Chapter 8
I showered fast, dressed faster, and said my goodbyes before anyone could rope me into grabbing food. The cold hit me the moment I stepped outside, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I limped toward the player lot, already thinking about the heating pad I was going to fall asleep on.
I was halfway to my truck when I saw him.
Joel was leaning against it, arms crossed and shoulders hunched against the cold, wearing that same dark jacket I'd spotted in the stands during the second period. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps and tracked me like I was the only thing worth watching.
My stomach dropped so fast I almost stumbled.
I scanned the lot. Lucero's SUV was still there, and the equipment manager's sedan, and the light was on in the trainer's office window.
The door to the arena was maybe fifty feet behind me.
Anyone could walk out at any moment and find Joel Coffey, openly gay Olympic hopeful, leaning against my truck like he belonged there and looking at me like that.
My hands were shaking. I shoved them in my pockets and walked toward him, because standing in the middle of the lot staring was even more suspicious than just getting to my truck.
"What are you doing here?" I growled. "You can't just be out here."
Joel's expression didn't change. "I need a ride."
"You need a—" I glanced past him. "Where's your friend?"
"She left."
"So call an Uber."
"I could." He pushed off from the truck and closed the distance between us, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, tracking down my body like he was checking for damage. "How's your hip?"
"I’ve had worse."
His thumb traced a slow circle through my jacket, pressing just hard enough to make me wince. "You let him hit you four times."
"I didn't let him do anything."
"You kept going back out." His eyes came back to mine. "Like you wanted him to."
Behind me, the arena door opened. The sound of voices and laughter spilled out into the parking lot, and I flinched.
Joel didn't move, didn't even glance toward the sound.
"Someone's going to see," I said.
"Then we should go."
I unlocked the truck and got in. My hands were still shaking when I shoved the key in the ignition.
Joel slid into the passenger seat and closed the door, and suddenly the cab was half its normal size.
He smelled like cold air and something else, soap or shampoo, something clean that didn't belong in my truck with its fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups and the faint permanent smell of hockey gear.
He didn't tell me where to go, and I didn't ask.
I just pulled out of the lot and turned onto the main road, heading away from the arena, away from the lights, away from anyone who might see us together.
My hands were tight on the wheel. Every few seconds I glanced over at him, trying to read something in his profile, but he was just staring out the windshield like we were on a normal drive to a normal place and he hadn't just shown up at my truck looking at me like he wanted to eat me alive.
I turned onto a smaller road, then a smaller one, heading toward the empty stretch of scrubland east of town where there was nothing but dirt and sagebrush and the occasional coyote.
"Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?"
I startled so hard I nearly swerved. "What?"
"Secluded location, no witnesses." Joel's voice was dry, his eyes still on the road ahead.
"I'm not going to kill you."
"That's exactly what someone who was going to kill me would say."
"You asked me for a ride. You didn't tell me where."
Joel turned to look at me. The moonlight coming through the windshield caught the angles of his face, turning his eyes into something I couldn't read.
He didn't answer. His hand landed on my knee instead.
I kept driving. My knuckles went white on the wheel.
His hand slid higher, his fingers pressing into the inside of my thigh through my jeans. I stared straight ahead at the empty road and tried to remember how breathing worked.
"Joel."
"Mm." His hand moved higher still. His thumb traced the inseam of my jeans, following the stitching up, and then his palm pressed flat against my cock.
I pulled off onto the shoulder so fast the tires kicked up gravel and the truck fishtailed before I got it stopped. The engine was still running, headlights cutting through the dark, and I turned to look at him.
Joel leaned over and kissed like he'd already decided what he wanted and was done waiting for me to catch up. His hand fisted in my hair and pulled my head back, and I opened my mouth for him.
I grabbed his jacket to pull him closer. Joel made a frustrated sound against my mouth and then he was climbing over the console, all sharp elbows and long limbs, until he was in my lap with his knees bracketing my thighs.
The weight of him pressed down against me. I was already hard, had been since he put his hand on my thigh, and there was no way he didn't know it.
His hips shifted in a slow roll that dragged his ass across my cock. "Fuck."
