15. 15

15

Ant Decker

I’m out of control. I see it. I know it. I know it’s not good, but I simply cannot stop putting my dick in Robbie McGuire’s mouth, no matter how often I tell myself it’s a bad idea. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not like I need to learn this lesson again. Life has already taught it to me plenty of times. And I was paying attention those other times. I was taking notes. The lesson has been learned. Guys like McGuire are bad for me. They’re trouble and they make me unhappy. I know that.

I need to get my shit together big time. Yes, the guy’s pretty, and his body is insane, but it’s not like he’s the hottest guy on the planet or anything. There are lots of hotter guys out there, believe me. There are. There are tons of them. They’re all over. I could name a long list of them if I had my shit together.

I could .

I definitely could. There’s…actors, and porn stars, and guys at the gym, and…

McGuire pushes off and glides onto the ice. His movement is fluid. A graceful interplay between steel and ice. Muscle and bone. A scorching white smile lights up his eyes when he sees me and slowly trickles down the rest of his face, curling his lips like paper singed at the edges, exposing a constellation of pearly white teeth.

Yeah, there are definitely hotter guys than him out there. There are. Of course there are.

I just can’t think of any off-hand.

McGuire skates over to me, and Coach joins us on the ice. He’s called another practice for two, and I can’t say I’m happy about it. The last thing I need is more one-on-one time with Robbie McGuire.

“Look, I’m not saying you aren’t playing better, you are,” says Coach. We’ve won three out of the last five games, so he’s right, we’re improving. He still doesn’t look happy with us though. When he looks at us, it seems like he’s making a conscious effort to breathe through his nose, not his mouth. “But I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and you haven’t come anywhere close to it during a game.”

He has us practice like we did last time. Just the two of us. It’s exactly the same as it was the first time, except this time, it happens faster. Almost immediately. We click. We play like we’ve played together for years. Like we’re the same thing, part of the same machine. Like he’s the left arm and I’m the right. Like we’re a reflection, an echo of each other. Soft and hard. Hot and cold.

We play for a long time, the sound of steel cutting ice broken only by fiberglass meeting rubber and the rasping sound of air filling our lungs. We play until I can’t feel my legs. Or my arms. I can’t feel where I end and where my stick starts.

We rip the ice to shreds, moving at a speed I didn’t know I was capable of.

The whole time, every time there’s a pause or a lull, McGuire’s face is slashed into a broad smile and there’s a low, slow machine-gun cackle that stems from his belly and travels through the air toward me. It leaves through his mouth and sinks down, condensing and turning to liquid when it contacts the ice. It enters my body through the blades of my skates.

It’s scary what it does to me.

It’s so scary that when Coach finally calls the end of practice, I wait for McGuire to head to the locker room and then skate over to Coach. Though I’d rather die than willingly put myself into a situation that requires small talk, I do it voluntarily now. Freely. Almost happily. I’m kind of hoping that if I hang around for long enough, Coach might lose his concentration and default to one of his lectures. Sadly, he doesn’t. He waves me to the locker room a couple of times, and when I don’t take the hint, he taps firmly on his phone screen and starts placing a call while I’m mid-sentence.

I have no choice but to hit the locker room. I shuffle there as slowly as I can, hoping against hope that McGuire is having a moment of rational thinking. If he is, it’ll be his first one in a while. He definitely hasn’t had rational thoughts when we’ve traveled for any of our recent away games. He showed clear signs of irrational thinking in Pittsburgh last week. And in Washington a few days before that.

It’s been four days since we played in Pittsburgh. Four days since I’ve had my dick in his mouth. Four days is a long time to go without a hot mouth on your cock. A long-ass time. I’m shaky inside, and I can’t tell if it’s from what I just put my body through or if I’m having McGuire withdrawals.

Either way, it’s not good.

The only thing holding me together is that what happens between us only happens when we play away. It’s not much, but it gives me a desperately needed sense of structure. Of clarity. It puts a few boundaries in place. When we’re away, shit goes down, and as best I can tell, it’s going to keep happening for as long as Coach deems it necessary for us to share a room because I don’t seem to be able to do a goddamn thing to stop myself. The good thing about it, the only good thing, is that’s the only time it happens. When we’re at home, he’s off-limits. Or I’m off-limits. One of us is off-limits, so my dick stays in my pants.

It’s not much to cling to. A thin, flimsy thread at best, but it’s all I have.

I’m not a fucking idiot, and I’m not delusional. I’m horny as fuck, and I know myself well enough to know that the last thing I need is to find myself alone in the communal showers with Robbie McGuire.

I move as slowly as humanly possible to get to the locker room, hoping against hope he’ll have showered and dressed himself by the time I get there. No luck. I swing the door open and am met by reams and reams of tan skin. There’s a fuck-ton of muscle corded and knotted beneath it. I know from every time I’ve worked my hand down that body to reach for his dick that his skin is hot to the touch. Scorching. And smooth.

He’s stark naked except for his jock, barefoot, hair damp with sweat and tumbling into his face in untidy curtains that fall just below his cheekbones. Despite doing my best to stay calm, the sight of him makes me draw a sharp breath.

