Chapter 14 The Championship #2
"I'm wired," he corrected, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His eyes were too bright, restless. "I have so much adrenaline hammering through my blood right now I feel like I could punch through a concrete wall. I need to come down. And you're the only way I know how."
He reached out, his fingers closing around the lapels of my jacket. He ripped it open, then shoved it off my shoulders. It fell to the carpet.
"Suit off. Everything off."
My hands trembled slightly as I began to undress. A palpable heat radiated off him, a concentrated energy that prickled my skin, made my nerves hum. I kicked off my dress shoes, stepped out of my slacks, and unbuttoned my shirt.
I stood naked in the center of the luxurious suite, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my skin.
Jax watched, his gaze devouring. He tore off his own shirt, buttons flying, scattering across the polished floor. He kicked off his dress shoes, sending them skittering. His slacks, however, he left on.
He walked over to the champagne bucket. He plucked the bottle from its icy nest, twisted the wire cage, and popped the cork. It shot across the room like a bullet, hitting the far wall with a sharp thwack. He made no move for the glasses.
He walked back to me, the bottle tilted in his hand.
"Thirsty?" he asked, a low rasp.
"Jax..."
He ignored my protest. He tilted the bottle further.
Cold, fizzy liquid cascaded over my chest. I gasped, flinching back, but his hand shot out, clamping around my hip, holding me firmly in place.
The champagne ran in rivulets over my pecs, down my abs, soaking into my pubic hair, dripping in icy trails down my thighs. It was sticky and freezing, a shocking sensation against my skin.
"Stand still," he ordered, his voice a low growl.
He dropped the bottle onto the thick carpet. It glugged out its remaining contents, creating a spreading wet stain. He dropped to his knees before me. There was no question in his eyes, no playful teasing. He pressed his face against my stomach and began to lick.
His tongue, hot and rough, chased the champagne, lapping the sticky wine from my skin. He worked his way up my abs, swirling around my navel, then down, his stubble scraping lightly.
"You taste like victory," he murmured, his voice muffled against my skin.
He reached my groin. His tongue flicked out, tracing the seam where my thigh met my hip, then moved lower. He licked the champagne off my balls, his rough stubble grazing the sensitive skin. My knees weakened, threatening to buckle. I gripped his hair, my fingers tangling in the damp strands.
"Jax, please..." I gasped, my voice barely a whisper.
"Shut up," he commanded, his voice dark with intent. "Let me worship you."
The word hung in the air, thick and heavy. Worship.
He opened his mouth and took me in.
It wasn’t the rough, urgent, almost violent face-fucking of the closet or the gym.
This was deep, slow, and utterly consuming.
He bobbed his head, taking me to the back of his throat, a low hum of pleasure vibrating from his chest. His tongue, his suction, the careful attention – he treated me like I was the trophy, the ultimate prize.
I looked down at him, the National Champion, the future NHL star.
On his knees, servicing me in a hotel room, his mouth fastened around me, drinking me in as if I were the very source of his power.
A shudder ripped through me, a sudden, overwhelming emotional cascade that felt like a breaking point. My muscles tensed, my breath hitched.
"Jax," I moaned, my hips bucking instinctively.
He pulled off, his mouth wet with champagne and saliva. He stood, his eyes dark, unblinking.
"Turn around," he said.
I obeyed, placing my hands on the back of the plush velvet armchair. I bent over, exposing myself. Jax didn't enter me immediately.
A metallic clink sounded behind me.
Then, something cold and heavy swung against my ass.
I flinched, a sharp jolt. "What..." I twisted my head, looking back.
Jax stood there, holding his championship ring threaded onto a heavy silver chain. It was massive—a two-tone beast of yellow and white gold, covered in gemstones that glinted like ice in the soft light.
"Ring ceremony," he whispered, his voice a low thrum against the quiet.
He turned the ring in his hand, exposing the smooth, polished gold of the bottom band. He pressed the cold metal against my hole. It was freezing, a shocking, solid weight against my fever-hot skin.
He held it there, pressing firmly, branding me with the cold gold.
"You earned this," he said, his voice thick. "Every shift. Every hit. You took it all for me."