"That's the idea." He did it again, slower, watching my face the whole time. "You're easy."
"I'm not—"
He ground down harder, and the words died in my throat. My hands found his hips and tried to pull him down, but he wasn't having it. His fingers wrapped around my wrists and pinned them to the headrest behind me.
"I didn't say you could touch."
"Too bad." I twisted my wrists in his grip and got one hand free, got it up under his jacket and shirt to the skin underneath. He sucked in a breath when my calluses scraped across his ribs.
His eyes went dark. For a second I thought he was going to shut me down again, pin me back in place. Instead his mouth found my throat and his teeth scraped against my pulse and I stopped thinking about anything except the pressure building at the base of my spine.
"Back seat," I managed.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His lips were red, and his hair was a mess from my hands, and he looked like something I'd made up. "Ask nicely."
"Get in the back seat. Please."
"That’s more like it."
He climbed off me and was out the door before I could blink. The cold rushed in for a second before he opened the back door, and then I was following him, my hip screaming at me when I twisted to get through the gap between the seats.
The back of my truck wasn't big. Joel was already sprawled across the bench seat, and when I climbed in after him there was barely room for both of us.
He grabbed my jacket and pulled me down on top of him, and then we were kissing again, his legs wrapping around my hips, all of him pressed against me.
This was better. The hard line of his cock rubbed against mine through too many layers, and when I rolled my hips, he made a sound that went straight to my head.
"Take your shirt off," I said against his mouth.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I said no." His hand found my jaw and held it, his thumb pressing into the hinge until it almost hurt. "You don't get to make demands."
I could have fought him. I was stronger than I looked. But his hand was on my face, and his eyes were fixed on mine, and something in me went loose, some tension I'd been holding without knowing it.
I stopped fighting.
"Good," he said, and his free hand went to my belt.
He got my jeans open and shoved them down far enough to get his hand on me, skin to skin. His grip was tight, almost too tight, and when he stroked I arched off the seat hard enough that I nearly headbutted him.
"Joel. Fuck."
"Again." His thumb dragged over the head of my cock, smearing the wetness there, and my breath stuttered out of me. "Say my name again."
I said it. I said it mixed with profanity and things that might have been pleas. He worked me like he was proving a point, his grip relentless, his thumb circling the head on every upstroke until my thighs were shaking.
Then he stopped.
I made a sound I wasn't proud of, something between a groan and a whine. My hips jerked up into nothing, chasing the friction he'd taken away, and he watched me do it with that same sharp, almost-smile.
"Joel, come on—"
"Patience." His hand wrapped around the base of my cock and squeezed, not stroking, just holding me there while I tried to remember how to breathe. "You'll get what you want."
"I want—"
"I know what you want." He started stroking again, slow, too slow, his grip loose enough that I couldn't get enough friction to do anything but make it worse. "You want to come. You've been thinking about it since I got in your truck."
I couldn't deny it. My cock was leaking all over his fingers and I was already so close it hurt.
"Please," I said, and I barely recognized my own voice. "Joel, please."
He rewarded me with a tighter grip, a faster stroke, and I was right there, right on the edge, my balls drawing up tight—
And he stopped again.
"Fuck." The word came out broken. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah." He twisted his wrist, and my whole body jerked. "You like it, though."
I did. That was the problem. I liked it too much, liked being held right at the breaking point by someone who knew exactly where that point was and kept pushing me back from it. I'd spent years looking for this in bathroom stalls and back rooms, and I'd never found it.
"I want your mouth," I said.
He stilled. His hand stayed on my cock but stopped moving, and the sudden lack of friction was worse than anything.
"What did I say about demands?"
I swallowed. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, will you suck my cock?"
He didn't answer. He just slid down my body, his breath hot against my stomach, then lower, his lips brushing against my cock like a tease.
"Look at me," he said.
His face was inches from my cock, his lips parted, his eyes locked on mine.
Then he licked a slow stripe up the underside, base to tip.
My head hit the back of the seat. I was shaking already, my hands fisting in the upholstery, and he'd barely touched me.