Chapter 30 #2
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he squeezes harder, using his grip to pull me against him, to guide the rhythm of our movements. The pressure is exquisite, his fingers kneading the firm muscle. I’m hurtling toward the edge with alarming speed.
“I’m close,” Ryan whispers, and his voice is nothing like the composed and careful words he usually chooses. “Oliver, I’m going to—I can’t—”
“Let go.” I press my lips to his temple. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
Ryan comes first.
I feel it happen before I hear it—his entire body goes rigid beneath me, every muscle locking, his fingers clawing into my ass hard enough to leave marks.
Then the sound tears out of him, a cry that’s half my name and half something wordless and primal.
Liquid warmth spreads between us, soaking through his khakis and against mine.
That’s what sends me over.
My hips stutter, grinding down hard, and I come in my shorts with a groan I couldn’t suppress if someone held a gun to my head.
My toes curl in my flip-flops, the rubber soles bending under the pressure, and my arms shake where they’re braced on either side of Ryan’s head.
My eyes roll back as wave after wave rolls through me, each pulse pushing more warmth into the fabric between us until I’m spent and trembling and barely holding myself up.
I collapse onto my elbows, careful not to crush him, and press my forehead against his. We’re both panting. Both destroyed. The night air cools the sweat on my neck, and somewhere nearby, the owl starts up again, apparently satisfied that the humans have concluded their business.
“Did we just…” Ryan’s voice is thin, breathless, edged with disbelief.
“Yeah.”
“In our shorts.”
“Yeah.”
“In a public park.”
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence. Then Ryan starts laughing. It’s not the polished, controlled sound he usually offers. It’s full and messy and real, shaking through his whole body and into mine, where we’re still pressed together.
I start laughing too, because the absurdity of it is undeniable. Two college students, one of them a Division I hockey captain, lying in a park clearing covered in their own cum, one of them wearing flip-flops, the other penny loafers.
I roll off him carefully, wincing at the state of my shorts. The wet patch is extensive and unmistakable. “And for the record, that was the single greatest experience of my life, and I once scored a hat trick in the conference finals.”
“You’re comparing our first sexual encounter to hockey?”
“I’m saying you beat hockey. That’s the highest compliment I can give.”
Ryan turns his head, and even in the darkness, I can see the flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. His hair is mussed, his shirt is untucked and twisted, and his khakis are ruined.
He’s never looked better.
“Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For stopping when I asked for more. For giving me this instead.” He reaches for my hand, and I give it to him without hesitation. “You were right. This was perfect.”
“We’ll get to the rest,” I promise, squeezing his fingers. “When the time is right. When I can give you everything you deserve.”
“I know.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “I trust you.”
Those three words hit harder than any I love you could. Trust, from someone who’s spent twenty years learning not to give it. Trust, offered freely, without conditions or caveats.
I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. “We should probably get cleaned up before we drive back.”
“With what? We used the napkins with our dinner.”
I glance at the picnic basket, then down at our shorts. “Walk of shame it is.”
When I walk into the Hockey House after dropping Ryan back at his dorm, I’m met with two grown men yelling at the television.
“GIVE HIM THE ROSE!” Gerard bellows from the couch, his massive frame taking up approximately 70 percent of the available seating. “He’s clearly the best choice!”
“He’s a walking red flag,” Drew counters, jabbing a finger at the screen where a perfectly coiffed woman in an evening gown is clutching a single rose.
“Did you not see the way he talked about his journey? Nobody talks about journeys that much unless they’re hiding something. He’s not there for the right reasons.”
“You’re too cynical, Drew. Love is about taking chances!”
I try to slip past them toward the stairs, moving with all the stealth my hockey training has given me. Which, admittedly, isn’t much—I’m built for power, not subtlety—but hope springs eternal.
I make it approximately three steps before Gerard’s head swivels toward me. “Oliver! You’re back! How was the—”
His eyes drop. His mouth falls open. Drew follows his gaze, and I watch in real time as his expression transforms from mild curiosity to unholy glee.
