Chapter 29 #4
My hand slides over my stomach where the jersey’s rucked up, but when I touch myself again, Eric retracts his fingers, causing me to whine in frustration.
“Keep your hands at your sides where I can see them.”
My chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, but I obey, keeping my hands flat against the desk near my waist.
“There you go. I mean it. Keep them there until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”
I nod, unsure of what exactly I’m agreeing to, but I trust Eric, even when he decides to put high value collectibles in danger.
With his hands on my ass, he angles my body and leans in to lick at my hole, causing me to shudder and arch off the desk in shock.
We’ve fucked around in nearly every position, but he hasn’t done this yet, and now he’s fulfilling the promise he made on our trip.
His stubbled beard scratches my sensitive skin, and his hot breath causes me to squirm and gasp.
My fingers curl into fists at my side, and it’s taking all of my restraint not to touch him or myself.
Eric’s eyes remain on mine as he sucks over my rim, the wet sounds loud and sloppy.
He devours me, having total command over my body—permission I outright granted him.
My fingers tap against the desk as I struggle to restrain myself, finding it harder and harder to focus on being good.
Every time I swear I’m at my breaking point, Eric smiles up at me and exchanges his tongue for those fingers, rewarding my obedience with something thicker and longer, but I need more.
Was the Eric who wore this jersey years ago such a tease? What would he think if he knew the kind of man he would later become?
I get the impression the Eric of the past, and the man burying his face into my ass and moaning against my overheated skin are the same person, refined with time and more experience.
“You ready, James?”
I nod, my mind hazed over from lust. I’m almost afraid of what’ll happen once he’s inside me while his jersey’s all around me.
Eric bends my legs in half, pressing my knees to my chest. “Hold yourself up.”
Because we’ve been so active, Eric has had enough sense to keep a condom and a packet of lube on him at all times.
When I glance past my knees, he’s already shoved down the sweats, rolled the condom on, and coated his length.
He’s efficient when he wants, a slave to his own passion when pushed to his limits.
The next time Eric touches me, it’s to guide the head of his cock past my rim.
He sinks deep with ease, my muscles relaxed, ready to take him.
His hips rock slowly, and his eyes remain fixated on where we’re joined.
He builds to a quicker pace, and all I can do is clutch onto the backs of my legs and let him punch moan after moan from my throat.
All around me, the rest of Eric’s hockey collection watches on—especially its latest addition, the card he had me sign featuring a picture of my rookie self.
My past self wouldn’t be able to fathom the possibility of being taken and claimed by Eric in that jersey, let alone noticed by him.
It’s overwhelming, almost too much to bear, and even though every instinct tells me to cover my face and hide, I can’t; I promised to hold up my legs while he fucked me.
Eric’s not quiet in bed, but something about the combination of me and the jersey makes him more vocal, more feral, his rugged voice carrying beyond the office.
Maybe it’s the confidence of knowing we have his best friend’s blessing, maybe it’s a flare-up from his ego basking in the sight of his most loyal fan folded in half, completely at his mercy, taking his cock.
“Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” Eric groans, the two strands of hair dangling over his forehead swaying with every movement.
“Maybe you should always be dressed like this.” He means it as a flirty joke, but I’m not so sure with the way his eyes unravel me.
“Easy access to everything I could ever want at any given time...”
I’m not long from coming. I can’t hold myself back for much longer if he keeps grinding along my spot, if he continues showering me with praise and wicked groans that’ll haunt my dreams.
“T-The jersey, Eric,” I warn him, voice shaky, on the verge of falling apart.
“Leave it.”
Eric’s hand takes my cock and pumps me in time with his hard thrusts, and I can’t control myself any longer.
My eyes flutter half-closed, and I hear him groaning my name, egging me on, encouraging me to let it all out.
My fingers dig into my legs to hold on, and I shudder and moan, cock shooting hot cum onto the jersey, leaving a spatter of droplets all over.
Moments later, Eric pulls out and tears off the condom, his whole body tense from dwindling restraint. He’s right there with me, chasing the high with a bead of sweat on his brow.
“Roll over,” he urges.
Breathless, I turn onto my stomach and hold up the jersey, exposing my ass for him.
I bite my lip, knowing exactly where this is going.
Eric bends over me, pinning me to the desk.
He strokes himself and then groans my name right as the first drop hits my skin.
He paints my backside and the jersey, and I shudder from the sheer intensity of being marked by him.
Eric’s weight is hot, smothering, and he pants in my ear and presses a kiss to its curve.
Since I’m too limp and boneless to support myself, Eric helps me off the desk and catches me by my waist to hold me steady.
I drape my arms around him, the wide sleeves hanging low, and dig my fingers into his hair.
A grin spreads across my face, so wide it hurts. “I can’t believe we did that.”
Whenever I look at this jersey, I’ll never forget Eric’s game-winning save, the pose which was later immortalized through my favorite poster.
A once-in-a-lifetime experience he’s been lucky enough to enjoy twice.
I’ll never forget the way Eric inspired me, a young goaltender, to yearn for the chance to be just like him, talented and extraordinary and the hero his team needed throughout their playoff run.
That’s one of the reasons why I wanted the jersey all those years ago; I thought some of that magic could rub off onto me.
Some people would say what Eric and I did was sacrilegious, a flagrant disregard for the past, for legacy, but Eric doesn’t care about any of that.
Fulfilling my dream meant more to him than keeping a piece of clothing pristine and locked up in a shadowbox.
Fucking me in the jersey doesn’t lessen his accomplishments; it doesn’t scrub away his name on the Cup.
He’ll always have his memories, and sometimes those matter more than a tangible representation of them.
“I’m glad I kept it,” Eric murmurs, smiling and breathless. His fingers trace the points of the cardinal rose across my chest. “It was waiting all this time for the right person to wear it again.”
Not himself. Me.
“Whenever we look at this, we’ll have something to remember involving us both.”
Eric’s hand finds mine within the sea of fabric, and he raises it to his lips to kiss the back of it.
The jersey doesn’t just represent his first Stanley Cup victory anymore.
It belongs to us now, a symbol of our relationship, a sign that sometimes it’s better to let go of the past if it means enjoying the present.