Chapter 11 Riley - May 2018, Hibbing #3
When he pushed back I started to move. Long strokes that dragged almost all the way out before sliding home again. I reached under him and wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking in the same rhythm, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke.
I took my time fucking him, one hand stroking his cock while the other steadied his hip. I kissed the back of his neck, the line of his shoulder, every place I could reach, until he bowed his head between his arms and said my name like it was costing him something.
I wanted his face where I could see it. I pulled out, rolled him onto his back, and pushed back in while I settled over him. His legs wrapped around my waist. I laced our fingers together above his head and kept the pace steady and deep.
Every thrust dragged against the place inside him that made his breath hitch. I kissed his mouth, his jaw, the soft spot under his ear. I told him how good he felt, how perfect he was taking me, how I never wanted to stop. His free hand came up and covered his eyes like the words were too much.
"What do you need?"
"Harder. Please. Riley, harder."
I gave him harder. The bedframe knocked the wall. His cock was leaking steadily between us, slick against my stomach.
"Again. Tell me again."
"Fuck me. Please. I need it. I need you."
I gave him everything. I shifted the angle until every stroke made him cry out and then I stayed there, pounding into him while my hand worked his cock in tight, fast strokes.
When he finally came apart it was in stages, the way he did, and I had my hand spread over his heart the whole way down and felt every one of them.
First the way his body locked up around me, then the long broken moan of my name, then the hot pulse of cum spilling over my fist and across his stomach.
I fucked him through all of it, chasing my own edge.
When I came it was with my face buried in his neck and my hand still pressed to his chest so I could feel the way his heart raced under my palm.
He pulled me up by the arm and kissed me for a long time with both hands in my hair, filthy and slow and not going anywhere, and said, "I'm not done with you," which turned out to be true.
Somewhere past three he fell asleep in the middle of an argument about nothing. Literally mid-sentence, about a coaching hire in Ottawa, his voice just went and that was it.
I lay there in the dark with the air conditioning going and the Vegas light coming around the curtain. His head was on my shoulder and one arm was across me, and I did the arithmetic on the exact weight of a sleeping Sinclair.
The champagne bottle stood empty on the nightstand.
The trophy watched from the dresser with my tie still draped over it.
Outside the city kept glittering. Inside the room there was only the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the quiet knowledge that the rule we had written on Marriott notepaper was never going to be put back together again.
I closed my eyes and let the weight of him keep me there until morning.
I woke up at eleven and the other side of the bed was cold. It was made flat on that side, because he'd pulled the sheet up before he left, which is the most Nate thing that has ever happened.
The suite was enormous. It was bigger than the house I grew up in. I stood up in the middle of it in my shorts and turned around once, and there was nobody in it, and the Calder trophy was gone off the dresser, and my tie was folded on the end of the bed, which was somehow worse.
I ordered coffee. It came on a tray with a silver pot. I doctored it and drank half and then forgot about it and let the rest go cold and bitter in the cup while I sat on the end of the bed.
There was a thing in my chest. A hole about the size of a fist, just under the sternum.
I diagnosed it as a hangover. Champagne on top of whatever I'd been drinking downstairs, no water, four hours of sleep. That is exactly what a hangover is.
I ran the diagnostic and the diagnostic said hangover. I've known since Chicago that my diagnostic equipment lies to me, and I took the diagnosis anyway, because the alternative was standing in that room and looking at the actual answer.
I got dressed and I got my bag. I got to the door with my hand on the handle, and then I stopped.
I went back into the room. I crossed the whole suite and got down on one knee by the desk and reached under it, because at one in the morning I had opened that bottle and the cork had gone off across the carpet and rolled under there and he had laughed at the ceiling about it.
I got it out. Little thing. Two cents of bark and a bit of wire cage still on it.
I put it in my inside jacket pocket.
Souvenir, I told myself. For the gear bag. Proof that the rink rat drank the good stuff once.
And then I flew home with it, and I texted him from the gate at McCarran with my knee going up and down.
Riley: formally proposing my 29 for your 91, effective immediately, no conditions. this offer expires in October and you should feel lucky I made it at all
The read receipt came back before I'd locked the screen, which meant that in a completely different airport, a long way from me, Nate was sitting with his phone in his hand.