Brayden #3
“Yes,” I hissed and gripped his hips, grinding my hard cock against his. I was desperate and leaking already, even though I’d only just gotten off. But Spencer always had that power over me. The man screamed sex.
He kissed me then, blanking out every thought except him.
When he did that, my walls fell and I was putty in his hands.
He had the power to quiet my mind and give me everything I needed.
I didn’t have to be what the world saw—a punk-ass sports star.
I could be quiet and introspective. I could give up control and trust him.
I wasn’t a disappointment. I wasn’t a fuckup.
I was his, and I knew he was proud of me.
Spencer reached up and cupped my face, holding me in exactly the position he wanted me in. He nudged his leg between mine and ground his hip along my hard length. My breath stuttered and my cock pulsed.
Then he swept his tongue into my mouth, owning me. He short-circuited my brain. I clung to his hips, barely keeping myself from melting into a puddle of Jell-O at his feet.
When he finally broke the kiss, he sighed and murmured against my lips, “We’ll fix this, Texas. I promise.”
I knew he meant well, but it didn’t even seem possible.
I probably had a clause in my contract somewhere telling me I couldn’t bone the team owner’s daughter or disrespect him or Coach.
If my daddy had heard the way I spoke to them in there, he would have lit my sorry ass on fire.
It was a good thing we rarely talked these days.
“I don’t think there’s any coming back from this, cowboy.” I pasted on a smile that I wasn’t feeling and added, “But I’m okay.”
“Don’t lie to me, Bray,” he replied, then ran his thumb over my cheek. “Let’s get your agent on the line and see what he says.”
I nodded and began packing my things. I didn’t want to have that conversation here. Within minutes I had everything from my locker shoved into my duffel.
I looked up to see Coach waiting at the doorway to the locker room. “Call your agent, son. You’re a great player. You should be in the league.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I said sincerely. “And sorry.” I wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d have any say in keeping me on the team after that debacle.
Maybe if Klein hadn’t been there, Coach might have been able to claim ignorance of what had happened.
But rumors spread like wildfire in teams—hockey players were gossip queens—so Klein would have heard sooner or later.
Y’all’d better believe that Coach’s head would have been on the chopping block, too, if Klein found out he knew about us.
I wasn’t worth that and the team deserved better.
I felt a pang of regret when the door to the player’s entrance slid closed behind us.
My footsteps stuttered and my breath caught.
This could be the end of my career. It’d been my everything for over a decade, and I’d possibly just thrown away the whole fucking thing for a quick lay. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. What had I done?
The walls of our shoebox apartment started to close in on me the moment we stepped inside.
I’d leased the first place I’d seen. After living in a hotel for a few months, Spencer begged me to find somewhere more permanent for when he arrived.
Frustrated he was forcing me to be all responsible adultlike, I’d walked in, checked out the semi-spacious living room, and signed the lease on the spot.
I should have looked further because a studio apartment definitely didn’t have a separate bedroom.
But at the time, I’d had no idea. Then we got busy and hadn’t had time to find somewhere else.
I pushed down the rising dread, navigated my way around the tiny space cluttered with hockey gear and guitars, and dialed Hector, my agent. I held my breath, sending the good Lord a prayer for him to be available.
“Miller, what can I do for you?” he said when he picked up.
“Find me a new team,” I said miserably. “Y’all, it’s been a day. But that about sums it up. I need a new team.”
“Why?” he asked slowly, his accent curling around the word.
“Well, let’s just say that I told the owner to suck my dick after he caught Spencer and me walking out of a storage closet after having just fucked his daughter. It didn’t go down so well.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, then paused, clearly waiting for me to contextualize. “Tell me you’re not serious. What were you thinking?” he hissed.
“I was thinking I wanted to get off with a pretty lady, then I wanted to choke her daddy for being a pretentious ass,” I snapped back.
“Texas,” Spencer warned. “You’re asking him for a favor. Cool it.”
