Chapter 15 Nate - December 2018, Pittsburgh #2
He was white around the mouth. "That's not true."
"It's on tape."
He got up, sat back down, and stood up again. "Show me."
"I don't have tape in a Courtyard Marriott."
"Then draw it."
So I drew it. His own feet, the stride length, a mark where the leg shortens, and he stood over my shoulder and made a noise like a man who has been hit somewhere soft. "How long?"
" Since your rookie year. October of your rookie year, your first goal. You did it on my partner, with my pairing on the ice, and I was still watching your feet when the puck was already in."
"You've had that for over a year, and you have never used it." He came around the chair and stood in front of me. "Why?"
There was an answer to that and I did not have it in stock that night, and both of us knew it. "Because I'm saving it."
He looked at me. "Okay. That's a bad answer with a very good jacket on."
"Take it or don't."
"I want diagrams." He pointed at the pad. "Every tell you've got on me, drawn and dated and filed. That's a formal demand. I'll put it through the league office and I'll leak it to a beat writer, and I'll do it on a Friday so it runs all weekend."
"No, and you can lodge it as many times as you like."
He got a hand in the front of my shirt then and pulled me up off the chair, and I let him. He kissed me like he was trying to get something out of me, mouth open, hard at the start and then not, one hand sliding up the back of my neck into my hair and closing.
I got him back against the edge of the desk. He got a hand down and swept the rest of the paper off, deliberately, without stopping, and stationery with both our handwriting on it slid all over the carpet.
"That's evidence," I said, into his jaw.
"Then we'd better be thorough."
I got his shirt over his head. He got my belt open with one hand, badly, and I had to help him, and we both laughed into each other's mouths, and then it stopped being funny about four seconds later.
He was still hot from the game. There's a heat coming off him for hours after a night game and he tastes like the arena. I put my mouth on his throat and then his collarbone and then lower, and when I got my hand around him he swore at the ceiling.
His cock was already thick and heavy in my palm, the head slick against my thumb. I stroked him once, slow, just to feel the way he jumped, and then I dropped to my knees on the hotel carpet and took him into my mouth without any more warning.
He made a sound like he had been punched.
I did not ease him into it. I took him deep on the first pass, the head of his cock pressing against the back of my throat, and held there while I breathed through my nose.
His hands found my hair and stayed there, not pushing, just holding on like he needed the anchor.
I pulled back until only the tip was between my lips and then sank down again, slower this time, letting my tongue work along the underside the way I knew would make his knees threaten to give.
The taste of him was salt and skin and the faint leftover adrenaline of the game.
I hollowed my cheeks and sucked, one hand wrapped around the base so I could stroke what I could not fit, the other braced on his thigh to keep him steady.
He tried to talk. Something about how this was a new kind of tape study, but the words came out broken and then stopped altogether when I pressed my tongue hard against the sensitive spot just under the head.
I stayed there and worked him with short, focused pulls until his hips started to twitch forward against my mouth. I let him. I took every shallow thrust and answered it with more suction, more pressure, until he was breathing like he had just killed a penalty.
I pulled off before he could finish. He made a frustrated noise that went straight through me. I stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and pushed him toward the bed. He went without fighting it.
I put him on the bed on his back and took my time, because I'd just been read aloud to for twenty minutes by a man and I wanted something back that had nothing to do with paper.
I stripped the rest of his clothes off him first, jeans and briefs dragged down his legs and tossed somewhere behind me.
Then I got rid of my own, kicking them away so there was nothing left between us but skin and the low light from the desk lamp we had never turned off.
I climbed onto the bed and settled between his legs.
I kissed the inside of one thigh and then the other, open mouthed.
When I took him back into my mouth it was slower, more thorough.
I used my hand in time with the slide of my lips, twisting gently on every upstroke, and watched the way his stomach tensed and released.
His hands went first, opening and closing on the sheet. Then the words went, in stages, the sentence he was building coming apart in the middle and never getting finished. He said my name twice and then stopped being able to.
I kept going until his thighs were shaking and he was making small, punched out sounds every time I took him deep. Only then did I pull off and reach for the lube.
I climbed up to straddle his hips. His cock was slick and hard against the cleft of my ass.
I reached back, guided him into place, and sank down in one long, controlled motion.
The stretch of him filling me pulled a sound out of my throat that I did not try to stop.
He was thick enough that it still took a moment to adjust, the heat of him seating deep until my ass was flush against his hips and I could feel every pulse of his heartbeat inside me.
I stayed there for a few breaths, hands braced on his chest, feeling the way his body trembled under mine.
Then I started to move. I rode his dick slow at first, lifting almost all the way off before sliding back down, letting him feel every inch of the tight heat of me.
His hands came up and grabbed onto my ass, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
He looked me in the eyes the entire time.
I did not look away. The pleasure on his face had exactly one cause, and I have never held a stat I liked better.
Every time I sank down his mouth opened a little more, the composed lines of his face going soft and wrecked in stages the way they always did when I got him like this.
I leaned forward and kissed him while I kept moving, open and deep, tongues sliding together in the same rhythm as my hips. My hands mapped his chest, his sides, the places where the muscle was still tight from the game.
I rolled my hips in a way that made the head of his cock drag against that spot inside me on every downstroke, and the pleasure of it made my own cock jump and leak against his stomach. He groaned into my mouth and his grip on my ass tightened, helping me lift and sink, matching the pace I set.
I took my time. I varied the angle, the depth, the speed, learning exactly which combination made his eyes go half lidded and his breath stutter.
When I sat up straight again and planted my hands on his thighs behind me, the change in angle made both of us curse.
I could take him deeper this way. I could control every inch of the slide.
His cock looked obscene disappearing into me and then reappearing slick and shining on every upstroke. I reached down and wrapped my hand around my own cock, stroking in time with the way I rode him, the dual sensation making my thighs shake.
He kept looking at me. Even when his face was flushed and his mouth was open and he was clearly fighting the urge to thrust up hard, he kept his eyes on mine.
I liked that. I liked knowing he was watching the way my body took him, the way my cock leaked over my fist, the way my stomach tensed every time I sank down and felt him bottom out.