5. Jamie

Jamie

I watchthe Chicago game on the sofa alone. While live games are more exciting, there are advantages to the privacy of my own living room. I can scream at the television and nobody stares.

“Come on, baby!” I yell, clapping supportively, even if nobody can hear me. “It’s gonna work one of these times!”

Wes has taken a million shots on goal tonight, but the biggest goalie in the NHL keeps swatting them away like flies, damn him. During the commercial break, I run for the fridge and grab a beer. The game is scoreless until the third period, and I’m super tense. Wes takes another shift with the second line, and I hold my breath.

When his next chance comes, I’m practically levitating with anticipation. Wes draws the goalie out of the crease with a long, risky cross to the left wing. But it works. When the wing snaps it back to Wes, he’s able to slip it into the back corner of the net before the goalie can react.

Now I’m jumping on the sofa and sloshing my beer a little, but it’s worth it. Another goal, another notch in Wes’s belt. He’s really doing it. He’s having a phenomenal rookie season, the kind that could end up in a record book. And I’m just so pumped for him.

The camera focuses on the giant goalie’s sweaty face, and I imagine I can hear the guy’s thoughts. Mountain must stay in front of net.

Snickering to myself, I sit down again and kick my feet onto the coffee table. My sister asked me the other day if I was jealous, if I regretted passing up the chance to have my own shot, and it was easy to say no. I can’t lie—my poor bank account could have used the signing bonus. But if I’d gone to Detroit (where last year’s goaltenders look as solid in their jobs as they always have) I would have missed being a part of this.

That’swhat I’d regret.

I watch the rest of the game with my heart in my mouth, wondering if Wes’s lead will stand. And those last fifteen minutes of play are exciting. Good thing I don’t have a heart condition, because Chicago answers with their own goal, and Toronto pulls a penalty. I nearly die of stress while Wes’s team kills the penalty. In the last two minutes Eriksson scores, and they avoid an overtime situation. Toronto takes the game, 2-1.

Limp with relief, I collapse on the sofa. And now the real waiting begins. Wes will spend a solid hour or two with his teammates, his coaches and the press. Then, because it’s a short trip back to Toronto, the team jet will fly back tonight.

I spend some time tidying up our apartment. The kitchen is clean already because I did that earlier, so I open our mail and cringe at our heating bill. I pay for half of the utilities and a portion of our rent, though if it were up to Wes, he’d be paying for everything. I put my foot down when he suggested it, because I can’t live in this apartment and not contribute. Wes’s name might be on the lease, but this is my home too, damn it.

Wes’s giant suitcase is still beside the front door where he left it after his longer road trip. I have a little war with myself over whether to just leave it there or not. It seems petty to wash my stuff and leave his dirty. But I’m not quite sure what Wes thinks happens to his laundry when he leaves it in a suitcase or in a pile on our bedroom floor. He may actually believe there’s a laundry fairy that stops by once in a while to keep him in clean underwear.

Either way, it’s bugging me. So I give in and unzip the giant bag, pulling out piles of rumpled clothing. I deposit everything in the washer and start a load.

Then I go to bed, taking care to leave a light burning in the kitchen so that Wes can find his way to me.

When I wake up, there’s light escaping around the edges of our bedroom blinds. And there’s a muscled, naked man sleeping with one tattooed arm slung around my waist. I gingerly slide toward the edge of the bed, but the arm tightens its grip. “No,” Wes says sleepily.

“Let me take a leak,” I whisper.

“Come right back.”

“Deal.” On my way to the john I glance at his relaxed face. He may have been talking in his sleep just now, he looks so passed out.

After I do my thing and brush my teeth, I duck into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I’ve chugged half of it when I hear soft footsteps in the hall, and I turn to find Wes in the doorway, slowly stroking an ambitious-looking erection. His gaze tracks me across the room as I set the glass in the sink.

“You didn’t come right back,” he rasps.

“Thirsty,” I mumble. I’m distracted by the seductive motion of his hand on his dick. The blowjobs we exchanged the other night were too hurried. Satisfying, yes, but not enough. It’s been too long since we’ve had an entire night to ourselves. An entire night to tease and explore and drive each other wild.

“Why are you still wearing those?” Wes’s eyes gleam in the early morning light as he gestures to my boxers.

He’s got a point. My boxers drop to the tiled floor. “Why didn’t you wake me up when you got home?” I counter.