I exhaled and pressed my lips into a tight smile. “Sorry, I’m—”
“Lashing out. It’s okay. We all do it, especially when we’re stressed,” Hector said. He let me get away with far too much.
“I made a mistake—”
“We made a mistake,” Spencer corrected me.
“And now Brayden needs to find a new team quick smart. The owner terminated his agreement. I warned him about legal repercussions when he accused us of raping his daughter, then said we’d see him in court, but fucked if I know whether we even have a leg to stand on. ”
“Woah, what? He accused you of sexual assault? Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”
We did, and he listened, then sighed heavily.
“Okay, I’ll get some legal advice. But you’re right, the priority needs to be finding you a new team.
Except, Brayden…” He sighed again. I already knew what he was going to say.
He only ever called me Brayden when he was delivering bad news.
“The chances of that happening now, with the season almost upon us, are slim.”
“He’ll go anywhere,” Spencer said.
“What? No, I won’t. It needs to be somewhere we can be together. I’m not leaving you here or back in New York and moving to bum-fuck-ville.”
“That could be fun, though,” Spencer teased, his voice a deep rasp.
“Leave it with me for a few days, and I’ll put out some feelers. There are only a couple of teams who are far enough below the salary cap to be able to afford you and even fewer who need a strong wing. I can’t guarantee we’re going to find anyone, but I’ll do my best.”
That was all I could ask for. I’d put myself into this position, now I needed to wear the consequences. Hopefully he could work a miracle. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“We both do,” Spencer added.
***
One day turned into two, and I was going out of my mind.
I was kicking myself for how self-destructive I’d been.
Why the fuck hadn’t I grown up and not stuck my dick inside Mila?
If I’d exercised one single iota of self-restraint, none of this would have happened.
Spencer had warned me that it was a bad idea, but I’d insisted it would be fine. I was eating my words now.
My life was now following Spencer around like a puppy. I was looking at the positives. I got to go to the video shoot for his song, “Midnight Hour.” If I was in training, that wouldn’t have happened.
Spencer’s song was surging up the Billboard Top 100, and his record label wanted to keep the momentum going.
They’d spent all night and part of today shooting the video in the Boston Public Library, the dimly lit corridors and long staircases perfect for a song about longing and running toward love.
The video was set to launch as soon as edits on it were complete. The label’s turnaround time was insane, but they were making bank on the song, and everyone wanted it to continue. Spencer’s career was taking off like a rocket at warp speed, and I couldn’t have been happier for him.
He’d put everything into making this his breakout success. I hadn’t had any doubts. I’d known the moment I’d heard him sing that first time. He was a crooner with a vocal range to make most men weep—and the bad boy vibe he had going on only helped his sex appeal.
I rarely saw him in anything other than jeans and boots—shirtless was his norm—and he preferred his jeans low cut. I never complained when I could see his deep V and, usually, the obvious lack of underwear.
During Boston winters, his beanie, scarf, gloves, and sweaters were all black. He wore his dark hair longer at the front, and the way it flopped in front of his face gave him a mussed-up, just-fell-out-of-bed vibe.
That sexed-up look contrasted with the perpetual scowl he wore, and he had men and women alike panting for a piece of him.
I’d watched them go wild. Reporters were saying he had that classic bad-boy-rocker look, and they were right, except that my husband pulled off that sexy swagger even better than anyone I’d ever seen before.
The whole package was such a turn-on, but it’d been those abs that had attracted me to him in the first place. I’d offered to lick them. He told me to suck his dick. I had, then I’d ridden him all night, and we’d been inseparable ever since.
I may have uttered that line to Klein, but “Suck my dick” was Spencer’s signature answer to any question that was out of line.
When he spoke in his Australian accent and that smoky voice of his that was made for sex, his fans frothed.
I’d done a deep dive down Reddit one day to prove to him just how much.
There was more than one thread where men who thought of themselves as straight expressed both a desire and curiosity to get down on their knees and suck my husband off just because of the way he uttered that one short command.
Needless to say, I’d encouraged them to try out their newfound curiosity in my own charming way, and a few had reported back with boyfriend updates.