking.
Like some instinct I didn’t know I had took over.
I needed to clean him, to help steady his nerves.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
The city blurs past the windshield as I speed down empty streets, but my brain is still locked in that locker room, watching myself do things I swore I’d never do.
My hand stroked his face. My lips pressed soft against his temple.
My voice murmuring something I can’t even remember now, only that it wasn’t me.
Gentle.
I slam my palm against the wheel, the sharp crack echoing in the car. My jaw clenches.
I’m not gentle. I don’t do gentle.
My way is pressure, heat, force until they break, until they cling to me because no one else can handle them like I do. That’s the rhythm I know, the only one that keeps me safe. So why the hell did I hold him after? Why didn’t I just leave him standing there, wrecked, sticky, and furious?
The thought claws at me. Because if I’m not breaking, if I’m not dominating, then what the fuck am I doing? And worse—if I’m doing aftercare, if I’m staying, if I’m gentle, then maybe I want something from him I’ve never wanted from anyone else.
I grip the wheel harder, jaw locked. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand him.
I wanted to fuck him and ruin him. That’s still true. I wanted to claim him so hard the imprint wouldn’t fade for days. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.
But instead of ruining him, I ended up… cleaning up our mess.
I can’t shake the image of his face when I shifted, when I kissed him softer than I should’ve. His brow furrowed, his lips parted, like he didn’t recognize what was happening either. Like maybe, for a second, he let the fight drop.
And I liked it.
I liked being the one to see him like that.
I liked it too much.
The streets are empty, traffic lights flickering yellow at corners, and I drive through them faster than I should, trying to outpace my own head. But I can’t. The thoughts stick like barbs under my skin.
Why the fuck am I craving the way it felt to hold him when I should only be craving the way it felt to take him? It was the look in his eyes. Like he had been broken too many times before. I couldn’t handle the panic swelling within him. He should feel good. I want him to feel good with me.
I pull into my driveway, slam the gearshift into park, and sit in the dark. The tick of cooling metal fills the silence. My chest rises and falls too fast, like I just finished a sprint.
It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t line up with the rules I live by. On the ice, in the locker room, in every bed I’ve ever been in—it’s always been the same. Push hard. Go fast. Break them. Leave.
No softness. No care.
But with him—fuck. With him, I couldn’t stop myself, and that scares the hell out of me.
I shove the door open, step out into the night, and light a cigarette with shaking fingers. The first drag burns down my throat, grounding me, but not enough. Smoke curls into the sky, vanishing quickly, leaving me with the same gnawing hunger.
Leander’s not supposed to matter. He’s supposed to be another conquest, another flash of intensity to keep me alive until the next.
But he does matter.
And I can’t stop thinking about how I stayed, how I cared, how I was gentle. How I wanted to make sure he was okay after I was the one who pushed him that far. That’s the most dangerous part.
Because if I can’t walk away from him the way I always do, if I can’t keep the walls up, then maybe I’m not in control anymore. And losing control terrifies me more than anything else.
I drag on the cigarette again, exhale slowly, and let a crooked smile cut across my mouth, dark and sharp.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I need to understand why I feel this need. To consume him, to wreck him, to protect him.
And now I’ve tasted him and worse, I’ve cared for him. I’ll figure out why. I’ll figure out what the hell he’s doing to me.
And when I do—I flick ash into the night, lips curling—he won’t get away with it.