Handled
Bennett
Playlist: “Adore You” by Harry Styles
She’s already there when I arrive, moving through her opening routine with the same efficiency I’ve watched dozens of times.
The difference is that now I know how she looks without the professional armor. Know the sounds she makes when pleasure takes over. Know the way her voice breaks when she admits she’s afraid.
And now I have to walk in here and pretend I can be normal about that.
I push through the door.
She looks up from the station she’s organizing.
I cross the room and kiss her the way I’ve been thinking about since I woke up this morning. She makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, then something warmer—and her hands find my chest. She pushes back just enough to breathe.
“Okay, wait.” She looks up at me, eyebrows raised. “We completely skipped the greeting choice.”
“Did we?”
“Bennett. There’s a system.”
“There’s a system,” I agree. “The system exists so that emotionally unavailable men learn to choose connection instead of defaulting to avoidance.” I hold her gaze. “I’m not avoiding anything.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
“Besides,” I say, “I already know what I’m feeling today.”
“Do you.” Her eyes are doing the thing—the careful reading, the assessment, looking for the deflection or the joke or the escape route.
There isn’t one.
“The feeling of the day is hard.” I let that land. “I thought you should know.”
The silence lasts exactly two seconds.
Then Gisele LaRue smiles—slow and sharp and dangerous—and reaches for my hand.
“Sit down, captain.” She nods toward her chair. The chair. The one she’s used for years, the one I’ve watched her work from across the room a hundred times, the one that has seen more of this town’s secrets than any confessional.
“In your chair?”
“In my chair.”
I look at the chair. Look at her.
“That’s your space,” I say. “You don’t let anyone—”
“I know.” She tilts her head. “Sit down.”
While I work on my breathing, she takes her time. Picks up the cape from its hook, shakes it out with the practiced snap she uses on every client, and drapes it over me. Fastens it at the back of my neck with the same efficient hands that have been in my hair, on my skin, pulling me closer.
“You know,” she says conversationally, moving around to face me, “most people come to me with a problem.” She crouches down to eye level. Her eyes are warm and dark and completely in charge. “I fix it.”
“Is that what this is?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“That’s what this is.” She holds my gaze. “Consider it emotional first aid.”
“Gisele—”
“Shh.” She presses one finger to my lips. “You talked plenty last night. This morning, let me handle the feelings.”
She steps between my spread thighs and looks down at me like I’m hers to command.
“You’re shaking.” She runs her hands up my chest.
“I’m not shaking,” I lie.
Her smile is slow and knowing. “You are. And it’s adorable.”
She sinks gracefully to her knees in front of the chair, right there in the middle of her salon, and my heart tries to punch its way out of my chest. Her hands slide up my thighs, squeezing the muscle there.
Thank God the blinds are closed.
“God, Bennett… this hockey body.” Her voice drops. “All these years watching you on the ice, knowing exactly what was under the pads. So strong. So powerful.” Her fingers trace the ridges of my abs through my shirt. “And now it’s all mine to play with.”
After sweeping the cape to the side, she unbuttons my jeans with steady hands, then tugs them down just enough to free me. When my cock springs out, thick and heavy and already leaking, her eyes darken.
“Fuck,” she whispers, wrapping her hand around the base.
“Look at this pretty cock. So big. I knew you’d be thick, but Jesus, Bennett.
” She gives me one slow stroke, thumb swirling over the head to spread the precum.
“I’ve thought about this for so long. Wondered how you’d feel in my mouth. How far I could take you.”
She leans in and drags her tongue up the entire length of me, slow and wet, from root to tip. I groan, hips twitching.
Then she does something that nearly ends me.
She reaches for the silver pump lever on the side of the chair and starts pumping it. The chair rises smoothly beneath me, lifting me higher. She adjusts me with clinical precision until my cock is exactly at the perfect height for her mouth.
“There we go,” she purrs, looking extremely satisfied with herself. “Perfect position for my cock.”
Before I can respond to her ownership claim, she takes her cock into her mouth.
“Fuuuck, Gisele—”
The wet heat of her mouth envelops me, sliding down inch by inch until I hit the back of her throat. She doesn’t stop. She relaxes and takes me deeper, swallowing around the head with a soft, eager hum that vibrates straight through my balls.
I grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white.
