Chapter 8 #2
Graham jerked up from the floor. With two hands, he yanked his jeans open. They hit the deck with a jingle, and then he was stepping out of his jeans and boxers. Putting one knee on the bed beside me, he bent over my waist again, taking me in from an even better angle than before.
“Uhhhn…” I said. Because it’s hard to be eloquent when your dick is in somebody’s mouth. I ran my hand up the inside of Graham’s bare thigh, my fingers sifting through his soft leg hair on the way to the good stuff. When I cupped him, he gasped. When I stroked him, he moaned.
And then it was practically all over but the crying.
He was moaning and thrusting into my hand, and I was not going to survive it.
My nuts got tight and my spine hitched and I took one more big breath.
“Look out,” I gasped. Graham didn’t duck and cover, but it was probably too late anyway.
Slamming my head back onto the pillow, I came like a rocket launcher.
And he took it like a champ. A few seconds later he came on a muffled groan, spilling into my hand, shuddering with satisfaction.
When silence descended a minute later, Graham lay panting on my belly.
“Up here,” I croaked. I pushed further back onto the narrow bed, my back up against the cold plaster of the wall. I wiped my hand on my discarded T-shirt, and then threw that on the floor.
Graham swiveled and fell, his head landing near mine. But his eyes were focused on the ceiling, and I had no idea what was in his brain. I tucked my chin down to place a soft kiss on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch or move away, but neither did he roll into me. “Graham, are you…”
But that was as far as I got, because he held up a hand. “We’re not talking right now,” he said, his eyes drooping. “Don’t want to discuss it.”
I gave a strangled laugh. “Okay. I was only going to ask if you’re as drunk as I am.” Because I’d just noticed how loopy four shots of tequila could leave you after a long, disastrous game and on an empty stomach.
“The room is spinning,” Graham mumbled.
“That’s because you got naked with me, baby,” I joked, biting his shoulder a little.
“Shut it,” he whispered, hitching away from me, rolling onto his side.
Right. Even drunk, I could extrapolate. Graham would probably crawl out of here in about two minutes. Then he’d shut down again, and go back to ignoring me.
But at the moment, the bed was so small that his body was still only inches from mine. I put my hands to his shoulders and squeezed, massaging the muscles under my palms. He was beautiful, and I didn’t want to stop touching him.
With a firm grip, I dug my thumbs into his traps, my fingers working his neck.
I gave it a fifty-fifty chance that he’d pop up off the bed and go away.
But I kept going. Carpe Diem and all that.
I worked both my hands up his neck to the base of his skull.
And then I massaged his scalp, because there isn’t a person alive who isn’t a sucker for having his head rubbed.
All that fine, pale hair went sifting through my fingers. Finally, I felt Graham sigh and relax.
I knew there was wisdom in quitting while you’re ahead.
But Graham had thrown a switch inside me that could not easily be turned off.
Just from massaging him, I was ready to go again.
So I slipped an arm around his waist, hitching my body against his, so that my erection lay against his ass.
His muscles stiffened in my arms. But I wasn’t going to give up easily.
My hand began a slow tour of his chest, and I pressed my lips to the back of his neck.
When I felt his breath catch a minute later, I knew that I had won.
It didn’t take long until he was rolling over, reaching for me.
His mouth was salty now. I could taste myself on him.
We went slower this time, exploring one another thoroughly.
Graham’s eyes were slammed shut, as if looking at me was more than he could handle.
But his touch was reverent — his big hands sliding around my hips as if trying to memorize them.
He reached between our bodies and took me in hand.
Arching his back, bringing his torso even closer, he was able to grasp us both at the same time.
It was glorious. I rocked my hips, thrusting into his hand and against his cock, taking long gulps from his mouth.
As good as it was, this taste of him only made me hungrier.
Someone knocked loudly on my door.
Graham jerked his hand away from me as if he’d just discovered he was touching a stick of dynamite. His whole body went rock solid, his eyes popping wide with panic.
The knock came again. Bang bang bang. “Rikker, if you’re in there, open up.” It was Bella’s voice. “Or at least answer your phone. Tonight wasn’t your fault.”
