Chapter One #4
Would the man call him a slut if he asked? Would he tell Kilian he was too easy, too loose, too…everything?
Or would he call Kilian pretty?
A thrust caught Kilian’s prostate just right, and he was begging before he could think twice. “Please,” he said, not out of breath but out of shame. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what, darlin’?”
Kilian opened his mouth to ask for it, to say what he wanted, but the calluses on the hands on his hips weren’t in the right spots and the voice in his ear was too smooth and the shame of it all overtook him again. “Tell me I feel good,” he begged instead.
It wasn’t a great fuck. It was all right. Kilian had had much worse in the few months since realizing who he was and what he wanted. He ached for a man who could fuck him into a trembling mess of nerve endings, a man who could make him come untouched. No one had recreated the feat since Denisov.
But the Texan wasn’t terrible. He aimed okay, glancing across the right spot every couple thrusts, and he was into Kilian, which was nice. He kept saying how good it felt, how hot Kilian was, how much he wanted him. None of it was true, but Kilian liked hearing him.
He didn’t last long enough to get Kilian off first, but he jerked him off fast and hard with both their pants still around their ankles.
After, the Texan asked for Kilian’s number and saved it under the right name, embarrassing given Kilian had no idea what his might be.
He shot Kilian a text immediately, “so you can call me anytime, darlin’.
” Kilian saved the number under “Tex” with no intention of using it.
Blonds didn’t do it for him. Kilian wasn’t the most experienced, but he was starting to think he had a type: tall men with dark hair and that ever-tanned Mediterranean skin tone and deep brown eyes and a scar in the eyebrow from an accident with a skate blade and…
He really had to get over that one magnificent fuck with Denisov.
Kilian went home at two, unsteady from the sex and the vodka.
He passed out for five hours and woke up to the sound of his alarm and the eyeliner he’d forgotten about smeared around his eyes.
Practice started in an hour, a hangover pounded in the base of his skull, and he had no idea how to get the stuff off.
The only lotion he had was the expensive stuff for his breakout-prone skin, and it stung like a bitch when it got in his eyes.
Half the team knew he was gay anyway. Did it matter if he looked it?
Kilian considered facing Tom and Jax and Luca in last night’s makeup, still smelling of stale fog machine smoke and a stranger’s cologne.
He considered facing Breezy.
He took a long shower and scrubbed at his eyes until they were red and watery but mostly clear of liner, and got to practice ten minutes late.
Coach made him do laps for fifteen more until he could join in properly. By then he spotted the way Tom and Jax looked at each other when they did passing drills, how obviously in love they were, and Kilian couldn’t stomach the thought of talking to any of them.
He made it through practice skating like shit, which was nothing new, but also wasn’t in any way improved by the hangover and the aftereffects of getting fucked in a bathroom stall.
Compounding the general sense of shittiness, the lingering ache in his shoulder bothered him.
It still hadn’t quite healed up a couple of weeks after the massive hit Denisov had laid on him when they played Chicago in mid-October.
Kilian grimaced at the memory, both of the hit itself and of the awkward apology he’d gotten later the same night under the dim lights of a downtown Chicago bar.
He’d made an ass of himself, fluttering his eyelashes, trying to flirt, but no dice.
Denisov, unfortunately, was a decent guy who didn’t want a second hookup.
If he were more of a dick, or interested in giving Kilian his—
But no. Kilian was not thinking about him.
He kept his head down until Coach Lindy finished torturing the team, then headed for the locker room.
Avoiding his usual spot between Mooney and Breezy, even though Breezy called out to him, Kilian struck up a conversation with Dmitriyev.
They’d gotten into a drunken fight on Halloween night after Dmitriyev claimed Denisov was Tatar and not Russian, which had rubbed Kilian the wrong way.
He’d apologized afterward, as had Dmitriyev, though he doubted Dmitriyev had budged on his position.
It was slim pickings when hanging out with a guy he disagreed with on some major political issues seemed more attractive than hanging out with anyone he’d have previously called a friend. Kilian plastered on a smile and told Dmitriyev he wanted to learn Russian.
A huge grin broke out across Dmitriyev’s face. “Is best language!” he said. “Stay by me and Fedorov. We teach.”
“Teach” probably meant they would speak Russian to each other, and Kilian wouldn’t understand jack shit. But he had proved he wouldn’t understand jack shit in English either, so at least this time, he’d know he was being excluded.