Three
ZAK
I was right. This man is a god. He’s divine. His body is worthy of being worshiped. Not that he let me look for long. And his dick?! It’s that perfect size before it gets ridiculously big. Like, he’s big, yeah. But not monstrously so.
He’s also perfectly straight, thick without the threat of splitting me in half. Veiny but not overly so. His balls are big. Like, my mouth is salivating to suck on them, big.
Tears nearly sting my eyes when he tells me I’m flawless.
Kindness is hard to come by these days. In fact, compliments have always been few and far between.
But this man, the way he looks at me and makes me feel, I can forget about my life.
About my reality. Right now, I can just be whatever Owen wants me to be.
Just for tonight. I’ll allow myself to live in this fantasy for a single night.
I bare down on his fingers, pushing against the burn. It feels so good. I’m eager, but also remember it’s been a really long time. I want that perfect dick—the most perfectest dick to exist—and this is likely the only time I’ll ever have one so perfect.
Owen’s fingers leave me and then his mouth is covering mine. When his legs shift on the bed, his hands hook under my knees and bend me in half. His thighs are nearly under my ass, which has definitely come off the bed.
Then his crown is there. Nudging me. Asking permission to enter. I’m so desperate, I’m tense.
“Please,” I say against his mouth, the word tangled and muffled as he swallows the sound.
He obliges and pushes inside; all the way inside me. In one smooth, insistent shove, Owen’s big, perfect dick is deep in my ass. I can feel him stretching me. My body seizes, then shudders. My mouth is hanging open, eyes wide and unseeing.
Holy fuck.
“Breathe, Zak,” Owen says as he starts pulling out.
“No,” I nearly shout and try to force him back in deep. He thrusts again and I groan, my back arching. “Oh fuck, the stretch.”
He chuckles. Owen remains lodged inside me. After a minute, he wiggles his hips. The minute rocking nudges some place deep inside me that makes my eyes roll and stars burst behind my closed lids.
“Fuck me,” I beg. “Please.”
He does. For what feels like hours. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen my life flash before my eyes half a dozen times. I haven’t taken a single full breath since he pushed that masterpiece as far as he could into my ass. It’s perfection. Bliss.
Though I’m aware it’s not physically possible, I’m pretty sure he’s got me stretched so tightly over his cock that I can feel every single vein stroking my ass. Rubbing against me. Making me moan and howl like never before.
I come so many times that I’m not even sure when I passed out. Or maybe I just came once and it was so intense, so good, that I fell unconscious. That’s a thing, isn’t it? Owen made it a thing.
Because he’s a god.
* * *
When I open my eyes, there’s a streak of sunlight stretching across my chest. I take a breath and it makes my body twitch. Yep, I feel that shit in my ass.
A goofy, dopey smile spreads across my face. That was the best night of my life. There likely won’t be one to ever top it. I met a god. A god fucked me. That’s a pretty great event for a nobody like me.
Even better, his big, big, hot body is pressed against mine. He’s on his stomach, but one of his legs is tangled with mine.
Carefully so I don’t disturb him, I shift so I can prop myself up on my arm and look at him.
I know he called me flawless but seriously, even his back is toned.
Sculpted and shaped to perfection. I swear, I’m going to look up the word ‘perfect’ in the Dictionary and Owen’s face is going to be there.
The only definition. No words. Nothing else. Just Owen.
There’s a tattoo that I can barely make out.
With a little maneuvering, I shift a bit more so I can take a look and grin.
It’s the pansexual symbol. A big P and the leg of the P has an arrow and a line through it.
Curled around it are three dragons—one blue, one pink, one yellow. The pansexual pride colors.
Taking another look at Owen, I think I find him even more perfect. If that’s even possible.
I lay back down, still with my silly smile. But all too soon, that smile starts to fade. I should go. I don’t belong here. Before he wakes up and realizes his mistake, I should see myself out.
It takes me a few minutes to convince myself to do so. More than anything, I want to stay in this bed, it’s so damn comfortable. I want to stay with this man. I want him to fuck me again. Again and again and again.
Swallowing those thoughts, I slowly extract myself.
Owen is still fast asleep. I hope that means last night was good for him too.
Once I’m free of his big body, I slip from the bed and then pause to see if he moves.
He doesn’t. I smile, pleased that he’s so tired.
He won’t see me leave. I’ll just be a memory.
The thought makes my chest ache, so I ignore that and go about gathering my clothes. Sneaking into his bathroom, I use the toilet and the sink and then stare longingly at the shower. It isn’t until after I’m dressed and leaving the bedroom that I allow myself to look around his apartment.
I pause when my feet hit the great room. One entire wall is a bank of windows overlooking the city. My jaw drops.
There’s a large couch and matching chair that look stupidly comfortable. Big and cushy. There’s a big basket of rolled up blankets in a corner, a large wood-plank and colored glass coffee table in the center. The television dominates a single wall, but the opposite has art pieces.
Moving closer, my attention snags on the windows. I stare at the multimillion-dollar view. The city spreads before me, out for miles on this clear but cold winter day. My heart begins to race at the truth before me. This is a multimillion-dollar view. Oh fuck, who is this guy?!
Worse maybe, I have no idea exactly where I am. How long was that cab ride last night? How far did they drive us? I’m going to freeze my ass off trying to find my way back to Gravity’s. Fuck, I probably won’t make it before I freeze to death.
Chewing the inside of my lip, for just a moment, I continue to take in the view outside.
While it’s clear, the sun isn’t shining.
It looks gray, making it appear even colder than hopefully it is.
Only winter in the northeast can do that.
Make you feel cold just by looking outside, even with the lack of snow.
