2. Jamie

Jamie

I’m not pissed. Nope, not pissed at all. I mean, what else was Wes supposed to do? Slam the door in his teammate’s face? Gesture to his rock-hard dick and say “Sorry man, I’m about to bone down with my boyfriend”? The boyfriend he hasn’t seen in eight days, the one who’s been anxiously waiting for him in this empty condo and making sure there’s dinner on the table when he got home and—

Okay. Maybe I’m a teeny, tiny bit pissed.

My mom always says I have the patience of a saint, but right now I’m not feeling too saintly. My natural state of easygoing and infinitely calm has been replaced by a deep-seated prickle of annoyance. Resentment, even.

I missed Wes. I miss him every time he’s on the road, and all I wanted to do tonight was reacquaint myself with the man I love, preferably in the form of wild, sweaty sex.

The man I love. Even now, the phrase sticks in my mind with damn near wonder. I didn’t freak out when I realized last summer I was bisexual, and I’m not freaked out about it now. It’s not the word man that fascinates me in that sentence, but love. The way I feel about Ryan Wesley…it’s something I thought existed only in the movies. He’s my other half. We complement each other in more ways than I can count. When he’s in the same room, I’m focused on him, and when he’s gone I walk around missing him.

There’s an old quote my mother once painted on a ceramic platter. Love is friendship set on fire. I get it now.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed at him.

I watch as he shovels enchiladas into his mouth. His gorgeous gray eyes are fixed on the TV screen, but I know he’s not paying attention to the show. The tension in his broad shoulders would be imperceptible to anyone else, but I see it clear as day, which causes some of my irritation to dissolve.

He hates this as much as you do, my conscience whispers.

Fuck off, conscience. I’m having a pity party, here.

Blake, on the other hand, is loving life hard. Hooting at the screen when a particularly badass action sequence comes on, sucking on his beer like he has no care in the world. Of course he doesn’t. He’s in his third year with the team and rocking it out on the ice, according to the quick Google search I conducted when I ducked into the bedroom to find a shirt. And most importantly? He’s straight. He doesn’t have to hide who he’s sleeping with or introduce his live-in partner as his “roommate”. Lucky bastard.

A bitter taste fills my mouth as I remember that in the eyes of the world, Ryan Wesley is also straight. My boyfriend has appeared on dozens of “Hockey’s Most Eligible Bachelors” lists. At every game there’s no less than five women holding up signs with clever come-ons directed at him—Dyin’ for Ryan or Wesley is the Bestley. Or not so clever ones—I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES, #57!!

Wes and I laugh off all the female attention he gets, but even though I know there’s no danger of my very staunchly gay boyfriend dipping his toes in the pussy pool, all the hungry looks he gets still grate.

“Je-sus,” Blake crows. “Those tits are fan-fucking-tabulous.”

The lewd observation jerks me back to the present. The unwelcome present. On the screen, one of the female characters has just gotten naked—gotta love Cinemax—and I’m not going to lie, her breasts are incredible.

And since I’m supposed to be Wes’s harmless, straight-as-an-arrow roomie (and already being ruder than I should to his teammate), I decide to offer my own two cents. “They’re amazing,” I concur. “That actress is smokin’ hot.”

That gets me a slight frown from Wes, and just like that, my annoyance returns. Seriously? He’s letting his teammate crash our evening and he’s pissy that I find an actress attractive?

Blake takes my contribution to the conversation as a sign that we’re best friends and turns to me with twinkling green eyes. “You like blondes, huh? Me too, bro. You seeing anyone?”

From the corner of my eye I see Wes’s shoulders stiffen again. So do mine, but that could also be because the armchair I’m sitting on is ridiculously uncomfortable. Five minutes in that thing and your whole body feels like it went through a medieval torture rack. Plus, I’m ninety-nine percent sure someone died in this chair. Wes found it on the curb and then neglected to get rid of it even though I keep asking him to.

Next week this fucker is on the curb.

The chair, I mean. Not Wes.

“Not really,” I answer vaguely, which brings another frown to Wes’s sexy lips.

“Playing the field, eh? Samesies.” Blake runs a hand through his brown hair. He’s really good-looking. And he’s huge. At least six-three and bulky as hell. “Who has time for relationships in our world, right, Wesley? Feels like our whole life is stepping on and off a plane.”

Wes grunts something unintelligible.

“I have no idea how Eriksson and the other guys do it,” Blake continues. “I’m exhausted during the season, and I’m single.” He mock shivers. “Imagine having a wife and kids. That’s, like, terrifying. Do you think that’s how zombies are created? Like it’s not some craz-o virus, but just being so dead-ass tired that eating brains suddenly seems like a good idea?”

I can’t help but snicker. I get the feeling that Blake Riley could carry on an entire conversation with himself. Which is pretty much what he’s doing right now, seeing as how neither Wes nor I are saying a goddamn word.

After the current episode ends, Blake swipes the remote off the coffee table and clicks to play the next one without asking if it’s cool. He also cracks open another beer.

