"Say it."
"Ugh, fuck, Rhys — please."
We've been dancing around this for weeks and I'm losing the small restraint I have when he says my name all breathy like that. When he sounds wrecked already and I haven't even started.
"Admit you never want me to stop," I challenge again, my grip tightening on his thigh as I pull him closer. His hips shift toward me without thinking, seeking friction, and I feel the shape of him pressed against me.
He closes the inch between us like it's nothing and I fucking surrender immediately, because it was Jamie who finally made a move. Our mouths collide, hard, demanding. No gentle teasing, just raw unfiltered need. I taste him, bitter and sweet, and feel his hands clutch my shoulders, pulling me in deeper. His tongue slides against mine and I groan into his mouth, already too far gone. Needing more.
I let my hand roam freely under his shorts, sliding beneath the waistband, wrapping around him fully while he moans inmy ear. He's already wet at the tip, slick and hot, so I use it to tease him. Thumb circling, spreading that wetness down his shaft. Jamie gasps against my mouth, and the sound sends a jolt straight to my dick, way too hard already from the noises Jamie’s making.
"I want you to come right in my hand, Captain," I growl, thumb flicking over the head in slow, deliberate strokes. It's a command and a promise. "Want to feel you lose it. Want to watch you come just for me." He doesn't answer, just keeps moaning, head tossing back, eyes shutting tight as I pick up the pace and stroke him harder. Faster. My grip is tight, almost too tight, and he fucking loves it— hips bucking into my fist, chasing more.
Every jerk, every flick brings him closer to the edge and I am not holding back. I need to see Jamie's eyes on me right when he comes. Need to feel him hot and sticky in my hand, marking me. His hips buck against my hand, desperate for more, for release. Moving on their own. And only I can give it to him. He's completely mine right now—openly begging.
I bite his shoulder, hard enough to mark but not hard enough to break skin. He shudders, cock twitching in my grip. Jamie doesn't say a word. He can't. Not with the way his body trembles, not with the way he's falling apart for me. His breathing is uneven, chest heaving, and I can feel him getting closer, tighter, harder,almostthere.
"Come for me now, baby."
That's all he needed. When he finally comes, his moan is raw and broken, spilling hot and heavy onto my palm, soaking through his underwear. His whole body shudders through it, hips jerking helplessly as I stroke him through it, milking every last drop. I don't stop. I keep my hand on him, feeling him shake, feeling him come down slow while he pants against my shoulder. His cock is still hard in my grip, oversensitive now, and he whines when I give him one last slow stroke.
"Fuck," he breathes, wrecked. "Fuck, Rhys—"
“That’s so good. You’re perfect. Good job, keep going.” I praise him and hold him through the end of his release, pulling back my hand, a mess. We’re both left panting, breathless. Our eyes meet, heavy, with tension still in the air. The tape keeps playing, but neither of us cares about hockey right now. I barely catch my breath before Jamie’s eyes lock onto mine with a new kind of fire and he lunges at me.
"My turn," he says, deadly serious. Then he's sliding down, positioning himself between my legs. His hands grip my thighs hard, spreading me wide without asking. Like he already knows I'll let him. That breath of his on my bare skin makes me shiver with how bad I need to feel his mouth on me.
He slowly takes me out of the confines of my shorts and his mouth wraps around me before I even have time to think. Lips tight and wet, tongue flicking fast and sure against the underside, right where it makes my vision blur. Jesus fucking Christ, Jamie Nash knows how to suck dick. It's brutal and skilled, like he's been waiting for this moment as long as I have, as if he's thought about exactly how he'd suck me off.
I'm gripping the chair so tight my knuckles hurt, hips pushing into his mouth, needy for more. Chasing the heat of him, the wet slide of his tongue. He takes it—lets me fuck up into his mouth while his hands keep my thighs pinned open. Those hands roam over my thighs, squeezing and kneading, pulling me deeper and deeper into his warm mouth. Throat working, swallowing around me, and the sound he makes—fuck, the vibration—goes straight to my spine.
I look down at him and it's like a punch to the gut—raw and real and fucking intense. His green eyes are dark, fixed on mine, and I can see exactly what this is doing to him. The way he's hard again, grinding against the chair like he can't help it. "Say it," he demands, pulling off enough to speak. His lips are swollen, wet and pink. He licks them slowly, deliberately, and I groan. "Jamie, please—" I gasp.
"Sir," he corrects, biting the word out in between bobbing back down. Taking me to the root in one smooth motion, nose pressed to my groin, throat tight around me.
"Sir," I cry out, voice rough and trembling. Broken. "Fuck, sir, please, make me come." He takes me even deeper, throat pulsing around me, mouth moving with a possessiveness that makes my head spin. His hand wraps around what he can't fit, stroking in time with his mouth, and the dual sensation is too much. Too fucking much. I'm gone, lost in the heat and wetness, every flick of his tongue sending fire throughout my body, deep in my groin. Coiling tight, building fast, and I can feel it coming—inevitable, unstoppable.
"Gonna—fuck Jamie, I'm gonna—" I try to warn him, hand flying to his hair, gripping tight. He doesn't pull off. Just hums around me, the tremor tearing a ragged sound from my throat, and his hand speeds up, grip perfect, pressure exactly right. Looking at Jamie, sucking my dick like he needs it, is too much.
I can't hold back. I shudder and spill into his mouth, without warning, gasping and trembling as my orgasm crashes through me. Pulse after pulse, he swallows around me, throat working, sucking me dry while I break apart above him. He doesn't stop, never slowing, never letting go until I'm literally falling apart in his hands and half off the seat. Whimpering, oversensitive, trying to pull away but he chases me, tongue soft now, gentle, cleaning me with long slow licks that make me jerk and gasp.
When he finally pulls away, I'm left a puddle of nothing, completely spent. Thighs trembling, chest heaving, fully wrecked. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at me with dark, satisfied eyes, and I know—I fucking know—I'm in trouble with this one.
Chapter 41
Rhys
There's a real possibility we play Eldridge if we win the next game. I found out last night. Haven't slept. Haven't eaten. Have been lying in bed staring at the ceiling like if I look at it long enough it'll give me an answer about what to do with the fact that Marcus Hale might be standing on the same ice as me within the next two weeks.
The memories don't come in order. They never do. Just pieces. The blue light. His hands in my hair.I love youandI think we can make this work.And then the door opening. His hands letting me go immediately like I burned him. The slam. The way he looked through me after. Every single day.
I drag myself out of bed and drive myself to the rink because that's what I do. I show up. I always show up for Jamie. Even when every part of me wants to stay under the covers until the schedule changes. Even when part of me wants to throw the next game so I can just get rid of the problem.
I turn down the corridor and Jamie is already there. Center ice. Fully geared up. Moving through a solo drill in that unhurried focused way he has when he thinks nobody's watching — like the ice belongs to him and he's just letting the rest of us borrow it. He sees me come through the tunnel and stops.
There's a hint of a smile on his face. The kind I've been collecting without meaning to and definitely without plans to stop. This thing between us that's been wildfire since September — all heat and damage and nobody coming out clean — settlinginto something else recently. Something more peaceful. Something that feels less like surviving each other and more like choosing each other. Less like taking and more like giving.
He’s not running away this time.
