Chapter 40
Rhys
Film session. Saturday. Just us.
I have been in this room with Jamie Nash a million times before and it has never felt like this.
Something has shifted since the morning sessions started again — something that has been building in every session since, in every text, in every moment of proximity that we keep finding and neither of us keeps walking away from.
We’re twenty minutes into the tape. I’m watching the screen.
I’m mostly watching the screen. I’m also acutely aware of exactly where Jamie is relative to me — six inches to my right, forearm almost touching mine on the armrest between us, close enough that I can hear him breathing whenever the room gets quiet enough.
“Jamie.”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, obviously distracted by the tape.
"Can I ask you something?”
"Depends."
"Have you ever—" I stop. Try again. "Is there anyone—has there ever been anyone else? Before?"
He thinks on it for a moment and then turns to give me his full attention.
"Here and there," he says cautiously. "But never anything real. Nobody I let close."
"Why not?"
He looks at his hands.
"My dad was—" A pause. "Hockey was everything in our house. That was the whole thing. School, practice, games. No room for anything else. Or anyone." He says it smoothly. Matter of fact. Like he's describing a normal thing. "My mom wasn't really—" He hesitates. "She wasn't really there."
"So I just." He exhales. "Kept everything at a distance. It was easier. Even now. Even out of that house. I don’t really know how else to be.
So no. Nobody. Not even close. I've never had a boyfriend.” Like he's admitting something he's never said out loud.
"Never wanted one, I thought. Or told myself that.
" He looks at the screen. "I don't know anymore. "
"I went the other direction," I say after a second, when it’s obvious Jamie doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
"What does that mean?"
I shrug. "It means if somebody paid any bit of attention to me, I was basically done for. I thought that was how you got someone to love you. Give them enough of yourself and eventually one of them would care." I look at my lap. "Didn't really work out."
Jamie is still beside me.
"That's how I ended up with Marcus," I continue. "He looked at me like I was something worth seeing. I wasn't prepared for that, so I handed him everything immediately." I breathe out. "We know how that ended."
"I guess we learned opposite things," he says.
"Yeah, that’s exactly right."
He looks at me then. Really looks. And the emotions are so clear on his face, so open and trusting in a way I've only seen a handful of times. I never realized how easy it actually is to read Jamie, if you know him.
"I trust you," he blurts out. Like it surprises him.
"I trust you, too," I say, with a giant smile on my face because it was so unexpected, so very Jamie.
The corner of his mouth moves. My favorite almost smile.
He then reaches over to point something out on the screen and his arm crosses mine, bare skin against bare skin, and neither of us moves away from it.
We just — stay there. His arm against mine.
Eyes on the screen. “So, their center,” he says.
His voice is even, engrossed in the film.
“Watch his eyes before the pass. He looks off the primary every time.”
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m not watching the center’s eyes at all.
He turns to look at me and I’m already looking at him and we’re very close in this dark room and his eyes in the low light are — something. Something I don’t have a clean word for.
“You’re not watching the screen,” he complains.
“I’m watching you instead,” I say. We’re both locked in this stare for seconds, minutes, hours, who knows.
Slowly — slowly enough that either of us could stop it, slowly enough that it is absolutely a choice — I reach up and catch his chin with one finger.
The same way I did before, and tilt his face back toward the screen.
“Watch the center,” I demand.
His whole body has gone still under my finger. I can feel the tension in his jaw. The slight roughness. The muscle working in it.
“I’m watching,” he says, so soft I barely hear it.
I leave my finger there.
One second. Two.
The center on screen looks off the primary and makes the pass exactly where Jamie said he would.
“Every time,” Jamie says. Almost to himself.
"Keep watching," I say.
I slide my hand to his throat, feeling his pulse hammering against my palm.
Fast. Desperate. The same way mine's going.
I like when he's putty in my hands like this.
When he lets me do whatever I want to him.
Jamie turns to look at me. I drop my hand to his thigh and squeeze hard enough to leave a handprint.
"I said, watch the fucking game, Captain."
I trace my palm upward, under the edge of his shorts.
The muscles tense underneath my touch, breaking a groan out from him.
I can feel his hard-on straining against the fabric, hot and thick and mine.
I take that as permission. He has my full attention now.
Jamie swallows hard, that pulse in his throat firing off a signal.
"Say it."
"Ugh, fuck, Rhys — please."
We've been dancing around this for weeks and I'm losing the small restraint I have when he says my name all breathy like that. When he sounds wrecked already and I haven't even started.
"Admit you never want me to stop," I challenge again, my grip tightening on his thigh as I pull him closer. His hips shift toward me without thinking, seeking friction, and I feel the shape of him pressed against me.
He closes the inch between us like it's nothing and I fucking surrender immediately, because it was Jamie who finally made a move.
Our mouths collide, hard, demanding. No gentle teasing, just raw unfiltered need.
I taste him, bitter and sweet, and feel his hands clutch my shoulders, pulling me in deeper.
His tongue slides against mine and I groan into his mouth, already too far gone. Needing more.
I let my hand roam freely under his shorts, sliding beneath the waistband, wrapping around him fully while he moans in my ear.
