17. Marcus
MARCUS
Me
You’re ignoring me again.
Preston
Observation skills on point. Want a cookie?
Three weeks ago, in that alley, what did I tell you would happen if you don’t keep in touch?
About that. I decided it sounded like a threat after all, so it doesn’t count. Better luck next time. Now, shoo and stop annoying me.
Didn’t seem like I was annoying you when you came all over my fingers two days ago. Your cock was throbbing like crazy as you moaned my name.
I did NOT moan your name.
Yes, you did. You said ‘Marcus, deeper’ in that erotic gruff voice, remember? It made me fuck you harder with my fingers, and you took three of them like a champ.
Keep talking and I’ll stab you with a butter knife and feed you to my dogs slowly.
As much as I find your attempts to deflect with violent threats adorable, it’s not going to fly tonight. We need to talk.
No, thanks. I’d rather impale myself with a blunt sword seppuku style than go through the hassle.
Are you that scared of literally having a conversation with me?
Bitch, please. I’m not scared of anyone. Least of all you.
But you are, Preston. You’re terrified at the notion of spending any time with me if it doesn’t involve hockey, spanking you, or cornering you in that locker room and making you come.
You immediately shut down as soon as you orgasm and still punch me whenever I try to touch you softly.
You shot down my invitations to spend Christmas or New Year’s together, just because that means trying something outside the usual sexual frenzy you’re comfortable with.
If that’s not being scared, I don’t know what is.
Are you psychoanalyzing me, because yikes. Not sure if you’re an amateur psychiatrist, but I’m refusing your services. I have enough doctors who give your feeble attempts a run for their money.
Do those doctors prescribe you those pills? What are they for?
Have you been going through my shit?
No, I saw them accidentally the other day. They had no label, so I’ve been wondering.
They’re crazy-people pills.
Be serious.
I am serious. Surely, you’ve heard of us. The crazy people whose heads tell them to kill and hurt others. The criminally insane who are considered a threat to society. Available on Netflix in the glorious true crime section.
What’s your diagnosis?
It’s called none of your fucking business.
Fine. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.
Stop acting so high and fucking mighty. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to? Fuck you, bitch. Get over yourself.
Do you want me to push? Is that it?
That’s not communication, Preston. Don’t be childish.
Guess what? I AM childish. And fuck you, asshole. Stop getting into my business just because I allow you to touch me. So what if I enjoy what happens in the locker room? Shocking news—I enjoy a LOT of things. Doesn’t make them special.
Keep lying to yourself if it helps you sleep at night.
Helps me sleep just fine. You, on the other hand, seem clingy. That new for you or just a side effect of whatever savior complex you have?
You were the clingy one the other day when you held on to me with all your might as I lifted you against the door.
Don’t confuse lust with charity.
Charity?
Yeah. You seem to be incapable of keeping your hands off of me, so I’m just going with the flow. Always had a soft spot for the unprivileged.
Liar. You don’t give a fuck about the unprivileged.
New hobby. It’s like picking up a stray dog. Makes me feel good at the moment, but it’s fleeting.
Did you just say fleeting?
Yes, fleeting. Know your place, Marcus. You’re just noise between pills.
In that case, let’s silence the noise.
What?
Since you’re being so benevolent by catering to my whims and allowing me to touch you, I’m happy to tell you I got my fill and will now move on to my next conquest. You won’t have to put up with this “charity case” anymore and can go back to the dull life you had before I came along.
I can’t say you were a good sport, but it was fun while it lasted.
Did you just call ME a fucking conquest?
Would fling make you feel better? Surely, you’ve had plenty of those. What’s one more?
You don’t seem to know who the fuck you’re messing with.
Obviously not, considering you never talk to me. Congratulations. From now on, I’m sparing you the hassle.
That was the last exchange I had with Preston.
Which was a couple of days ago.
Since then, I’ve focused on practice, work, and going to the club with the guys. I’ve done everything in my might to remain completely in the zone.
Because I have an important game to win tomorrow, and I won’t let an insignificant fucking asshole ruin my focus.
And yet as I practice drills on my own in the Stanton Wolves’ arena late at night, an unnatural tension coils in my muscles.
I glide to a halt in the center, pulling the puck toward me.
It’s better to stop practicing than cause an unwanted injury when we’re this far out in the championship.