Beside me, Graham began to tremble.
I put my lips right beside his ear, barely whispering. “The door is still locked.”
“Come on, Rik,” Bella called again. And when she rattled the doorknob, Graham’s body gave a horrified jerk, like he’d been tasered.
But the door held, of course. And then after an achingly long silence of a minute or so, we heard the sound of Bella’s footsteps tapping away, heading down the stairs.
It was so quiet then that I could actually count our heartbeats. And after a dozen or so of them, Graham got up and fumbled for his clothes.
“Graham,” I whispered. “You don’t have to panic.”
But he wouldn’t even look at me. With shaking hands, he stumbled into his jeans.
I pulled the blanket up from the foot of the bed, mostly covering myself. And I watched a freaked-out Graham prepare for a hasty exit from my room. I could almost hear the worry loop trailing around inside his head. Never should have done that. Never should have done that.
Whatever. If he wanted to freak out and run away after hooking up with me, that was his loss. That’s what I was going to tell myself, anyway. What’s one more bruise on a battered heart? Mine probably already looked like a veteran NHL player’s face.
Before the door closed on him, he said one word to me. “Sorry.”
I was tired of hearing that word from him.
His footsteps echoed as he retreated down the stairwell.
For the second time tonight, I lay alone on my bed, nursing my wounded ribs.
The next time I heard footsteps on the stair, I knew that it was only one of my exchange-student neighbors on his way in for the night.
There would be nobody else calling, or coming to visit me.
My bruises throbbed again and my head began to ache. But the silence hurt worst of all.
The next event in my fun-filled life was a team meeting in the wood-paneled club room at the rink. Like a brave man does, I snuck in at the last minute, holding up the wall beside the door. At the front of the room, Coach paced, his hands in fists.
“It’s not that you lost the game, you idiots.
It’s that you lost your cool. That asshole played you like a whole fucking orchestra of fiddles.
Watching last night’s tape? It took me half a bottle of scotch.
Seven minutes, guys. Seven. Minutes. That’s how long it took that dickface to wreck your game.
The wheels came off early, and they stayed off.
And all because of a few carefully planned taunts.
Baby stuff! You got taken down by yourselves, basically.
Because if you don’t know how to be immune to petty shit like that, you’re not going to last very long in hockey. ”
He stopped pacing, his hands clenched at his sides. “We’re not watching that tape, because there’s nothing to watch. There’s no point in analyzing the plays, because you idiots didn’t even show up to play the game.”
I was new to the team and all, but I’d never seen Coach as angry as this. It must not happen very often.
Fuck me.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I gave one of your teammates the day off.
The only guy who can hold his head up high after that shit show is Orson.
Seventy-six fucking shots on goal Saint B’s took.
And you punks took thirty. And Orson kept his shit together for three periods, and only let in four!
Who was your MVP last night? Orson. That ass from Saint B's taunted him the worst of all, and it was a fucking waste of breath, people.”
Coach took a minute to look every guy in the eye, one at a time. “Where. The. Fuck. Were the rest of you?”
Graham
The following weekend, on the way home from the Union game, the bus was dark and quiet.
Needless to say, there’d been no cause to blast our win song after the buzzer. Orson did his best, letting in two goals the whole game. But we couldn’t put the biscuit in the basket to save our lives. Without two of our best offensive players, our rhythm broke down.
So here we were, riding home late on a silent bus, every guy thinking dark thoughts. And then there was Bella. She was currently curled up in the seat beside me, her head on my chest as if I was her own personal bolster pillow.
Across the aisle, Hartley sat with his arms folded across his chest. He wore the stoic expression of a man serving out the last bit of his prison term.
As our captain, he’d ridden along to the game even though he wasn’t allowed on the bench.
It couldn’t have been fun to watch us lose from the stands.
Knowing Hartley, he blamed himself for the loss to Union.
Nobody on the bus was happy right now. And I’m sure everyone sat in his seat, assigning blame. It’s just that I’m pretty sure they didn’t all blame themselves.
Poor Rikker.