16. EASTON

SIXTEEN

EASTON

I get home from dinner with Connor and the parentals, ready for sleep. Dinner was exhausting, mainly because Connor was sulking while Mom and Dad were trying to play mediators. I don't know how, but Connor has managed to make me feel sorry for him. Considering how many times I've told him that he's being overbearing or that he doesn't need to look after me and he hasn't taken it seriously, I shouldn't feel guilty for snapping, but I do.

Even if it's gotten me what I want, even if I have a chance to go to another team and be independent, making Connor feel like an asshole wasn't the right way to do it.

I only manage to strip down to my boxer briefs when there's a knock on the door, and my automatic assumption is that it's Connor coming to ask more inane questions like "What about that one time that random dude came up to you in that bar after you came out and he called you a derogatory term? Was I not supposed to punch his lights out?" No, he wasn't, but that was understandable. I wanted to punch the guy too, but the thing that got to me was had I done it, he would've lectured me about my image and not getting into trouble. But because he's straight, it was okay because he was defending my honor.

It's because he loves me and is a bit clueless when it comes to being a queer ally. Sometimes what he thinks is from love actually comes across a bit ignorant.

Because I know it's him, I don't bother putting on sweats, but as soon as I open the door, I wish I had.

Not because I care if Knox sees me in only my underwear—he's seen it many times before—but because I can't hide my reaction to him when he's in his black button-down, tight black pants, and his hair is styled with gel to make his strawberry blond hair stick up at all angles like he's just rolled out of bed after being fucked thoroughly. There's a smattering of freckles on his chest peeking through the undone top button, and it's no surprise he earns enough tips working three or four nights a week to support himself while it's the off-season for the PWHL.

Also, normally, I wouldn't care if he could see how hard he immediately makes me, but I'm still supposed to be mad at him, and I hate that my body is not on board with that.

"What are you doing here?" I try for stern and pissed off, but I'm worried it comes out more sexual than that. Like if this were my fantasy, the only response to that should be "You. I'm here to do you."

Which is why when he actually says, "I'm here to do something I should've done a long time ago," my heart twinges because I think he's here to say we can't even be friends anymore. Because Connor got home, obviously told Knox what's been happening, and now Knox is going to let me have the space I need to get over him.

What he does next doesn't come close to what I'm expecting.

Without warning, he steps into my apartment, cups my face, slams his body against mine so hard I almost stumble backward, and then his lips are on mine.

His tongue pushes its way into my mouth, and I open for him, letting out a squeak of surprise that turns into a moan when my brain finally catches up.

Knox is kissing me. But unlike the first time, where it was hesitant and soft at first until our confidence grew, he's getting straight to the point.

I have no idea what Connor said to him when he got home, but I find it hard to believe it was "go throw yourself at my brother."

Am I going to stop this to ask him why he's taking this step? Hell no. I don't want to ruin this. I don't want him to stop and give him the chance to take it back. He can do that after I've gotten my fill of him. Or until I get off, at least.

With the way he's dominating this kiss and holding my hip tight in one hand and cupping my face in the other, I might never get my fill.

He guides me into my kitchen and presses my back into the edge of the counter. His cock is hard, and I can feel it through his pants, pressed up against the V between my pelvis and thigh. I fight the urge to rotate my hips and feel him slide against my own cock, which is currently trying to escape my underwear.

It's hard to breathe, but there's no way I'm going to pull away to take a proper breath. I'm not so sure it's his mouth that's making it difficult or hyperventilating from getting everything I've ever fantasized about.

He's the one who breaks the kiss, but it's only to move his lips down my cheek and my neck. "We need to talk."

"No—"

"Not now. We'll talk later. For now, I want to drop to my knees right here and suck you off."

This cannot be real life. I'm finally able to breathe, but I can't speak. So all I do is nod and then watch as Knox sinks to the floor.

He runs his hand, fingers splayed out, down my chest and my abs. I grip the counter behind me and lean back so I can look down at him as he gets to my underwear and peels them off my body.

I'm standing before my dream man, completely naked, and I've never felt more vulnerable. I'm exposed to him, and the emotion building in my gut as I stare down at him is raw.

But with the way he can't take his eyes off my hard cock, it's as if he's trying to take me all in. Memorize every ridge, every vein. When the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the impatient whine that comes out of my mouth is reflexive.

His gaze finally flicks to my face, and the corners of his sexy mouth curl upward. I can't wait for those pillow lips to be wrapped around my cock.

As he leans forward and takes the tip into his mouth, my eyes try to flutter closed, but I don't let them.

So many years of watching Knox with longing. All that wasted energy on flirting with him when I knew he'd never take me seriously about it. And now I'm kicking myself for ever doubting Knox's attraction to me.

I always had this feeling, this sense that he wanted me too, but I'd put it down to wishing he was looking at me like I was a snack. I mean, I am a snack; I just didn't know if he saw me that way.

Even if he's only here for something physical, I'm relishing in the fact that I was right.

Knox sucks on my tip, teasing me until my legs shake, and when he finally opens fully and takes me to the back of his throat, I almost crumble to the ground.

I've never loved being right more.

My hand weaves into his hair, and his head bobs up and down my shaft.

The wet heat of his mouth feels amazing, but I can tell he's not putting his all into this, and not because he's bad at giving head—he's purposely dragging this out. When he glances up at me through his lashes, even though he has a mouth full of dick, I can tell he's being smug .

He's driving me wild on purpose, and I get the impression he's waiting for me to snap.

I'm torn between pulling out of his mouth, hauling him to his feet, and then taking him to my bedroom, where I can strip him naked, or forcing my way to the back of his throat and taking him in short but hard thrusts until he drinks all my cum.

I do want him naked. But I also want to come.

If I come now, I could take my time exploring every inch of Knox's body. A body I've been thinking about since that summer at the lake when I was twelve and saw him shirtless. He was all sleek and muscular from playing hockey, and I swear I almost came in my pants looking at him walking out of the water all wet.

But if I pull out of him, the orgasm building and building will only be more explosive when it actually happens.

I decide to hold out. To drag him to my room. But … his mouth feels so good. So, so fucking good.

I'm going to stop this. I'm going to draw this out. I am. I really, really?—

My hips surge forward, and my cock hits the very back of his throat. There's no way I can stop this now.

Knox can tell I've hit the point of no return, the point where my desperation outweighs any sense of control, because instead of trying to get me to back down, he quits with his teasing and brings out the big guns.

He's been holding my hips in both hands, his thumbs drawing lazy circles near the top of my V. But now, he brings one hand under me to cup my balls, squeezing them before releasing again. The pulsing pressure only adds to the building pleasure in my gut.

Instead of bobbing his head now, he lets me take over, and I take everything I need from his mouth. My shallow thrusts increase in speed with every pass.

His eyes become watery, and my breathing becomes stilted.

Every fantasy, every daydream of this man, none of them can compare to the real thing. It's not perfect and shiny in the way fantasies are. It's messy. I'm breaking out in a sweat. His cheeks are flushed. His saliva is dribbling out the side of his mouth, and he's obviously struggling to keep up with the way I'm ramming my cock down his throat over and over again, but if I had a choice between the fantasy and the reality, I'd take reality every damn time.

Because the way he looks up at me as I unleash on him and he drinks me all down, it's like he's accomplished something, he's proud, and he's so fucking turned on. His blue eyes are hooded, and he looks blissed-out, even though I'm the one who's coming.

It might be official. Sex with anyone else is ruined for me.