The ball of resentment in my throat is the size of a hockey puck now. It’s past nine o’clock. I need to be in bed by ten or else I’ll be dead on my feet tomorrow morning. If I don’t get at least seven hours of sleep, my brain goes all insomniac on me like Edward Norton’s from Fight Club. Hell, I kind of wish my life wasFight Club right about now. Then I’d have a good excuse to haul Blake Riley off my couch and toss him out on his ass.

But I can’t. I promised Wes I’d keep up appearances at least until the end of his rookie season. Coming out now would only hurt his career, and I’d rather take a bath in a tub full of glass shards than be the one to cost Wes his dreams.

So I sit in the death chair and pretend to care about the TV. I feign interest in what Blake is babbling about. I even chuckle at some of his jokes. But when ten-fifteen rolls around, I no longer have the luxury of keeping up appearances.

“I need to turn in,” I tell them, rising to my feet. “Gotta be at the arena at five-thirty in the morning.”

Blake seems genuinely disappointed to see me go. “You sure you can’t have another beer?”

“Maybe another time. ’Night, guys. Nice meeting you, Blake.”

“You too, J-Bomb.”

Yeah, Blake Riley gives nicknames to dudes he’s just met. Why am I not surprised?

I spare a quick glance in Wes’s direction as I pass the couch. His jaw is tighter than his grip around his beer bottle. His free hand is toying with the silver barbell in his eyebrow, fingers twisting the small piercing round and round. I’ve known this guy since I was thirteen years old. I can read him like a book, and it’s obvious he’s not happy at the moment.

Neither am I, but short of forcibly kicking Blake out, there’s nothing either one of us can do except pretend we’re just roommates who sometimes watch TV together.

Tired as I am, I make it a few paces down the hall before I realize I have a problem. I can’t go to sleep in our bed. Though I haven’t met Blake until tonight, I can’t say with any certainty that he’s never been here before. When he was checking out the building, did he see our apartment? Did Wes show him the view from the master bedroom?

Our rarely used cover story is that the guest room is mine. So I do a little u-turn in the darkened hall and walk into the guest bathroom. There’s a toothbrush and toothpaste that I put in here a while ago to make the room appear lived-in.

I thought I was so fucking clever for thinking up this bit of set-dressing. But now here I stand pretending my own room isn’t really mine.

Retiring to the guest room, I shut the door against the soundtrack of the TV program. Since Wes and I moved in together, this room has only been used once—when my folks flew in from California for a weekend visit. Tonight I’m the one tossing my clothes on the floor and pulling down the unfamiliar quilt to slip into the cold double bed. And I don’t like it.

I roll onto my side and measure all the things wrong with this moment. The curtains are sheer rather than black-out navy. The mattress is softer than I’m used to and the pillow beneath my head is lumpier.

My boyfriend is in the living room, instead of sexing me up, like he’s supposed to.

I close my eyes and try to sleep.

I’m dreamingabout a hot tub, and the jets are terrific. Only—my dick is the only part of me that fits in the hot tub. But that’s okay because I’m hard and the water is incredible. Magic even.

Oh wait...

Scratch that.

There’s a hot mouth around my very hard dick. And maybe I am still dreaming because my surroundings make no sense to me when I open my eyes. The light is all wrong, and the headboard makes a soft, unfamiliar squeak as a dark head bobs over me, a sexy mouth going to town on my cock.

Damn, that’s good.

“You awake, babe?” Wes rasps.

“Kinda? Don’t stop.”

His chuckle massages the head of my dick. “Good. I was starting to feel like a creeper.”

A strong hand grips my shaft and another husky moan slips out of me. “What time is it?” My head is still foggy from sleep. My plan had been to sneak back into our bedroom after Blake left, but I must have passed out the moment after my head hit the lumpy pillow.

“Eleven-thirty.” His voice is soft. “I won’t keep you awake long, promise. I just… Mmm.” The noise he makes sounds like it’s wrenched deep from his soul. “I missed you so fucking much.”

The resentment I’d been wearing like a shield all night disintegrates to dust. I missed him too, and I’d be a real asshole if I held Blake’s unwelcome interruption against Wes. It wasn’t his fault that his teammate popped by. And it’s not his fault he has to travel so much. We both knew going into this that as long as Wes was playing professional hockey, there would be long absences to deal with.

I weave my hands through his dark hair and yank him up. “C’mere,” I say gruffly.

His warm, muscular body slides up and covers mine, and I tug his head down for a kiss. I love his lips. They’re firm and hungry. They’re magic. Our kisses deepen, growing more and more desperate as our bodies rock on the mattress, making it squeak uncontrollably.

Wes wrenches his mouth away with a laugh. “Dude, we are so lucky your parents didn’t have sex when they were visiting. This bed is so loud.”

“Would’ve traumatized me for life,” I agree. Then I’m kissing him again, because damn it, it’s late, I have to wake up in six hours, and I need this too much.

Wes reads my mind and thrusts his tongue through my parted lips. I eagerly suck on it, then grunt in disappointment. “I miss the tongue ring,” I tell him breathlessly. He’d taken out the piercing at the start of the season. I guess the team didn’t think it was safe.

