Chapter 12 #2
He knew that wasn’t what Mo meant. Mo meant, Hey, come over and fuck me and then leave again, or possibly, Hey, can I come and take your dick for a spin around my tonsils, jerk off on your chest, and then disappear before my jizz is cold?
And Adam had promised to stop lying to himself about it.
Of course he wanted to see Mo. He pretty much always wanted to see Mo.
That was the whole problem. He wanted to see Mo even if that meant watching six hours of The Witcher while Mo critiqued Henry Cavill’s wigs versus Liam Hemsworth’s.
Adam didn’t even like The Witcher. Modern lighting techniques existed!
Why was the screen black ninety percent of the time?
Adam wanted to see Mo, but Mo only wanted sex. They didn’t even have a fake relationship anymore. Which, did that even make sense? They had no fake relationship, but they weren’t publicly broken up either. And Mo wanted to continue fucking in this non-relationship limbo.
Adam pressed the heel of his hand to his chest. He must’ve taken a rough check against Boston.
The next time his phone chirped, he turned it off.
He’d never get over Mo if he didn’t get some distance, so he’d ignore Mo’s attempts to hook up.
Adam had indulged in enough self-destructive behavior for one season—maybe for the rest of his life.
Even the rookies had started to notice, and not only because he had Jorts watching him like a hawk after every game he took a penalty.
Of course, they just thought Adam had the yips, and not that he’d had trouble sleeping since he returned from Christmas break.
Even after Mo blindsided him with a breakup—even when Adam had felt like the world he’d just made it to the top of had crashed down around him—with Mo next to him, Adam had slept.
Now every time he closed his eyes, his body remembered the space where Mo’s used to be, and he couldn’t get comfortable.
They should’ve stuck to that no-sleepovers rule. Adam should never have taken Mo back to Canada for Christmas.
But he couldn’t regret it either. However Mo felt about Adam, he didn’t deserve the family he’d been dealt.
He didn’t deserve to be left alone for the holidays.
And Adam was fairly certain that despite the hiccups, the evidence of all the happy-family time Mo had missed out on, the insanity of Adam’s four thousand relatives, and the chaos of cramming eight months of catchup into five days, that Mo had enjoyed himself.
Adam took pride in it—that he’d been able to give Mo that.
Even if it was fake.
Even if giving it meant Adam hurt.
So he couldn’t see Mo again, not for a few days at least. Not until he’d had some time to process.
Leaving Mo’s texts unread and unanswered was one thing.
Adam would never be able to resist him in person.
He could barely manage to feign indifference for more than a few seconds.
One flutter of Mo’s eyelashes, one silly come-on, one touch of his hand on Adam’s chest, and Adam would give him whatever he wanted.
He rubbed his eyes. The Canyons had an optional skate later today. As captain, Adam normally attended all practices, but considering how poorly he’d been sleeping, he was more likely to injure himself or someone else than anything. Just this once, he could stay home and try to get some extra rest.
And he tried. He put on his softest sleep shirt and his favorite sweats. He turned the thermostat down. He set the white noise machine to its most soothing sounds. When none of that worked, he did ten minutes of breathing exercises.
Sleep didn’t come.
Mo stared at his phone, willing it to ping. Adam was back in town and Mo’s body buzzed with the knowledge that his favorite penis was less than ten miles away.
But apparently, his favorite penis was sleeping, or something. At, like, twelve thirty in the afternoon.
Maybe Adam was sick? Or maybe he’d lost his phone somewhere. Mo could go over and ring his doorbell to check on him, just to make sure he wasn’t dead or anything. And then if one thing led to another—
Adam must have been sleeping, because he answered the door wearing a T-shirt one size too small and sweats that hung off his hips. Well, more like his ass. Mo wanted to climb him like a stripper pole.
“Hello,” he breathed, his dick filling in Pavlovian anticipation. Should he ask why Adam hadn’t answered his texts? Nah, that seemed needy. Better not to acknowledge it unless Adam asked.
“Hi.” After a second’s pause, Adam stepped aside and let Mo into the house.
Okay, so things were awkward. That was fair—things had changed and neither of them knew how to deal with it yet. Luckily for Adam, Mo knew how to handle awkward.
“You, Mr. Hockey, were gone way too long. I was bored. Do you know how dull my old friends are? Not a single one can hold a decent conversation. I barely made it to midnight and wasn’t even hungover January first.”
“Wow,” Adam said dryly, mocking, but his gaze was searching.