Problem is, hockey is the only method I have to purge this morbid rage that’s tucked right beneath the surface.
And I refuse to think it’s there because tonight at this time, I’d normally be in Vipers Arena, where a certain blond-haired, green-eyed prince would be waiting for me with a challenge in his eyes.
I wonder if he’s in the arena right now, clad in his compression shirt, gliding along the ice with enough elegance to look like a figure skater—
No.
I don’t give a fuck what Preston is doing.
He obviously considers me a booty call of sorts, so there’s no reason why I’d be thinking about him.
It’s been, what? Close to five weeks since I picked up that ritual before game nights.
Three since we started meeting once a week, even during the winter break, but Preston refuses the very notion of meeting outside or without hockey and sex involved.
Sometimes we practice first, sometimes I corner him and leave him no choice but to enjoy my fingers, mouth, and cock.
After that night in the alleyway over three weeks ago, I thought maybe he’d open up a bit. He was obviously jealous of Dahlia, and when I asked her about it, she said that Preston started to treat her differently after he found out we were together at one point.
He’d also warmed up to me two weeks ago—or as much as Preston can. He did give me his scarf and call me beautiful.
So I held out hope that he’d come around, but that was wishful thinking.
Preston runs hot and cold—more cold than hot.
Sometimes, he’ll look at me with those parted lips and expectant eyes, and I feel like I have the real Preston to myself. An older version of the seven-year-old boy I could never forget.
But then, I try to get closer, like touch his face or ask about a bruise I notice on his side and stomach, and he’ll push me away.
I started to notice he gets into a lot of fights, considering he has other marks aside from the ones I’d leave on his ass.
Which I found odd since Preston isn’t overly physical on the ice. I’d assumed he was the same off the ice, but then again, I saw him stab someone in cold blood in his family’s forest.
Whenever I tried to ask what type of fights he was getting himself into, he’d completely shut down. If I touched him, I’d get kicked or punched or both because that’s how he responds to things he can’t control.
With excessive, brutal, oftentimes impulsive violence.
It’s like he acts before he can think, as he usually wears this look that screams, “I didn’t mean to do that.” He’d even tighten his body, waiting for me to hit him back. Not that I would, but he fully expected it.
And something about that entire reaction sits wrong with me.
Sat wrong with me.
Because I clearly ended this charade.
Or attempted to, anyway.
Thing is, Preston will not let that slide. One, despite his happy-go-lucky image and the humor he wears like armor, he’s a bit of a control freak. That means he won’t let me be the one who ends whatever fucked-up arrangement we have.
Two, and most importantly, he’s lying about how it’s only me who’s into him. He clearly looks forward to the nights we meet, considering his colorful threatening texts the days leading up to it. It’s his type of foreplay, so to speak.
He also loves it when I shove him against the locker and make him take it, even if he’s still visibly uncomfortable with any form of aftercare.
He’ll moan and groan and say the filthiest words when I’m spanking him or giving him head, but then he’ll squirm and try to wiggle out of my hold when I attempt to massage his bruised skin or caress him gently.
Not to mention that he’s still a bit apprehensive about me fingering his ass.
I’ve been doing it religiously so that he’ll get used to it, whispering things like, “You need to fit my fingers so you can take my cock,” or “Your tight hole is made for me, isn’t it?
” or “Relax for me, baby, let me loosen you up.”
While he seems to enjoy it now, I’m not sure if I can take it to the next level. I’ve been dying to fuck him raw and hard and come so deep inside him, no other cock will ever go near him. It takes everything in me not to claim his tight, little hole, especially when he clenches around my fingers.
But I’ve had to force myself to slow down.
He’s truly like an injured animal sometimes, balking at the merest hint of change.
The other day, after he came down my throat and watched me swallow his cum with hooded eyes, he looked away, hesitating before he said, “You might want to stop sucking my dick if you believe I’ll return the favor.”
“You think I’m sucking your cock so you’ll return the favor?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s expected? I’m not the gay one. Anyway, I’ll never get on my knees or put your cock in my mouth.”
“Why not?”
“I’m telling you it’s not going to happen, and that’s that.”
Then he stormed out, confirming a little theory I had.
Preston is fine with me doing all the work, but he clearly feels out of his element when I ask him to do anything.
Even grabbing our cocks that time in the alley seemed to make him uneasy.