16. Marcus #2
And the first guy I fucked was blond with a similar build to Preston’s. I might have imagined a different face when I pounded him doggy style.
I pictured bright-green eyes and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he stared at me with his lips parted while he was trapped beneath me.
I might have come the hardest I have in my entire life.
Now that I think about it, Preston was my queer awakening.
I don’t know what the fuck I would’ve done if Callahan hadn’t pulled me off him. I don’t think I would’ve been satisfied with just touching him.
I never have been.
Even now, I want to yank him from the ice and devour him.
Preston’s eyes meet mine during his greeting of the crowd and he pauses, his smile faltering before a frown appears between his brows.
I wave at him one finger at a time.
No, I shouldn’t be here when I have a game tomorrow, but let’s call it studying the enemy or something.
Soon enough, the game resumes, and Preston is a scoring machine. He cuts through the defense and exchanges the puck with Callahan and Davenport in pure showmanship.
The three of them have always made a great team, complementing each other perfectly.
But I don’t think that’s the only reason Preston is going above and beyond.
Because every time he scores, he stares at me. I repay him with a wink, a wave, or a thumbs-up. Sometimes smiling or nodding approvingly, which appears to bemuse him, judging by the frowns.
The Vipers end up crushing it, which is expected, I suppose.
I leave with the crowd, but I don’t go home. Instead, I wait in an empty spot by the back entrance to the arena and text him.
Me
Meet me where I parked yesterday.
Preston
I won’t be doing that.
Come on. I have something to give you.
I expect him to fight me, but he just sends a GIF in which a cartoon character is sighing dramatically and saying, “Fiiiine.”
A couple of minutes later, he appears dressed in jeans, his Vipers jacket, and an expensive-looking off-white scarf, his damp hair falling across his forehead and framing his face.
Fuck, he looks so much like walking porn, I desperately want to sink my teeth into him.
Under the dim light, I can still see the faded purple bruise around his right eye.
I noticed it yesterday when we met here for our late-night practice.
He was skating around and I went to him and touched it as an inexplicable type of fire blossomed within me.
“Who did this to you?” I asked, crowding him against the boards.
“Got into a fight.” He shoved me away. “And I told you not to fucking touch me.”
“What type of fight?”
“Just a fight.”
“Didn’t I say your face is off-limits?”
He swallowed thickly, looking at me with that furrowed brow, then he changed the subject and demanded we go play.
We did that, but then as soon as we got to the locker room, I bent him over the bench, spanked him, then fingered him as I jerked him off.
He came in seconds, and that made me come soon after, humping his ass that’s so full of my marks, it’s a masterpiece.
Now, as I look at the bruise on his face, I still wonder how he got it. Was it really a fight?
I step out from behind the wall, intending on cornering him, but before I can do that, a girl jogs toward him like a fucking ghost.
Even Preston takes a step back, and he flinches the tiniest bit before he schools his expression.
I narrow my eyes, hiding back where I came from.
“Bonsoir, Pres,” she says in French.
“Bonsoir,” he replies, his eyes meeting mine, and he pauses before he focuses back on what the girl is saying in French.
I understand almost nothing, but I can see the excitement in her eyes and the way she’s subtly flirting with him.
He replies again, smiling, and a silly idea overtakes me.
Like breaking her hand that she’s now putting on his arm as they take a selfie. Soon enough, he waves her away and stands with his back to me.
I slide behind him and wrap a hand around his neck, whispering in his ear, “Care to explain who the fuck that was?”
He shivers, his throat working up and down beneath my grip. “A fan.”
“Do your fans touch you so liberally?”
“No, they don’t, which is why I pulled away and sent her packing.”
“You speak French?”
“Yes, considering I’m half French and all.” He uncurls my fingers from around his neck and faces me, lips pursing slightly. “Why are you here, Marcus?”
“I came to see you.”
“You saw me last night.”
“Not enough.”
His mouth parts, just like that time three years ago when he was lying beneath me, but then he clears his throat and the expression is gone just like that. “You said you have something for me. What is it?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out two candies. “Here.”
“Seriously?” he scoffs as I unwrap one. “You got me out here just for some stupid candy?”
“It’s not stupid.” I place it at his mouth. “Open.”
His lips part the slightest bit as he lets me push the ball between them until my index finger brushes against the soft cushion.
Fuck. He looks so beautiful and raw. Just like a long time ago. Just like three years ago.
I need to touch him more, delve inside him deeper.
I’m about to slide my finger in farther with the candy, but a vibration echoes in the air.
His phone.
That seems to snap him out of it, because his eyes widen as he steps back, pushing the ball to one corner of his cheek.
If I catch the motherfucker who interrupted me…
It better not be Callahan. He’s at the top of my shit list lately.
Truly, I’m sure Preston would’ve let me toy with his mouth a bit just now. Maybe he would’ve let me touch him three years ago if I’d managed to actually take that step.
Preston pulls out his phone, stares at it, then lifts his eyes toward me. “I need to go back.”
“See you next week.” I put the other piece of candy in his palm, and he shoves it into his pocket.
“See you later.”
“How do you say that in French?”
“à plus.”
“Sounds hot. Speak more French to me.”
Preston’s eyes narrow. “T’es terriblement beau, ce soir.”
“Yeah? What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re terribly annoying tonight.”
I smile and he purses his lips before he turns away, but then he stops and sighs heavily as he removes his scarf and throws it at me. “Your hands are cold.”
He pauses, throws a look at me, and leaves, but I can’t stop smiling as I loop his scarf around my neck, inhaling him.
So I lied.
I understand enough French to know beau doesn’t mean “annoying.”
It means beautiful.
It means hot.
Preston looked me dead in the eye and said I was “terribly beautiful tonight,” and then tried to pass it off as an insult.
This idiot.
He has no idea how close he is to being mine.