Chapter 29 #3
Before I’ve processed what Eric’s suggesting, he’s nudging me off the couch, taking my hand, and dragging me to his office as if our lives depend on it.
Eric never got around to showing me this particular part of his house before.
If his home were a castle, then the office would be the treasure room for his spoils of battles long past. I used to consider myself a collector; I used to believe what I owned could be considered excessive, gluttonous.
It all pales in comparison to what Eric has amassed over time.
Wall to ceiling wooden shelves filled with collectibles.
Pucks, sticks, signed photographs, and card displays featuring his favorite players.
Each item has a magnetic pull on me, urging me closer, but when my eyes land on the section dedicated to Eric’s own accomplishments, my breath catches in my throat.
Photographs of Eric raising the Cup from both victories, one of the sticks he wielded, the helmets from both seasons, and there in the center, framed inside a shadowbox for posterity, the blue, white, and gold Seadogs jersey with the number 33.
Eric leaves me in the center of his office by the desk to take down the shadowbox, and that’s when it hits me.
“Wait, c’mon, you can’t… you can’t actually be serious.”
“Get undressed.”
“Eric—”
“Get undressed, James,” he says again with a hint of force that makes my cock questionably twitch in the sweats.
Eric’s eyes rake over my form as I take off the clothes I borrowed from his closet.
My face is on fire, my skin rosy and flush from the neck down.
Being naked amidst so much hockey history feels wrong, as if I’m not worthy to have the eyes of past legends on me.
Yet when I glance down, my cock hangs against my thigh, half-full and dribbling with precum.
Eric pulls out the jersey from the shadowbox and hands it to me. The intense look in his eyes leaves no room for protest, so I swallow the lump in my throat and take it, holding it as if it’s made of glass.
The NHL has had different jersey manufacturers over the years, and this one’s from a company which no longer makes them.
The material is more durable and flexible than what fans can typically buy at the team stores.
The jersey features the old Seadogs alternate logo, a cardinal rose compass, and a patch with a stylized golden retriever wearing an 18th century admiral’s coat on the shoulder.
The numbers and lettering are hand sewn on with metallic gold thread.
True to Eric’s word, this is a used, game-worn jersey with puck scuffs on the sleeve.
Oh God, I remember the exact save Eric made which caused this mark.
My body has lost the plot over how to respond.
Even though I’m a collector who doesn’t need every piece of memorabilia to be sealed behind glass to have value, this is a priceless jersey.
I’m terrified just looking at it. This could sell at auction for thousands of dollars thanks to Eric’s legacy.
The last time Eric wore this, he was my age, twenty-six and flying high off success.
This jersey has witnessed greatness, worn by a man who will no doubt enter the Hockey Hall of Fame shortly after retiring.
And that’s also why I need to wear this—to brush against such greatness, to feel it slide along my bare skin, to be enveloped in Eric and taken back to the exact moment he etched his name onto my heart.
“Put it on,” Eric orders, mouthing the words into my ear as if the hockey gods might overhear. Would they smite us both for even considering what he’s suggesting?
A severe lack of impulse control and judgment pushes me over the edge.
I lift the jersey over my head and let it cascade down my figure.
Goaltender jerseys are usually designed to be a few sizes bigger to accommodate the bulky chest and arm protection, so it falls past my waist and hangs loosely like an oversized t-shirt.
The fact my ass keeps brushing against the fight strap leaves me scandalized. What the hell am I doing?
When I meet Eric’s gaze, his pupils are blown wide, his lips upturned with a sly, sexy smirk that makes my blood run hot.
“How does it feel?”
I lick my lips and run my fingers down my chest, tracing the logo. The friction of the jersey fabric against my skin sends ripples of sensation everywhere I touch.
“Indescribable.”
“Yeah?” Eric asks, his arm snaking around my waist. “It looks better on you.”
And then Eric seals his mouth over mine, his tongue parting my lips. He swallows each whimper as his hand drags down my spine. He draws the outline of the number, 33, over my back as if to mark me, to brand me as his.
“Show me what my number one fan would have done had he purchased this jersey years ago,” he murmurs when he draws away, breathing heavily against my warm skin.
I could feign ignorance, I could pretend I don’t understand what Eric’s talking about, but there’s no point in lying.