He grins. “You were deep under.” His voice is gravel, and just the familiar smoky sound of it gets my blood pumping. “And we have a whole week.” He says these last three words the way someone else might say ten million dollars. Wes probably already has ten million dollars. His family is rich, and he doesn’t give a damn. What he wants most is me. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t light me up. Wes is never stingy with his affection.

In fact, he’s reaching for me even now, pulling me in.

I press up against his hard body and smooth skin. As our groins make contact, my hardening dick says, where you been? Wes gives me a wicked grin and reaches between us to grasp my erection. “Hi,” I say with a grin of my own.

“Hi.”

“Nice goal last night.”

“You want to chat right now?” he growls. “Because I’d rather fuck you.”

“Chat later, then?”

Wes grabs the back of my head and hauls me in for a kiss. He grunts with satisfaction as our mouths collide. His kiss is rough. Hungry.

I take over the kiss, opening him up with my tongue. Wes groans, his forehead furrowed with concentration. I thrust against him, scraping our eager dicks together, and he grabs my hips as if forbidding me to do that yet.

“Bedroom?” I manage to choke out.

He releases my mouth and gives a shake of his head. “Too far away.”

The urgency on his face summons a laugh, but the sound dies in my throat when he suddenly drops to his knees and swallows my dick before I can blink.

Sweet Jesus.

My ass bumps the counter as Wes sucks me all the way to the root. His mouth is wet and hot and eager. My heart rate kicks up a million notches, pleasure gathering in my balls with each greedy suck and flick of his tongue. I love what he’s doing to me, but I hate that the base of my spine is already tingling. I’m close to coming, and that just illustrates how sex starved we’ve become with all our time apart. Usually I have more stamina, damn it. But these days my body is so excited at the rarity of having Wes around for more than five minutes that I explode the second he touches me.

“Don’t want to come yet,” I tell him, tightening my fingers in his hair.

His mouth releases me. With a low chuckle, he rises to his feet and runs his fingertips over my jawline, lightly stroking my beard. A shiver goes through me. This man…fuck, this man. He does me in with one touch. One heated look.

“Turn around,” he whispers. “Hands flat on the counter.”

I do what he asks, and a moment later a pair of strong hands cup my ass. He squeezes and I moan, instinctively thrusting my hips forward, only to smack my still-glistening dick on the cool, hard granite. My hand slides down to grip my erection and I slowly rub my thumb around the head as Wes continues to knead my ass cheeks. When his finger slides into my crease, I push back against the teasing caress, silently begging for more.

“I’ve missed this ass.” His breath tickles the nape of my neck, and then his tongue comes out for a taste, swirling over my feverish skin. “You don’t know how many times I jerked when we were on the road. How many times I got myself off to the thought of sliding my cock into this tight ass.” He rubs my opening with the tip of his finger, and the sensitive nerve endings there roar to life.

My dick leaks in my hand. Shit. I’m still close. Too close. I squeeze my cockhead hard enough to bring a sting of pain, trying to curb the release that’s threatening to spill over.

“You should’ve hit me up on Skype,” I say. “We could have jerked off together.” It’s something we’ve never tried.

That gets me a strangled moan. Oh yeah, he likes that idea. But I tuck the thought away. Right now, there’s no need to think up creative ways to fuck when we’re thousands of miles apart. Because we’re together. We’re here, in the flesh, able to fuck any way we want.

“Don’t move.” His rough command echoes in the dark kitchen. I hear his footsteps disappear into the hallway. I don’t move. Anticipation builds inside me, and my dick pulses in my hand, begging for Wes to return.

He’s not gone long. I hear a clicking noise, the unmistakable sound of a cap opening. He went to grab lube, and now his fingers are slick as he brings them back to my ass. His slippery hand torments me, sliding between my cheeks, rubbing over my balls. When he pushes one finger inside me, I simultaneously curse and sigh.

“So tight,” he grinds out. He slides in deeper and my muscles clamp around his finger. “You want my cock, Canning?”

“Yes.” I bear down harder on his finger. It’s not enough. I need more. I need his thick erection filling me, pushing against that sweet spot I never knew existed until last summer, when Ryan Wesley walked back into my life and showed me a new side of myself.

He adds another finger, stroking my channel and stretching me open until I’m burning up. Until my vision wavers and my brain stops working. “More,” I beg. It’s all I’m capable of saying. More. More, more, more. I’m begging and Wes is still depriving me of what I want. He’s grinding his erection against one of my ass cheeks as his fingers move inside me. His other hand reaches around my chest and glides downward, swatting my hand away so he can grab hold of my dick.