“Holy shit,” Drew breathes.
I look down at myself. At my shorts. At the very visible, very obvious, very incriminating stain spread across the front of them.
Why did I wear this color? Why didn’t I wear something dark, something forgiving, something that doesn’t broadcast to the entire world that I had an orgasm in a public park? These shorts hide nothing. These shorts have betrayed me in my hour of need.
Gerard’s laughter starts as a wheeze, building into a full-body convulsion that threatens to shake the couch apart. Drew isn’t far behind, his cackles echoing off the walls loud enough to wake the dead.
“Oh my God,” Gerard gasps, tears streaming down his face. “Oliver—your shorts—did you—”
“Shut up.”
“THE STAIN,” Drew howls, clutching his stomach. “IT’S—IT’S RIGHT THERE!”
“I said, shut up!”
“Did you have a good time at the picnic, Captain?” Gerard manages between wheezes. “A really, really good time?”
I flip them both off with feeling, one middle finger per laughing hyena, and bolt for the stairs. Their laughter follows me up, growing louder when I stumble on the third step and have to catch myself on the railing.
“Use protection next time!” Drew shouts after me.
“I hate you both!”
“Love you too, Ollie!” Gerard hollers.
My bedroom door crashes shut behind me, and the silence that follows is blissful. I lean against the door, catching my breath, and wait for my heart rate to return to something approaching normal.
It doesn’t. But at least I’m alone now.
I strip off my shirt first, tossing it toward the hamper in the corner.
Then I tackle the shorts—the treacherous, incriminating, stain-broadcasting shorts—peeling them down my legs and kicking them away with more force than strictly necessary.
My Fruit of the Looms follow, equally ruined, equally damning.
Evidence disposed of. Crime scene cleaned.
I’m about to collapse onto my bed when I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of my door.
I pause.
I’ve never been shy about my body. Hockey has given me the kind of physique that turns heads—broad shoulders, a defined chest, arms thick with muscle. My legs are my best asset, built for power and speed, and my ass…well. Ryan seemed to appreciate my ass plenty tonight.
But now I’m looking at myself differently. Not with the critical eye of an athlete assessing his conditioning, but with the wondering gaze of someone imagining how he’ll appear to another person. To Ryan.
Where will he touch first?
I trace the thought across my skin, cataloging possibilities. My chest, maybe, with its light dusting of dark hair that trails down toward my navel. My shoulders, broad enough to dwarf his smaller frame. My stomach, where the muscles flex and shift with every breath.
Lower.
My cock stirs at the thought, beginning its inevitable rise to attention. I watch it happen in the mirror, the thickening length, the way it curves slightly to the left as it hardens. Ryan’s never seen me like this. Ryan’s never seen anyone like this.
What will his face look like the first time he sees my cock dripping with precome? Sees my balls rolling because he’s staring at them with lust and need.
The questions send another pulse of blood southward, and I’m fully hard now, my erection jutting out from my body.
I could take care of it. It would be easy—I’m still keyed up from earlier, still buzzing with the memory of Ryan’s hands on my ass, his body shuddering beneath mine, the sound of my name torn from his throat.
But no. I don’t want to get off again tonight. Not alone, anyway. What happened with Ryan was special—our first time experiencing pleasure together, even if it was through layers of clothing—and I want to hold on to that. Let it be enough. Let it carry me through until the next time.
I tear my gaze away from the mirror and cross to my bed, flopping face-first onto the mattress without bothering to pull back the covers. The cool sheets feel good against my overheated skin, and I let out a long breath, willing my body to calm.
I close my eyes and let the exhaustion wash over me. The events of the evening replay behind my eyelids: the picnic, the sandwiches, Ryan singing along to the radio in my Jeep with a voice that made the angels sing.
The way he looked at me under the stars. The way he tasted when I kissed him. The way his body felt moving against mine.
Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, and I let it pull me under. My erection throbs once, twice beneath me, then begins to subside as relaxation overtakes arousal.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
In my dreams, Ryan is there.