He's already wet at the tip, slick and hot, so I use it to tease him. Thumb circling, spreading that wetness down his shaft. Jamie gasps against my mouth, and the sound sends a jolt straight to my dick, way too hard already from the noises Jamie’s making.
"I want you to come right in my hand, Captain," I growl, thumb flicking over the head in slow, deliberate strokes.
It's a command and a promise. "Want to feel you lose it.
Want to watch you come just for me." He doesn't answer, just keeps moaning, head tossing back, eyes shutting tight as I pick up the pace and stroke him harder.
Faster. My grip is tight, almost too tight, and he fucking loves it— hips bucking into my fist, chasing more.
Every jerk, every flick brings him closer to the edge and I am not holding back.
I need to see Jamie's eyes on me right when he comes.
Need to feel him hot and sticky in my hand, marking me.
His hips buck against my hand, desperate for more, for release.
Moving on their own. And only I can give it to him.
He's completely mine right now—openly begging.
I bite his shoulder, hard enough to mark but not hard enough to break skin.
He shudders, cock twitching in my grip. Jamie doesn't say a word.
He can't. Not with the way his body trembles, not with the way he's falling apart for me.
His breathing is uneven, chest heaving, and I can feel him getting closer, tighter, harder, almost there.
"Come for me now, baby."
That's all he needed. When he finally comes, his moan is raw and broken, spilling hot and heavy onto my palm, soaking through his underwear.
His whole body shudders through it, hips jerking helplessly as I stroke him through it, milking every last drop.
I don't stop. I keep my hand on him, feeling him shake, feeling him come down slow while he pants against my shoulder.
His cock is still hard in my grip, oversensitive now, and he whines when I give him one last slow stroke.
"Fuck," he breathes, wrecked. "Fuck, Rhys—"
“That’s so good. You’re perfect. Good job, keep going.
” I praise him and hold him through the end of his release, pulling back my hand, a mess.
We’re both left panting, breathless. Our eyes meet, heavy, with tension still in the air.
The tape keeps playing, but neither of us cares about hockey right now.
I barely catch my breath before Jamie’s eyes lock onto mine with a new kind of fire and he lunges at me.
"My turn," he says, deadly serious. Then he's sliding down, positioning himself between my legs. His hands grip my thighs hard, spreading me wide without asking. Like he already knows I'll let him. That breath of his on my bare skin makes me shiver with how bad I need to feel his mouth on me.
He slowly takes me out of the confines of my shorts and his mouth wraps around me before I even have time to think.
Lips tight and wet, tongue flicking fast and sure against the underside, right where it makes my vision blur.
Jesus fucking Christ, Jamie Nash knows how to suck dick.
It's brutal and skilled, like he's been waiting for this moment as long as I have, as if he's thought about exactly how he'd suck me off.
I'm gripping the chair so tight my knuckles hurt, hips pushing into his mouth, needy for more.
Chasing the heat of him, the wet slide of his tongue.
He takes it—lets me fuck up into his mouth while his hands keep my thighs pinned open.
Those hands roam over my thighs, squeezing and kneading, pulling me deeper and deeper into his warm mouth.
Throat working, swallowing around me, and the sound he makes—fuck, the vibration—goes straight to my spine.
I look down at him and it's like a punch to the gut—raw and real and fucking intense.
His green eyes are dark, fixed on mine, and I can see exactly what this is doing to him.
The way he's hard again, grinding against the chair like he can't help it.
"Say it," he demands, pulling off enough to speak.
His lips are swollen, wet and pink. He licks them slowly, deliberately, and I groan. "Jamie, please—" I gasp.
"Sir," he corrects, biting the word out in between bobbing back down. Taking me to the root in one smooth motion, nose pressed to my groin, throat tight around me.
"Sir," I cry out, voice rough and trembling.
Broken. "Fuck, sir, please, make me come.
" He takes me even deeper, throat pulsing around me, mouth moving with a possessiveness that makes my head spin.
His hand wraps around what he can't fit, stroking in time with his mouth, and the dual sensation is too much.
Too fucking much. I'm gone, lost in the heat and wetness, every flick of his tongue sending fire throughout my body, deep in my groin.
Coiling tight, building fast, and I can feel it coming—inevitable, unstoppable.
"Gonna—fuck Jamie, I'm gonna—" I try to warn him, hand flying to his hair, gripping tight.
He doesn't pull off. Just hums around me, the tremor tearing a ragged sound from my throat, and his hand speeds up, grip perfect, pressure exactly right.
Looking at Jamie, sucking my dick like he needs it, is too much.
I can't hold back. I shudder and spill into his mouth, without warning, gasping and trembling as my orgasm crashes through me.
Pulse after pulse, he swallows around me, throat working, sucking me dry while I break apart above him.
He doesn't stop, never slowing, never letting go until I'm literally falling apart in his hands and half off the seat.
Whimpering, oversensitive, trying to pull away but he chases me, tongue soft now, gentle, cleaning me with long slow licks that make me jerk and gasp.
When he finally pulls away, I'm left a puddle of nothing, completely spent. Thighs trembling, chest heaving, fully wrecked. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at me with dark, satisfied eyes, and I know—I fucking know—I'm in trouble with this one.