Chapter 22
Sasha
Aaron Kelly is letting me walk him backward into the bedroom, and his hands are shaking.
Not from nerves. Not entirely. His fingers are gripping the front of my t-shirt hard enough to stretch the cotton, and his mouth is on mine — hungry, clumsy, biting at my lower lip in a way that tells me he’s past thinking.
His back hits the edge of the frosted glass partition and he gasps against my teeth and I feel it everywhere.
Outside the windows, the snow is coming down heavy. The city lights blur behind it, the skyline going soft and white, and I don’t care about any of it.
I’ve imagined this so many times. In the dorm, in the shower, during a game when he’d skate past me and I’d catch his scent — sweat and cold air and that soap he uses — and my whole body would go tight.
I’ve jerked off thinking about this more times than I’d admit even to him.
Having him. Really having him. Not a quick blowjob in a locked room.
Not getting each other off fast before someone comes looking.
This.
I pull back just enough to look at him. The city lights cut through the windows and his green eyes are dark and his lips are swollen and he’s breathing hard.
“Hi,” I say.
He laughs. Short, shaky. “Hi.”
“So this is what you want.”
“I told you what I want.” His jaw tightens — that stubborn Aaron Kelly look that makes me want to pin him down and take him apart. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“I might make you say it again.” I pull my shirt over my head and toss it. “Later. When you’re begging.”
His eyes drop to my chest. Then lower. The flush that crawls up his neck is visible even in this light.
“You’re so cocky,” he says, but his voice has gone rough.
“You love it.”
He doesn’t deny it. He reaches for me instead — hands on my waist, pulling me in — and I let him kiss me while I work the buttons on his shirt.
I push it off his shoulders. Run my hands down his arms. He’s lean and cut and his skin is warm under my palms and I want to put my mouth on every inch of him.
Every other time we’ve done this, it’s been fast. Frantic. Hands shoved down pants in locked hotel rooms, mouths on each other with one ear listening for footsteps in the hall. Ten minutes here, twenty there, always with a clock running. I’ve never had the luxury of just looking at him.
I look now. Trace the line of his shoulder with my thumb. The cut of his abs. The trail of dark hair below his navel. He shifts under my gaze, self-conscious in a way he never is on the ice.
“Stop staring,” he mutters.
“No.” I flatten my palm against his stomach. Feel the muscles jump under my hand. “I’m enjoying this. You’re beautiful.”
“I’m not —”
“Beautiful,” I repeat, and kiss the argument off his mouth.
So I do.
His neck first. The hollow of his neck, where he’s so sensitive — I found it months ago and I’ve been filing it away, saving it, weaponizing it. He tips his head back and the sound he makes is quiet and desperate and mine.
His collarbone. The hollow of his throat where his pulse is hammering. His chest — I drag my tongue across one nipple and he jerks, his hand flying to my hair. I do the other one. Slower. His stomach muscles clench under my mouth as I kiss my way down.
“Fuck —”
“Language, Aaron Kelly.” I grin against his skin. “What would your mother say?”
“Shut up.”
I drop to my knees.
His belt takes three seconds. His pants take five. He steps out of them and he’s standing in front of me in boxer briefs and the city is behind him and he looks unreal. Hard. Straining against the fabric. A wet spot where the head is pressing.
I press my mouth there. Just pressure, through the cotton, breathing hot against him, and his whole body shudders.
“Sasha —”
“Patience.” I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull them down. His cock springs free — flushed, thick, curving toward his stomach — and my mouth waters. “We have time now. Remember?”
I take him in my hand first. Stroke him slow while I look up at his face. His eyes are half-closed, his lips parted, his hand still in my hair. He’s trying not to move his hips. Failing.
“Relax,” I tell him. “Don’t be self-conscious. I want to hear you.”
I wrap my lips around the head and his hand tightens in my hair so hard it stings. Good. I take him deeper, my tongue working the underside, and the sound he makes goes straight to my cock.
I work him with my mouth — slow, deliberate, no rush.
Suction and tongue and the drag of my lips along his length.
He’s leaking and I can taste it, salty and warm, and every time I pull back to swirl my tongue around the head he makes this broken noise in the back of his throat that goes straight to my cock.
This is different. Taking my time, working him slow, listening to every sound without worrying someone will hear.
“Oh god — Sasha, that’s —”
I take him all the way down. My nose brushes his stomach and his hips buck and I swallow around him and hold there, feeling him throb against the back of my throat, his fingers twisting in my hair.
“You —” He’s panting. “How are you so good at that?”
I pull off long enough to grin up at him. “Some of us have natural talent.”
“I hate you.”
“You really don’t.” I drag my tongue up his length. Slow. “Bed. On your back.”
He practically falls onto the mattress. The California king is ridiculous — the headboard spans the whole wall, the sheets are white.
I stand and strip off my sweats. His eyes track every movement — my hips, my thighs, my cock springing free, hard and heavy and aching.
His eyes go wide for a second — the same look he gives me every time, like he can’t quite believe the proportions — and the little hit of ego goes right where it always goes.
“Come here,” he says. His voice is rough. His hand reaches for me.
“Not yet.” I reach for the nightstand. Lube. Condom. I set them on the bed where he can see them. He watches me do it and I see the flash of nervousness cross his face. It’s there and then it’s gone, replaced by something steadier.
He wants this. He asked for it. That’s everything.