“And my body has expectations now, you know.” He placed a hand on Adam’s chest and fluttered his lashes. “Ones you set. Between that and the boring friends, I don’t even want to fuck anyone else. It’s terrible.”
“Right. No one suffers like you suffer.” The words and tilted eyebrow were right, but the tone was off, sort of strangled.
The only way out was through, or whatever. Mo looped his arms around Adam’s neck. “I do suffer. First, you fuck me so good, I wanna write poetry about your dick, and then you leave me for a week? Cruel and unusual, Adam Murphy.”
“Guess I’ll have to fix it,” Adam agreed and kissed him.
Before Mo could worry about logistics, Adam hoisted him into the air, wrapped Mo’s legs around his hips, and walked them to the bedroom.
He threw Mo onto the bed and stepped back to strip, so Mo wiggled out of his own clothes.
By the time he was naked and stroking his rapidly filling cock, Adam already had lube and a condom in hand and was crawling onto the bed.
Straight to business. Mo could appreciate that.
He hadn’t had any part of Adam in him since Christmas. They could do lingering foreplay later.
“Fuck,” Mo gasped into his mouth when Adam pressed the first finger all the way in, right to the third knuckle. Adam knew what he could take.
Adam kept Mo’s tongue busy as he fitted one, then two and three fingers inside him. Mo tore his mouth away to gasp, “Now, sweet boy, fuck me now.”
Adam fumbled the condom but got it on. Mo spread his legs and made grabby hands—not his most seductive move, but Adam’s cock was right there.
For once, Adam didn’t obey. He grabbed Mo by the hips and flipped him onto his stomach, then kicked his way between Mo’s legs and pulled his ass up.
Mo scrambled to get his knees under him.
Fuck, that was hot.
“Feeling, unh, manly and assertive—ohh.” Adam thrust in, seating himself in one smooth stroke. Mo dropped to his elbows and fisted the sheets. “Fuck, I’ll allow it.”
“You’ll let me,” Adam said slowly. Mo craned his neck to try to see his face, but Adam pulled back and thrust again. Mo moaned and dropped his head forward.
“Oh, fuck yeah. Like that.”
Adam wrapped his arms around Mo’s torso and hauled him up until Mo was sitting on his dick. One arm around his chest, the other holding on to a hip, Adam started to thrust.
“Jesus—so deep, in my fucking throat. Perfect, you’re so—”
A hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off Mo’s words. What—?
Adam should know by now that Mo’s mouth didn’t come with an off switch, especially not during sex. Especially especially if Adam wasn’t going to shove his tongue or dick into it to keep it busy.
The next thrust rammed his prostate. A high-pitched whine spilled from Mo instead of the verbal praise he couldn’t get out.
Adam shuddered. Oh. He wanted to hear Mo’s noises?
Well, Mo could make noises. He didn’t have to fake it—though he maybe turned the volume up for effect.
Who could blame him when Adam responded so beautifully even to unspoken direction?
Soon he was toppled back into the mattress, Adam’s hand still over his mouth, while he fucked Mo into the sheets.
Mo moaned and scrambled at them. He was getting lightheaded—which might be because he could only breathe through his nose.
Mo grabbed Adam’s hand, made some space so he could pant openmouthed, each of Adam’s thrusts now sending breathy “uh uh uhs” into the air.
“So noisy,” Adam panted, and fuck, Mo could hardly hear him. He shoved two of Adam’s fingers into his mouth to stopper it, to hold his tongue down while he panted. “Even gagged, you’re still loud.”
Mo could only moan his agreement as he was ridden hard into the mattress, until the combination of Adam’s dick inside him and Adam pushing Mo’s hips into the sheets had him coming, rubbing off on the bed like a horny kid.
“Okay,” Mo said minutes later once he’d found his brain cells and his tongue again, “you can be manly and aggressive whenever you want as long as it comes with orgasms like that.”
The response came a beat late, which Mo could hardly fault him for. “Oh good.” Adam’s voice was desert dry. “I was worried you weren’t enjoying yourself.”
Perhaps Mo had let him get away with too much, actually, now that he thought about it. “So sassy this morning.”
Adam snorted. “Just glad you can finally identify sarcasm.”
Wow, rude. Mo wiggled deeper into the blankets. “To be fair, I don’t think it’s my fault I thought you had no sense of humor.”
Now there was a tsking noise. “See, that’s what’s wrong with you rich people—”
Squawking, Mo rolled toward him and pointed out, “You have more money than me—”