When I shift further down the bank of windows, I can peek through buildings and… is that the ocean in the distance that I can just barely make out? Does that little sliver bump this up to a five-million-dollar view?
Fuck. Me.
Turning, I look around as if he’ll have his name plastered all over the place.
That would be far too convenient. Not that I'd likely recognize it.
I'm shit at that. The only hints I see don’t even speak to what his monetary worth likely is.
Nothing is overly opulent or incredibly valuable.
Not that my poor-ass assessment would know if one of the paintings on the wall is worth half a million. But still.
The longer I stand here, the more out of place I feel. This isn’t the world I come from. This isn’t the kind of life I live or the caliber of people that surround me. Owen is going to be mortified at the riffraff he brought into his rich home.
That means I need to leave before he wakes up. Before he finds me. I need to face the cold and find… some way to get in touch with Gravity to pick me up. Or send someone to pick me up. It looks freezing out. I really don’t want to die of hypothermia.
Then again, with the sweet twinge in my ass, if I’m going to go, after a night of the best sex I’ll ever have is certainly the way to leave my pathetic existence behind.
Setting my resolve, I turn to find the front door. Surely someone in the lobby must have a phone, right? They’ll let me call a ride if I say that I lost my phone? Or… it’s dead. No charge because I was out all night.
That’s believable, I think. It was New Year’s Eve.
For just a minute, I muse at the fact that the place I wake up on the first day of this brand-new year is in a swanky condo overlooking the city with a god.
There are definitely worse places to start the year, right?
This is a good omen. I’m going to choose to believe that this will set the tone for the year.
All joking aside, running out on my friends without telling them could have begun the year with me in a gutter. That definitely wasn’t my smartest decision. No one could have guessed that I’d end up here as opposed to in a body bag.
Although, we were at a party for the rich and famous.
And those who were wily enough to sneak in.
Then again, that doesn’t discount the fact that I could have ended up dead.
It might have actually facilitated that my murderer might not have been discovered.
Or my body not being found for decades. If ever!
Okay, okay. My thoughts are turning morbid. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I return to my resolve to leave. I just need to find my way out and down to the lobby, convince someone to let me use their phone, and get back to Gravity’s place.
I’d rather both me and Owen remember last night as wonderful.
Not him finding out I’m poorer than a street rat and I just busted up into a place I didn’t belong.
That’s not the feeling I want to remember while leaving here, and I don’t want him to think that little of me.
Let me just be a mysterious stranger he met at a party.
Hopefully, he’ll remember the amazing sex, as will I.
Instead of finding the front door, I find what looks like another bedroom door that’s slightly ajar. I’m not sure why, but I head through it, begging whatever pantheon of gods he belongs to that I won’t find his kid or… wife? Nah, not in a separate bedroom.
…right?
Fuck, a whole new set of doubts and fears just springs up.
Setting my boots down, I gently push the door open and my eyes widen. I feel like I just stepped into the epitome of a man cave. It’s filled with sports things. Trophies and jerseys and posters. There’s even a giant banner.
At first, I’m so overwhelmed that I barely register that it all represents a single sport. The few sticks he has propped against the wall and the picture rail lined with pucks tell me enough to adjust my thoughts. This isn’t a sports lover’s man cave. He’s obsessed with a single sport—hockey.
My intelligence might be in the negative when it comes to all sports, but Gravity is a huge sports guy, so I know enough about a handful to at least recognize the, uh…. Tools of the trade? Is that the word to describe their things?
I always muse that Gravity doesn’t actually like sports. He just likes to see guys in thin, tight pants that are almost always see through when sweaty. You can tell a lot about a guy as they bend over on a field or a… uh… stadium? That’s another venue for a sports thing, right?
When I pull my attention up, I come face to face with one of those banners that you see hanging in arenas massive convention centers. They’re long and covered with the image of a larger-than-life person or whatever it is they’re trying to sell.
“Holy shit,” I whisper as I step closer, my eyes nearly coming out of my head.
That’s a face I recognize, even when it’s as big as I am. Owen is staring back at me.
The banner reads ‘Owen Vincent, #31, New York Lights.’ For a minute, I just stare at him. It’s entirely appropriate that he’s this massive figure. He felt larger than life to me.
Another poster on a perpendicular wall claims that he’s a living legend. I nearly shout a ‘Ha!’ when another smaller article refers to him as a hockey god. Excitement shoots through me. I knew he was a god!!
I stare at the picture that proclaimed him a god. He’s younger there. It’s grainy, having been cut from a newspaper or maybe a magazine. There’s something about a barracuda. Is that some name that hockey players are called? Maybe that’s a college team?
As I look around the room, my gaze falls on the bank of glass cases. Inside are trophies, plaques, and medals. There are signed pucks and even a helmet. I crouch down to look at them. The biggest one is dated 2011-2012 Calder Memorial Award, Owen Vincent, Seattle Red Hawks.
My eyes travel down the items in the glass case. There is a set of trading cards, all with him on them. Lots of pictures with him in different jerseys, which I assume meant different teams.
Standing, I cross the room to where he has a rack with jerseys. Here, I find names that aren’t his. Oh, there are definitely a bunch that says ‘Vincent’ on them but there are others, too. Wayne. Novak. Thompson. They’re older. I can tell based on the material.
Stepping back, I come face to face with another picture of Owen.
It’s a blown-up image of him on the cover of SCORE magazine from June 2017.
He has a sleeveless hoodie on, hood pulled up and zipper partially down, a hint of his chest peeking out.
His facial hair is scruffier, longer. He stands slightly canted but the way his eyes stare into the camera, I swear, I can feel it in my chest.
Or my balls. Maybe both.