His eyes flash, vivid green and brimming with indignation. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“W-we’re at home,” I say dumbly.

Big, beautiful eyes blink an angry morse-coded question in my direction. Best I can tell, he’s not familiar with the Home vs. Away Game boundary. He’s never heard of it. Doesn’t know it’s a rule. And that’s a problem for me.

He closes the space between us in two or three long strides. I step back when he gets too close and connect solidly with the locker behind me.

“There’s no one else here,” he says, smiling at me like he did on the ice. He’s laughing like he laughed on the ice too. A quiet, throaty rattle that shakes the whole room. It’s making it fucking hard to remember what my deal is with this whole being-at-home thing.

Fortunately, it comes back to me in the nick of time, and I put out my hand to hold him at arm’s length. Unfortunately, it means I’m touching him. A searing burn heats my palm and makes me lose my train of thought completely .

“You going to be like that, huh?” His brows raise in a way that gives me the distinct impression he’s not just laughing now. He’s laughing at me. “Are you going to try to deny me again?”

I give a jerky nod and manage to say, “We’re at home,” again.

“I don’t give a shit where we are.”

He moves quickly, placing both hands on my chest and pushing me back. Before I have time to react, his face is in the crook of my neck, lips and nose on my skin. He inhales like a bloodhound.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Oh, you know, just getting a hit of your stank.” He inhales again, and his lips follow his nose, leaving a warm trail along my jugular. He does it like a madman. Like a man who can’t help himself. When he’s had his fill, his eyelids flutter, and he smiles drunkenly at me and says, “You smell like something I want, Decker. Something I need.”

“Jesus, McGuire,” I hiss, pushing him away and spinning him around so he’s no longer facing me. I’m dimly aware that I don’t really have a plan right now, so I pin him against the locker by the back of his neck, buying time for a better idea to come to me. While I wait, I focus all my attention on forcing myself not to look down at his ass. It takes a lot of effort. So much effort, my filter slips.

“Don’t be a slut.” I say it with force, but the second the words leave my mouth, my tone changes. It goes from commanding to raw and pleading. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop being such a slut? Hmm? How many goddamn ti…?”

He hears the shift in my voice and likes it. It makes him giggle. He fucking giggles and squirms in my grip, wriggling until his face is squished against the door of the locker and his ass is pushed out way more than decency and decorum require.

“But, Ant,” he says sweetly, “I am a slut.”

His words land and flick a switch. My vision fades and a bright haze of lust blooms in my groin, rapidly expanding and spreading to every part of my body. I hold him in place with my left hand and step away from him. At first, I think it might be a welcome act of restraint, but then I see my right hand swing back in a broad arc. I bring it down hard. A crisp, tacky slap that makes contact with warm flesh and leaves a perfect imprint of my hand. A palm and five clearly distinguishable fingers. A pink brand on the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen.

He laughs again and maybe moans as well. If he does, he only moans a little. He definitely shakes his ass though. He arches his back slightly, the tiniest, smallest amount, but it makes his spine dip more than it was, and he rocks his hips side to side. Soft flesh and solid muscle quake gently and the haze from before grows thicker.

I try to reason with him. To warn him. To get him to see sense. “Come on, Princess. I’ve told you and told you what happens to sluts.”

“Uh-uh.” His eyelids slide shut briefly, and a couple of shallow lines cut a semi-circle into his cheek near the corner of his mouth. “You haven’t told me, not really. You just keep saying bad things .”

He has the audacity to mimic my voice. His take on it is deep and gruff. Quite the opposite of intelligent. A caveman at best. I’m already an inferno, a blazing hellscape of flames, and that, along with the sexy lines on his cheek, provide the spark I need to implode.

I shove him against the locker, pressing him against the door roughly before stepping back and letting go of him. He doesn’t struggle. At all. Not even a little. Instead, he stays exactly where I put him and cranes his head back to watch as I reach down to grope his ass. I do it with both hands. I do it hard. Hard enough to force tiny sighs out of him and leave marks on his skin. I grab big, juicy handfuls of flesh and squeeze it in my hands. I squeeze hard. Hard enough to hurt. Far from minding, his breathing quickens, and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, widening his stance by a few inches.

Fuck me sideways. This guy has no survival instinct whatsoever.

“When I say bad things happen to boys like you, McGuire,” I growl, “I mean it.”

“Like what? Tell me. I want to know.”

Jesus. He’s fearless. He doesn’t have an ounce of self-preservation in his whole body.

I lean in and scrape my teeth across those fucking smile lines. I don’t bite him. I just gnaw on him a little. He pushes himself onto his toes and arches his back harder into my touch instead of away from it. I knead his ass again. And again. Pushing his cheeks together and then spreading them until I see what I want. A shadow. A star. It’s darker than the rest of him. Exposed and winking at me.

“Boys like you…” I threaten. And credit where credit’s due because even I have to admit, I don’t sound all that different from McGuire’s primitive impersonation of me. “…find themselves stripped naked. That’s what happens to them.” I poke at his temple with my forefinger a couple of times to drive my point home. “They find themselves bent over. Folded in half and held down…” I pant in his ear and rub my face against his cheek, biting him again an d licking his cheek this time as well. “…with a big dick rammed up their ass.”