“Don’t you worry,” Wes teases. “I can still rock your world without it.” A moment later that talented tongue is traveling down my bare chest and returning to my aching cock.

He swallows me up and my hips jerk off the bed. Jesus. We’ve exchanged hundreds of blowjobs since we got together, but it never fails to amaze me just how good this feels. Wes knows exactly what to do to get me off. His confidence is a major turn-on, and he needs absolutely no direction when it comes to pleasing me.

Of course, that doesn’t stop me from muttering out orders. But that’s because we both dig the dirty talk. “That’s it, man. Lick the tip. Yeah, just like that.” I have one hand bunched in his hair, the other clutching the sheets. It’s been so long since I had his mouth on me, and the pressure in my balls is almost unbearable.

Wes’s tongue licks a slow, wet circle around my head, then glides down my length, over and over again, until my dick is glistening and my patience has run out.

“I need to come,” I grind out.

He chuckles softly. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll get you there.”

And holy shit, he does. The teasing licks turn into wet, tight pulls on my shaft that make me shudder in pleasure. His hand kneads my balls while his mouth draws me all the way to the back of his throat, sucking hard and fast until I'm ready to explode. Until I do explode.

Wes growls when I come in his mouth, but he doesn’t stop sucking until I’m limp and mindless. As the aftershocks of the orgasm continue to flutter through my sated body, I vaguely register that he’s beside me now. Kissing my neck. Stroking my abs. Nuzzling my beard with his cheek.

“Fucking love this beard,” he whispers.

“Fucking love you,” I whisper back. I somehow find the energy to lift one arm and wrap it around his big shoulders, holding him closer to me. His erection is like a hot brand against my thigh, and when I turn my head to kiss him, he moans into my mouth and rubs that hard length against me. So I run the back of my knuckles down his shaft and he hisses.

“What do you want?” I ask between kisses. “There’s no lube in this room.”

Wes grunts and flexes his hips against me. “We don’t need lube. I want your mouth on me.”

I shift a little higher on the pillow. “Get up here, then. Show the beard who’s boss.”

With a growl, he grabs the other pillow and shoves it behind my head. Then he swings a knee over my chest and crawls up my body.

My palm lands on his abs, and I spread my fingers wide. He feels so good under my hand—warm and solid. I’m tired of spending the night alone. I like the resistance of another body in the bed. When he’s gone, I miss being able to roll over and park my ass against his sleepy warmth.

But he’s not sleepy now. He spreads his big legs wide, and I grab his ass and tug him closer. His cock is rigid and leaking for me. And coming nearer. To tease him I clamp my mouth closed and he lets out an impatient noise. Grabbing his dick, I sweep the head of it across my lips, tickling the underside with the beard on my chin.

Above me, Wes gives a horny shiver. There’s just enough light coming through those curtains to show me that the tats all over his arms look like shadows when he moves. The masculine scent of him is starting to drive me a little crazy. I stick out my tongue and taste him, and he gasps with anticipation.

My torture isn’t quite done, though. I crane my neck forward, smash my face against his groin and nip his pubes. I swear he’s practically grinding his dick against my neck now, so turned on he’d fuck any surface of my body. A desperate Wes is a fun Wes. I love forcing him to let go of some of that iron-clad control. One sportswriter called him: “Impenetrable. Unshakeable. With nerves of steel.”

I know better.

Trapping his eager dick with my hand, I slowly roll my neck, rubbing every surface of his shaft with my beard.

“Fucking hell,” he jabbers. “Killing me. Just suck it already.”

I kiss him once on the tip and he groans. Then, all at once, I put him out of his misery. Opening wide, I swallow him down. He gives a less-than-manly cry that makes me smile around his cock. So I pull off and then give him another good, hard suck. I am merciless now. There’s no rhythm, just ambition. Sucking, licking, swallowing. He thrusts haphazardly, just enjoying the ride. And it’s only a couple of minutes later when he takes a deep breath and says, “Here I fucking come.”

And the man isn’t lying. He pumps into my mouth more times than I can count, and I swallow a week’s worth of sexual tension. Then my head flops back against the pillows, and I feel the exhaustion creep in again. Above me, Wes drops his head, and I watch his chest heave as he gulps down oxygen. Lifting both hands, I spread my fingers across his ribcage. “You look thinner,” I say, my thumb sweeping the smooth skin of his chest.

“I’m down fifteen pounds since the season started.”

“Fifteen?”I know players sometimes lose a little weight. But fifteen?

“Yeah. It happens.”

I pull him down, and he has to roll off me so we can hold each other. “That’s too much to lose,” I murmur in his ear. “More enchiladas for you.”

“You make it, I’ll eat it.” He buries his face in my neck. “Jamie?”

“Mmm?”

“I think there’s jizz in your beard.”

“Gross.”

He laughs. “Is that gonna be an issue?”

“Dunno. It’s my first beard, and you’re the first one to splooge in it.”

His voice is muffled. “Can we get in our bed now?”

“Uh-huh.” I close my eyes, though. Just for a second.

We fall asleep in the guest room, tangled up in each other.