Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
I drive straight from the skating club to Christos’ place.
Maude spent half of practice asking me about school.
First my grades, then my friends, my dorm…
Eventually she just outright asked me what was wrong.
I told her nothing—which isn’t technically a lie.
Bekken got me worked up the other day but he’s not a problem.
I don’t even think he’s in town anymore.
When I pull up to Christos’ house I’m relieved to find only his car in the driveway. I drive up a block before parking in front of a random house.
As soon as he opens the door, I blurt out, “Your friend is an asshole.”
There’s a pause. “He wouldn’t disagree.” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “And, hello. This is a nice surprise. It’s good to see you. How have you been?”
I flush, even the tips of my ears burning up despite the gust of wind at my back. Christos wraps an arm around me and brings me inside. “You hungry? I already ate but I made extra sweet potato boats. I can pop in the oven real quick to heat it up.”
Still hot in the face from my outburst on the porch, I nod.
While he gets the food ready, he laughs to himself. “You and Jonas are funny to watch.”
“Does he hate me?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “No, he likes you.”
I lift a brow. “Does he know about us?”
He has the tray half inside the oven when he stops. “No, he doesn’t.” He shuts the oven. “I would have told him, but I, uh, figured—”
“Right.”
He continues, “You didn’t want that…”
I would argue with him that the secrecy isn’t my decision, but it would be a half-hearted argument.
“Have you and Bekken ever….” I mush my palms together.
He knits his brows. “What?” He matches my gesture, “Held hands?” With a snort he shakes his head, “Jonas is straight.”
“Okay,” I hop onto the countertop. “And if he wasn’t?”
He keeps shaking his head, laughing to himself now. “He’s not my type.”
The conversation veers into familiar territory. “So, what is your type? Short, young, and flexible?”
“To be fair, most people are shorter than me. So, yes?”
He grabs some plates and silverware. The kitchen smells of warm sweet potato and some other rich ingredient I can’t place. He pushes past me to set the table. I grab two glasses to feel useful.
“Okay, but actually, do you have a type?”
He hums to himself as he thinks. “Now that I think about it, everyone I’ve dated has been pretty type A.”
“Are you jealous of him?” The question is a surprise even to me.
He blinks, knitting his brows together in confusion before the realization relaxes his expression. “Bekken?” He laughs, humorlessly. “Seriously? Can I answer that while you eat?” He points at the oven. “It’s almost done.”
At the kitchen table he brings me a sweet potato with black beans and cheese.
“It’s got cottage cheese for extra protein.”
I mutter, “Of course it does…” I push around some potato and beans, letting the heat roll off. “So…”
He shrugs, “So… I used to be? Can’t say it felt great watching Jonas get picked for the NHL while I was worried about getting dropped from the minor leagues. He—” He shuts his mouth. “No, I’m not jealous of him.”
“He… what?”
He leans back like he needs to be physically comfortable before speaking on the subject. “Ah, Jonas doesn’t like to talk about it. He’d throttle me if he heard me talking about this, but it’s not like it’s a secret he got put on a waiver a year into his first NHL contract. Shook him up real bad.”
I can imagine. I’m constantly traveling for competitions, but I’ve always got my home rink to go back to. “Leroy mentioned he gets traded a lot. Why?”
I’m ready for him to go all in, turn on the coach talk and break down where Bekken fucked up, but he shakes his head.
“Not a clue. You’re right, Jonas can be an asshole, so can every professional athlete.
Obsessive, egotistical, holds a grudge—great traits in an athlete.
Not so great anywhere else. He’s fast and massive and most guys are one or the other.
Still, every few year he ends up moving halfway across the country to play for another team. ”
“You’re not any of those things,” I say before shoving a fork-full of food into my mouth. It’s pretty good. God I missed cheese.
“Guess that’s why I never made it to the national level.”
I keep eating, Christos’ cooking a good deterrent from asking, what’s my worst trait?
He lifts his arms, holding the back of his head with both hands.
“You know, he’s not the only guy I know who's gone pro. I’ve been on a couple teams with guys now in the NHL.
Lost to way more of them, games and fights.
I’ve also played with guys who got injured, retired early, can’t even play a pick up game for fun anymore.
“No one on my high school team made it to my level, and I sure as shit know no one from our rival team made it to my level. I would have loved to go farther up the league…” He shrugs his shoulders with a deep breath.
“You sure none of your high school rivals made it pro?”