I step back and let go of him the second I say it, sobered by the base stupidity of my behavior.

He turns to face me.

Even though nothing McGuire has done so far has given me any reason to think it, a small part of me is hopeful that what I’ve just said may have been enough to rattle loose something sensible.

He’s quiet for a beat, taking his time to arrange his features into something supremely non-threatening. Almost innocent. He knits his hands together in front of his jock-clad cock and he looks down at them demurely.

Sweet Jesus, he’s pretty when he’s not talking .

He stays quiet like that for long enough that I’m almost able to catch my breath. My breathing slows and my heart rate returns to something resembling normal. Just when I’ve managed to convince myself that the worst of the threat has passed, he looks up and hits me with a blistering jade gaze.

“Promise?” he says softly.

With that, he slides his jock down over his hips, letting it drop to the floor. He steps out of it, turns around, and heads to the shower nonchalant as you fucking please .

I’m left alone, gobsmacked, tearing my clothes and pads off like they’ve been soaked in acid. Things are happening in my body that are hard to explain. Hard to make sense of. I’m naked in record time. Almost naked. I still have my compression leggings and socks on, but I stop to pull them off, one garment at a time, as I beat a path to the showers.

McGuire is under the showerhead when I get there. There’s water cascading around him. He’s facing me, waiting for me. His head is tilted back slightly, eyes slanted but open. He smiles when he sees me. He smiles like a man who’s certain of himself. Or certain of me, even though that’s the last thing he should be.

His dick is fully erect. Pretty and pink and straining in my direction. I can tell he’s already soaped himself as there’s a fresh, clean scent in the air around him. It wafts over to where I am and fills my nostrils. Cedarwood and suede.

His hand drifts to his cock. I can’t tell if the movement is deliberate or not. His fingers curl in his pubic hair and around his shaft, traveling up, then down absently, almost as though he still thinks he’s washing himself.

Any semblance of control I may have had erodes on sight .

I step under the water with him, pouring a healthy glob of his body wash into my hand and scrubbing myself roughly. I have way more soap than I need and my movements are vigorous in the extreme, so it suds up well beyond what the situation calls for. I’m covered head to toe in a frenzy of foam and bubbles, so much so that I’m forced to splash my face several times to stop it from running into my mouth.

I don’t care, though, because McGuire is here. He’s wet and naked, and he’s within reach. He watches as I wash, lips quirked in a way that’s more smirk than smile. I can’t blame him. No part of me looks like a guy playing it cool right now.

Before I’ve managed to rinse all of the soap off myself, I grab him and turn him around at the same time. I take hold of him firmly, one hand on his hip, the other around his broad chest. His body is slick, wet, and warm against mine. He squirms in my grip, rubbing his slippery ass against my throbbing erection. It feels good. It feels so fucking good that I don’t care that I’m still covered in suds. I don’t care about the fact I should rinse. Or that we’re in a public space. I don’t care about the fact that someone could walk in and catch us. The only thing I care about is that he’s here. Robbie McGuire. He’s naked and he’s here. He’s pressed up against me and there’s hot skin everywhere. He’s in my arms and he’s saying my name like it’s a lifeline.

“Ant…Ant…Ant…” He says it over and over. Quiet and reverent. A repetitive chant broken only by soft moans.

My hand on his hip curls around and moves down. It finds the channeled V that leads to his dick and follows it there. I circle him and start stroking immediately. I jerk him off as if his dick is mine. As if his pleasure is mine. Soft moans splinter and grow coarse. He rocks his hips in time with my moment, and when he does, the cleft between his ass cheeks forms a fleshy furrow for my cock. I tighten the grip I have on his chest and the one I have on his dick, and I start thrusting between his cheeks at the same time.

His skin is smooth and slick, wet and hot. I’m mindless as I move. Hand. Hips. Hard. Fast. He throbs in my hand, swelling as the rest of his body stiffens. His dick feels perfect in my hand. Perfect. Rock-hard and sinewy. Thick enough to feel like something I don’t want to let go of. I grind myself against him and jerk his cock. Grind and jerk. Grind and jerk. I hold him in my arms and don’t let go when he thrashes and starts to whine his orgasm into existence. I support him as his legs buckle and almost give way, using the swaying momentum of his body to turn him so his front is under the spray, washing away what he just made.

I’m drugged by the sounds and the smell and the feel of him. Drugged by the hiss of the water around us. By the heat and the steam. By the smell of men and hockey, and most of all, by the scent of Robbie McGuire’s skin and hair. So drugged that it doesn’t take much, just a few more helpless thrusts of my dick between his smooth cheeks, and my own peak approaches. It rises like a phoenix. Mounting and cresting, climbing higher and swelling inside me until I’m helpless. Until all I can do is thrust and grunt as it takes me out.

McGuire’s eyes sparkle as he reaches for his towel. He dries his hair with such gusto his dick sways quickly from side to side and muscles I had no idea were involved in this simple action bunch and flex. Just my luck. He’s one of those guys who recovers from busting a nut at lightning speed.

“I’m so excited for Dallas,” he says brightly. “I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”