I kneel between his thighs and push his legs apart. He lets me. His cock is hard against his stomach, still wet from my mouth, and his chest is rising and falling fast.
“I’m going to get you ready,” I tell him. My hand slides up his inner thigh. “I’ll go slow. You tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.”
“Okay.” His voice is steady. Barely.
I lean down and take him back in my mouth, and while he’s gasping from that, I slick two fingers with lube.
My hand finds him — there, between his legs, where he’s tight and hot — and I press one fingertip against his hole.
Not pushing. Just touching. Letting him feel the pressure while my tongue works his cock.
He tenses. I don’t move. I keep my mouth on him, sucking slow, and after a few seconds I feel his body release. The muscle softens under my finger. He exhales.
I push the tip inside.
“Oh —” His hand flies to my shoulder. Grips. “That’s — okay. That’s — keep going.”
I slide in to the first knuckle, and my mouth never stops.
The combination overwhelms him — I can feel it — his thighs trembling, his cock pulsing against my tongue, his grip on my shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
I work the finger deeper, slow, letting his body adjust, feeling the tight heat of him clench and release around me.
“How does it feel?” I ask around him.
“Weird.” A shaky laugh. “Good weird. Really good weird.”
“It gets better.” I push deeper. “Much better.”
I crook my finger, searching, and when I find the spot I’m looking for —
His whole body arches off the bed. “Fuck — what —”
I press it again. Gently. And suck hard at the same time.
“Oh my god.” He’s gripping the sheets now, both hands, his head tipped back, the tendons in his neck standing out. “Do that again. Please — do that again.”
Please. There it is. The word I’ve been waiting for. Aaron Kelly, saying please.
I curl my fingers and find the spot that makes him shake, rubbing in slow circles while my mouth works him, and every sound Aaron makes goes straight through me.
He’s lost the fight to stay quiet. He’s moaning openly now — rough, desperate sounds that make my cock ache where it’s pressing hard against the mattress.
I pull my mouth off long enough to talk. “I’m going to add another finger. Bear down. Let me in.”
He nods. Can’t speak.
I add a second finger alongside the first, pressing in slow, and he groans at the stretch. I hold still. Wait. My free hand strokes his thigh, his hip, soothing. When I feel the tension release I start to move again — spreading gently, opening him up, stretching him in a way he’s never felt before.
Every time I spread my fingers he clenches, then forces himself to relax. I can feel him thinking. Trying to control it.
“Stop managing it,” I tell him. “Your body knows what to do. Let it.”
He stops trying to be good at this and just lets it happen. His thighs fall open wider. His hips start rocking against my hand. The sounds change from bitten-off grunts to actual moans.
There you are.
“You’re doing so good,” I tell him, and I hear my accent come through heavier than usual. It does that when I’m turned on, when the careful English I’ve been practicing for four years starts to slip. “So good for me, Aaron.”
“I need —” He swallows. His hips are rocking against my hand, pushing back onto my fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. “I need your mouth. Please.”
I take him back in my mouth and fuck him with two fingers and he falls apart.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
His back arching off the bed. His hands twisting in the sheets. The sounds — god, the sounds. Low and broken and completely uncontrolled, and every one of them is mine.
I’ve wanted this for so long. Not just the sex. This.
I add a third finger and he cries out. The stretch is more now — I can feel him clenching, adjusting, his body learning to take it. I slow down. Work him carefully, my tongue tracing the head of his cock, and gradually he opens.
When I look up, his forearm is thrown across his eyes. His chest is heaving. His cock is dark and straining and his stomach is slick where he’s been leaking.
“Aaron.” I pull my mouth off him. “Look at me.”
He moves his arm. His green eyes have gone dark with need, fixed on me like I’m the only thing left in the room.
“You’re ready.” He’s wrecked. Flushed from his chest to his cheeks, lips bitten red, body loose and trembling around my fingers. He looks fucked already and I haven’t even been inside him.
“How do you want me?” he asks. His voice is shot. Barely a voice at all.
I swallow hard.
“I want —” He reaches for me. His hand finds my jaw. His thumb drags across my lower lip and it’s so tender, so unlike the desperate grip of thirty seconds ago, that my chest hurts. “I want to see you. When you — I want to see your face.”
“You’ll see me.” I withdraw my fingers slowly and he groans at the loss, his hips chasing my hand. I reach for the condom. Tear the foil with my teeth. Roll it on, hissing at the contact — I’m so hard it’s almost painful, have been since I dropped to my knees, and my hands aren’t steady.
I slick myself with lube. Generous. More than enough. I’m not rushing this.
I position myself between his thighs. Lift his legs over my hips and lean over him, one hand braced beside his head, the other guiding myself to his entrance. His legs wrap around me. His heels press into the small of my back and it hits me harder than I expected.
The head of my cock presses against his muscular ass. Hot. Tight. Right there.
He tenses. I don’t move. I lean down until my forehead touches his and I can see the green of his eyes up close, the gold flecks near the center, the want and the nerves and all of it right there. His breath comes fast against my lips. I can feel his heart hammering where his chest meets mine.
“Hey.” I brush my nose against his. “I’ve got you, Aaron Kelly. Just relax and let me in, okay? We’ll go as slow as you need.”
His hand finds the back of my neck. His fingers curl into my hair. He pulls me closer until our lips are almost touching.
“Okay,” he whispers. “I trust you.”
Two words. And they wreck me worse than anything his body has done tonight.