“Jesus,” I hiss when he starts pumping.

“You like this, babe? Me jerking your cock while I finger your ass?”

I mumble something incoherent in response, which makes him laugh. The husky sound warms the side of my neck, and then I jump when his teeth sink into my flesh. Holy shit, he’s driving me crazy. He soothes the sting with his tongue, licking the tendons of my neck, kissing his way down to my shoulder, biting that, too.

“You ready for me?” he whispers.

An anguished groan slips out. “So fucking ready.”

With another chuckle, he withdraws his fingers and my entire body sags in disappointment, mourning the loss, craving the pressure again. Wes doesn’t make me wait long—in a heartbeat, his tip prods my ass, and then his big, lubed-up cock slips through the ring of muscle and plunges inside.

We both groan. His hands clutch my hips, long fingers digging into my skin as he slowly pulls out, then slams back in again.

“Fucking hell, Canning, I fucking love you so fucking much.” He sounds like he’s struggling to breathe, and when half his vocabulary is reduced to F-bombs, that means Wes is barely hanging on to his control. But I love it when he loses control. I know I'm in for a wild ride and holy hell does he give it to me.

He pounds into me from behind, hips snapping, balls slapping my ass with each deep, desperate thrust. I sag forward, bent over the counter. My cock is harder than the granite beneath my palms. I want to stroke it but Wes is drilling me so hard that I need both hands to brace myself. He’s attuned to my needs, though, because he drops one hand from my waist and brings it to my impossibly hard dick. Then he angles his hips in a way that has him hitting my prostate each time he drives forward.

“Come for me,” he orders. “Come all over my hand, Jamie. Let me feel it.”

I shoot so fast it’s almost comical. All it takes is Wes’s gravelly command and I come with a wild cry, soaking his hand just as he wanted. As I shudder from the release, Wes growls, his thrusts growing more and more erratic. Unskilled, utterly frantic, until finally he drops his head on my shoulder and trembles behind me. I feel his release pulse inside me, and when he pulls out several moments later, my ass and thighs are sticky and we’re both quaking with laughter.

“That was…intense,” Wes says dryly.

I snort. “I think you just unloaded a gallon of jizz in me.” Not that I’m complaining. I love knowing that I have the power to turn Wes into a sex-crazed maniac. Even so, I still grumble a little as we spend the next five minutes cleaning up. My own release was equally uncontrollable, leaving behind several pearly drops on the counter and cabinet beneath it. I insist on scrubbing down the entire surface, while Wes teases me about having OCD.

“We eat on this thing, dude,” I remind him. “That’s not OCD, it’s basic cleanliness.”

He chuckles and continues scrubbing the floor with the rag and cleanser I hand him. “So what do you want to do tonight? Should we hit up that new restaurant Eriksson told me about?”

Toronto’s next home game is tomorrow, which means we actually have the entire day and night just for us. And Tuesdays happen to be half-price ticket night at all the theaters in the city. “Definitely,” I answer. “But we can go there after the movie. I don’t know how much longer it’ll be in theaters.”

“Oh shit, The Long Pass? Yeah, you’re right. We definitely need to see it tonight.” Remorse flickers in his expression, and I know he’s thinking about what happened the last time he had a night off. I’d been dying to see that damn movie, but so had Wes, and he made me promise not to go without him. Except when we finally had the opportunity to see it, Wes’s PR rep called him just as we were walking out the door and informed Wes that his presence was required at a last-minute press conference announcing a surprise trade in the organization. That was three weeks ago.

I don’t mention it, though, because I know he already feels like shit that he had to bail on our date night. “Okay, so how about we catch the seven o’clock show and then have a late dinner after?” I suggest.

“Sounds like a plan.” He grins at me. “So. Ready for round two? And then breakfast. We have to keep our strength up for the workout I’m giving you today and tonight.”

My gaze lowers to his crotch, and I raise a brow when I see the semi he’s sporting. “You’re a raging horndog this morning, huh?” But the sight of it has me hardening again, too, which only makes his grin widen.

“Pot, kettle, et cetera et cetera.” He steps forward and kisses me, then tugs me away from the counter.

Laughing, we leave the sparkling clean and semen-free kitchen and race toward our shower. For the first time in weeks, there’s a lightness in my chest. I just want to spend the entire day naked with my sex-crazed boyfriend.

But as I discover ten minutes later, you really can’t always get what you want.