Eric’s read me like an open book. He knows what I would have done to myself while wearing his jersey without an ounce of shame.
If he didn’t want this, he wouldn’t have brought up the idea in the first place.
Eric sits in his big, comfortable office chair while I lean back against his desk.
I’m swimming in fabric, but I manage to bunch the bottom half of the jersey around my waist. Pure energy courses through my veins, fueled by Eric’s focus.
He’s enjoying this—more than I would have given him credit for.
I ignore the small wet spot near the bottom where my slit smeared against the fabric and lift the bottom hem of the jersey over my cock, offering him the perfect view.
If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right. I spit into my palm and then circle my fingers around my length, causing my head to fall back with a shaky moan.
My hand moves slow, my hips rolling into my closed fist, and I don’t have to rely on imagination to picture myself fucking into a warm, wet mouth.
Eric’s taken me down his throat more than once.
I add more spit, coating myself to make the way slick and smooth.
My thumb swirls around the slit, teasing the head, imagining it’s the tip of Eric’s hot tongue.
“I can picture it. You, pacing inside your dorm as you waited for your roommate to leave so you could have ‘alone time’ with your latest purchase. You’d get naked and put it on, letting a piece of me envelope you—skin to fabric.
Maybe you’d stand in front of the mirror and admire how it looks on you. Does that sound right?”
“Yes,” I confess, breathless.
“Would you turn around and check yourself out?”
I blush, tingling all over, but I nod.
“Wondering if I’d do the same if I saw you wearing it?”
I close my eyes and nod again, overcome with embarrassment.
“Look at me.”
My eyes open, obeying his command. I stare at Eric through my lashes, biting my lip to suppress a cry.
“Roll your hips. Really rock into your hand. Let yourself feel it.”
With each slow thrust, my breaths come quicker, and my head lolls against my shoulder, unable to stay upright on its own. My fingers are a mess, coated in my own saliva and precum.
“And then you’d crawl into bed. On your stomach, hands and knees? Or flat on your back?”
“Flat on my back,” I mutter.
“So you could stare up at the poster while you touched yourself?”
“Y-Yeah.” I used to pretend I was looking up into Eric’s eyes, mindless to the pleasure.
“I bet you’d turn your head and take a deep whiff from the jersey, just to see if it smelled like me.”
There’s no way it would. They wash these game-worn jerseys before selling them to the public. Right? I fall prey to testing my theory, canting my head towards the collar, and Eric laughs, low and dark.
“See? I was right. Wouldn’t you just love if it did after all this time.”
Of course not. I would never. Dressing rooms smell horrible, the total opposite of sexy, and it’s been several years since Eric last wore this, and yet…
“With you wearing it now, it’ll have an impression of us both.”
To come so close to success makes me arch my back and thrust faster into my hand, lightheaded from the wicked vision Eric’s painted.
“Be honest, James. You’re in bed, wearing this, gazing up at the poster. Would you touch just your cock? Or would you play with your ass, too?”
I lick my lips. “Sometimes I would if my roommate would be out for a while.”
“Just with your fingers? Or did you have a toy named Eric, too?”
“Just my fingers,” I gasp, raising my hips off the desk to meet my strokes. I could be another one of his trophies, a moving statue for his eyes only. “But I… I had a hard time…”
“Reaching as deeply as you wanted?” he teases, and I nod again, cursing under my breath as my fingers tighten around the head of my cock.
“Then I think it’s time I helped make the fantasy a reality.”
Eric grabs my wrist to still my hand and rises from the chair.
He helps me onto his desk, seating my bare ass on the fine polished wood.
He spreads my legs wide and settles in between, his own cock making a tent in his sweats.
He rocks against me, teasing through fabric and causing me to shiver with want.
Eric sticks two fingers into my mouth and orders me to suck.
I drag my tongue along them, and when he pushes them down my throat, I moan and gag, feeling a trail of drool slide down my jaw and drop onto the jersey’s collar.
When his fingers are slick and wet, he nudges me to fall back against the desk, sprawled out for him.
He slides those fingers inside my hole, rhythmically moving in and out with ease.
Between fucking earlier, before Braydan’s interruption, and how horny I am now from wearing this jersey, I’m still loose for him, desperate for his cock.