1. RYAN #3
I take pride in my cock sucking skills, but tonight I’m like an amateur, barely able to keep up with his terrifying pace. Breathing through my nose becomes essential, my senses drift, and I never get used to his cock being roughly slammed into my mouth.
It’s … it’s so good, though. So fucking good.
His capable fingers slide into my sandy blond hair, cinching the roots, making me nothing but a wet hole for his cock. My lips stretched wide around its formidable girth.
I’ve never felt this kind of freedom. Free from thinking, from deciding, from putting on a pretty show. I just have to do this, listen to his voice, taste him. And my cock, fuck, it’s an agonized rod of steel, trapped behind my zipper. Thunderbolts of terrifying pleasure race through me.
A faint salty taste skims the back of my throat, and his cock pulses on my tongue. “Swallow,” he demands.
I do, sucking. Licking. Not wanting to lose the connection with his thick cock.
He pulls out slowly, and in my delusional mind, I believe it’s because he doesn’t want to lose the connection either.
Which is a fucking stupid thought, but at least it’s the only thought I have.
Maybe I need that tonight, too. Something way out of my wheelhouse.
Something made of twilight magic. Someone to whisk me away from a life I don’t want. One I’m scared to exist in.
There’s a gentle slapping against my face, a sharp contrast to the violence of that face fucking. I blink my eyes, drowsy. Fuck, my forehead’s leaned against his leg, I’m touching him, but he’s not as fraught about it as he was before.
“C’mon, up.”
“Wanna stay here,” I mumble. He yanks on my hair, tugging at my scalp. “Ow, okay. I said, okay.” But he doesn’t release me till I’m off the ground. My lips are swollen, the shirt underneath my suit jacket’s sweat-slicked, the taste of his cum fresh across my tongue.
Throat raw—as promised.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Father hisses when I’m faithfully by his side again. I’m standing taller, some of the confidence I used to have holding me steady.
“Getting air,” I snap.
“You forget who you’re talking to, boy.”
I duck my head. “Sorry, sir, I’m just … this is a lot.”
He frowns, not liking my excuses. My mouth—as always—will fucking cost me, but it’s hard to care, right now. Can’t put my finger on why.
“Come with me, you have several more donors to speak to.” Father drags me off, but it’s not as daunting as it was. Nothing’s changed. I’m every bit as trapped, and I’m sure it’ll all come crashing down later, but for now, I could do this all night.
Father relaxes, hand in his pocket, the faintest hint of a smile on his face by the time I’ve made my rounds. Is he actually fucking impressed?
“I forget that you’re like your mother that way. She loved the outdoors. That air did you good,” he comments.
I rub out the knot that just loosened in my chest, but when I look up, it returns. The raw ache in my throat awakens.
“Ah, Coach VanCourt,” Father says, extending a hand. “I’ve seen good things from you.”
The man smiles. A legit fucking smile. He’s all kids’-soccer-coach, and I-play-catch-with-my-son-at-the-park, and sure-I’ll-run-the-PTA-meeting vibes.
It’s a fucking lie, a mask, and it pisses me off.
He gives calm answers to my father’s questions about the upcoming season and even tosses in a “dad joke” for good measure.
Bet he ripped the limbs off his doll. Why’s he doing this?
But it’s just as well that he’s fake like every other person here.
Out there, in the wild woods, he seemed so raw and animalistic.
It was refreshing. I’d rather come face-to-face with a snarling grizzly about to rip my face off than a human who plays nice to my face, while mentally figuring out how they’ll dismantle me and take me down.
I glare the whole time, which is not what Father expects of me. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Tate’s all wrong, and it makes me feel wrong.
“You must be proud of your son. He’s almost as good as my star center,” Tate says.
Ace McKinnon—that’s his star center. See? I pay a-fucking-ttention. I want to fucking kill Ace McKinnon for no reason other than Tate thinks he’s better than me. And fuck Tate for saying so, too.
“He’s going to do a lot better this year. Ryan knows the consequences of distraction.” Father uses the same condescending voice he did with the other men, his alumni, the ones who agree with his cruel-ass methods.
I catch a flash of the man I met in the forest. His eagle-shaped brow furrows, danger glitters in his hazel eyes. The world tilts right side up again, and tingling breaks out over my flesh. I wasn’t wrong. Tate’s a predator who hides in plain sight behind a mask of alluring smiles and dad jokes.
As quickly as his sharpness came, it’s gone, replaced by one of the fakest expressions of pleasantness I’ve ever seen. I almost laugh. Father doesn’t notice. No one notices. He’s got them all fooled.
Everyone but me.
“I look forward to seeing you on the ice, Ryan. If you’ll excuse me, Henry, I gotta get to those hors d'oeuvres before they’re all gone.”