She starts moving—slow, luxurious strokes, tongue swirling around the underside on every pass. One hand works what her mouth can’t reach while the other cups and gently rolls my balls. The wet, filthy sounds of her sucking fill the salon, mixing with my ragged breathing.
“You taste so good,” she moans around me, pulling off just long enough to speak before sinking back down. “I could do this for hours. Just keep this big, perfect cock in my mouth until you can’t think straight.”
She pumps the chair lever again, making tiny adjustments, tilting me exactly how she wants me. Then she really starts working me—faster, wetter, deeper. Her head bobs with purpose, cheeks hollowing as she sucks me like she’s trying to pull my soul out through my dick.
“Gisele—baby—fuck—” I can barely form words.
She hums in response, taking me all the way to the root again, nose pressed against my stomach, throat working around me. The sensation is mind-melting. I thread my fingers through her hair, not guiding, just holding on as she destroys me with her mouth.
She pulls off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to my glistening head. Her eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, lipstick smeared. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“I love how you throb against my tongue,” she whispers, pumping me with her fist. “Love how big you are. Love knowing I’m the one making the captain fall apart in my chair.”
Then she dives back down, sucking me harder, faster, one hand stroking in perfect rhythm while the other pumps the chair lever again, making minute adjustments so she can take me at the exact angle she wants.
The combination of her wicked mouth and the ridiculous, perfect control she has over the chair is too much.
I’m shaking. Actually shaking.
“I’m close—Gisele, I’m so fucking close—”
She moans encouragingly around me, doubling her efforts. The wet heat, the tight suction, the way she looks up at me with pure lust and devotion quickly becomes too much.
I come with a broken groan of her name, hips jerking as I spill down her throat. She swallows every drop, working me through it with long, slow pulls until I’m trembling and oversensitive, gasping for air.
When she finally pulls off, she presses a soft, almost tender kiss to the head of my cock, then looks up at me with a satisfied little smile.
She reaches for the silver lever and slowly lowers the chair back down, never breaking eye contact.
“Feeling handled, Captain?” she asks sweetly, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
I’m undone. Completely, thoroughly, soul-sucked.
And I’ve never felt more alive in my life.
Practice starts at ten. I walk into the locker room expecting the usual—tension, wariness, the careful dance of a team that’s been walking on eggshells around their captain for months.
That’s not what I find.
Shep notices first. His eyes track me from the door to my locker, narrowing slightly as he catalogues whatever he’s seeing.
“Captain.” His tone is suspicious. “You look different.”
“Do I?”
“Less like you’re about to combust.” He exchanges a look with Heath. “It’s disconcerting.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re more than fine.” He stands and circles me. “You’re... relaxed. Looser. You look like a person who’s had a decent night’s sleep, which is terrifying because I didn’t know you were capable of that.”
I slept like the dead. For the first time in months, I didn’t wake up at 3 AM running scenarios. Didn’t lie there cataloging everything I’m failing at.
I just slept. Because I was too wrung out and satisfied to do anything else.
Then this morning I got my dick sucked so perfectly it rearranged my soul. But that’s the last thing I’ll ever admit to this dipshit.
“Maybe I just learned some new coping mechanisms.”
Head.
Mind blowing and all consuming.
The room goes quiet. I realize too late what I’ve implied, and then I realize I don’t actually care.
“New coping mechanisms.” Shep’s grin spreads across his face. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“We’re not calling it anything.” I start pulling out my gear. “We’re focusing on practice.”
“Sure, sure. Focus. Very important.” He doesn’t stop grinning. “But just so we’re all clear—when you say ‘coping mechanisms,’ you’re definitely talking about—”
“Sawyer.”
“Got it. Not talking about it.” He mimes zipping his lips. “But for the record, whatever happened, keep doing it. This is the most human you’ve looked in months.”
I want to snap back, to reassert the control I’ve always maintained in this space. But the words that come out aren’t sharp.
“Get your gear on. We’re running the power play sequence first.”
It’s almost gentle. By my standards, anyway.
Shep stares at me. “Did you just... not yell?”
“I’m capable of not yelling.”
“Since when?”
“Since now, apparently.” I pull my pads out of my bag. “You going to question it, or are you going to get ready for practice?”
He gets ready for practice. But I can feel him watching me the whole time, cataloging the differences, probably already composing his next group text about Captain Soft Boy’s latest evolution.
Let him.