A smile spreads across his face, putting his ego on full display. “Abso-fucking-lutley.”
I hum to myself, finishing up my dinner. “You think they talk about you?”
“You mean about losing to me?” His nostril’s flair. “I hope so.”
“You’re such a jock. You and your cottage cheese meals. It’s really good, by the way.”
“Not exactly ideal for date night,” he points out. “And are you saying you’re not a jock?”
“You said jocks aren’t your type.” I scrape some beans and potato skin into my fork. “I’m a performer. I think what I do is closer to something like dance more than hockey.”
We’re getting dangerously close breaching our rule about work, so I change the subject. “You want to try something new tonight?”
“Like what?” He gets up to grab my plate, but I stop him.
“You could clean the kitchen…” His flash of confusion is so priceless. I flash him a wink. “And I can fold the clothes you’re wearing.”
He smiles before checking over his shoulder. “Let me shut the blinds.”
He’s gone in a flash and back just as quick, now shirtless. He tosses it to me. The fabric is soft from years of use and smells of artificial wood and aluminum, a smell I’m painfully acquainted with from so many years of men’s locker rooms. But there’s a faint smell that’s distinctly Christos.
He takes his time with his pants, making a show of slipping the button from its hole. The sound of his zipper coming undone is almost musical. Opening his fly, he digs his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. His lips pull into a smirk.
My tongue drags across my top lip as I watch his boxers slip down his thick thighs.
He tosses the boxers my way. I drop the shirt to my lap, catching the wad of cloth in both hands.
He keeps his eyes on me as he grabs our dinner plates, a wry smirk on his lips as he goes to the sink, his tail swaying suggestively.
I bring his boxers to my nose. That faint smell from his shirt is overwhelming—earthy like cut grass and this heavy musk that colognes try to emulate with cedar and patchouli.
This doesn’t smell like either of those things.
It smells like Christos, masculine and strong, making my mouth water.
I pull back and shove his boxers into my pocket before keeping up my end of the chores.
Folding his shirt and pants neatly, placing them on his chair in the dining nook.
He’s washing our dishes by hand. He looks so good naked, his stark white fur only accentuating the muscles in his thighs and back. I slip up behind him at the sink, resting my hands on his lower stomach.
“Thank you again for dinner.” I nuzzle into his back. “And cleaning up…” I trail a hand down past his hips, brushing his shaft with the tips of my fingers. “And being so fucking sexy.”
Starting at the head of his cock I wrap my hand around him, taking one achingly slow stroke. He exhales, almost appearing calm, but his tail is going haywire—flicking against my inner thighs. “Are you already hard? Hoping I’ll jerk you off right here so you’ll have another mess to clean up?”
I pause, spitting in my hand before reaching for him. Again, I palm the head of his cock, now stroking his shaft as well. He grips the edge of the sink, his deep breath now a proper huff.
“If you spill anything you have to clean it with your tongue.”
He throws his head back with a grunt. His hips jerk ever so slightly, and I’m not even sure he’s aware of what his body is doing.
“Oh, that’s what you want, is it?” I drop both hands.
“Shit—” He buckles a little and I can feel the muscles in his thighs and ass go tight.
I grab his ass, digging my nails into his hide. “Go upstairs and put a towel down.”
He swallows before nodding. “Yes, Roderick.”
He leaves, water still in the sink.
I drain it and wipe down the counter, giving him a head start up the stairs.
I try to play, it cool but I still haven’t mastered casually walking with a massive hard on in sweatpants.
Not to mention his round ass is extra tight going up stairs.
Once we’re in the bedroom, I take off my shirt and grab his underwear.
I rub the soft fabric between my fingers, waiting for him to cover the bed with a towel.
“Lay on your back.”
While he gets into place I take a sniff, that earthy aroma making my cock twitch. He watches me with eager eyes. I pull my sweats and briefs down just enough for my cock to spring free and start stroking myself with his boxers.
“Did you want these back?”
“They’re all yours,” he sighs, batting his eyelashes like this is the most romantic thing in the world.
I kick my sweats off and finally join him on the bed, slotting myself between his legs. I line up our cocks so they’re not quite touching. He’s so fucking massive compared to me—and I’ve been praised for having a damn nice dick.
“You’re so huge, I don’t think I could fit you in my mouth if I tried.” I lift a brow. “Do you want me to try?”
“Yes—please.”