He dropped the ring. It swung against my thigh, a heavy, rhythmic tap.
He spat into his hand, a wet, audible sound. He slicked himself, his fingers working quickly.
He stepped in close, pressing the tip of his cock against me, a blunt, warm pressure.
"You ready for the victory lap?" he murmured.
"Yes," I breathed, my voice thin. "Yes, Captain."
He pushed inside.
No slam. No sudden force. He glided, filling me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, stretching me open with a careful, almost reverent attention that felt more intimate than any kiss.
He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, satisfying pressure.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, crushing me against the hard planes of his body.
"Mine," he growled, the word vibrating through my spine. "Feels like home."
He started to move.
It was a slow, grinding rhythm, deliberate and deep.
He wasn't trying to punish, wasn't trying to assert dominance; his dominance was already a given, a palpable weight in the room.
This was a celebration, an acknowledgment.
He fucked me with long, deep strokes, hitting my prostate with every thrust, a sweet, aching pressure.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of our skin connecting, wet and rhythmic, echoed loudly in the quiet suite.
"Look at the window," he ordered, his voice raw against my ear.
I looked up, my gaze drifting beyond the hazy reflection of the room. The lights of St. Paul twinkled, a vast, glittering expanse stretching to the horizon.
"I own this city tonight," Jax said, biting my earlobe lightly. "I own that trophy. I own the draft."
He thrust harder, snapping his hips, a sudden, powerful jolt.
"But none of it matters as much as being inside you right now."
The confession, raw and unexpected, made my heart stutter in my chest. My breath caught.
"Jax..."
"I mean it," he said, his voice straining as he picked up the pace, the rhythm quickening. "The whole time... on the ice... I just wanted to get back here. To this."
He reached around, his hand finding my cock. His fingers, slick with champagne and sweat, wrapped around me. He started to stroke me in time with his thrusts, a precise, agonizing rhythm.
"Cum for me, baby. Celebrate."
My body dissolved beneath his touch. It wasn't the jagged, desperate release of the bus or the gym.
This was a rolling, powerful wave, building slowly, inexorably, until it broke over me.
I cried out, a guttural sound, my head falling forward onto the velvet chair back.
I shot onto the fabric, coating the plush material with my release.
Jax roared, a primal, exultant sound.
He drove deep, one, two, three times, his hips snapping against my ass, and then unloaded inside me.
I felt him pulsing, hot and endless, emptying himself into me.
The sensation was a physical release, a pouring out of the season’s stress, the last vestiges of adrenaline, filling me with his warmth.
He collapsed against my back, his weight heavy, crushing, perfect. We stayed like that for a long time, held together by sweat and champagne, our only sounds the ragged cadence of our breathing and the low hum of the hotel HVAC.
Jax slowly pulled out, the wet sound loud in the room. He turned me around, his hands on my hips.
He kissed me. Deeply. His tongue tasted of himself, of champagne, of victory.
He walked over to the table. He picked up the championship ring from where he’d placed it beside the trophy.
He walked back to me.
He placed the silver chain over my head. The massive ring settled heavily on my chest, cold against my still-feverish skin.
"Property of Carter," he whispered, his finger tracing the engraving along the band.
He picked me up, cradling me in his arms as if I weighed nothing. He carried me to the king-sized bed and laid me down on the crisp white sheets. He didn't get dressed. He didn't turn on the television.
He crawled into bed beside me, pulling the thick duvet up. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me back against his chest, tangling his legs with mine.
"Sleep," he said, his voice a low rumble against the back of my neck. "We have a flight in the morning."
"What about the party?" I asked, my hand finding his in the dark.
"They can start without me," Jax said. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of my neck. "I've got the real prize right here."
I closed my eyes. The cold weight of the ring pressed into my chest. The champagne was sticky on my skin, and my body ached in all the places he had claimed.
Outside, the city of St. Paul celebrated, its joy a distant, muted thrum.
But in the dark of the penthouse suite, as Jax Carter’s breathing evened out against my ear, a profound sense of peace settled over me.
A warmth spread through my chest, a deep contentment that had nothing to do with hockey.
We had survived the season. We had survived the blackmail. We had survived each other.
And we had won.