I pull back a little, breath harsh against his jaw. “Spit it out,” I order, holding out my palm. “Now.” His dark eyes search mine—then he opens his mouth, spits the thick mess into my hand, a string of it connecting us for a second before it breaks. I smear it over his cock, roughly, stroking him hard and fast, my fist slick and tight. He falls apart for me, hips jerking up into my grip, mouth open, eyes glazed, hand scrabbling at the tile for leverage.
“Don’t fuck with me like that again.” My voice is gravel, raw from everything I’ve been holding back. I jerk him rough, fast, stroking him with so much aggression it’s almost violent. He bucks into my fist, body arching, desperate to chase it. He’spanting, throat exposed, lips bitten red. “Fuck, Jamie—I won’t, that feels so good—fuck—”
I squeeze tighter, thumb working the head, twisting my wrist. He’s falling apart, hips stuttering. “Yeah, that’s it,” I mutter, voice gone. “Come for me. Let everyone know who made you come.”
He comes hard, loud and messy, spilling over my fist, over himself, arching up off the floor. His whole body shaking with pleasure. I hold his stare the entire time.
Silence after, both of us spent, sweat cooling on bare skin. I collapse beside him, hearts hammering, side by side on the bathroom tile. I wipe my hand on his shirt and don’t care if he notices. He laughs, hoarse and spent, and the sound goes straight to my bones.
“Doesn’t change anything,” I say, voice wrecked, trying to sound convincing.
He grins up at the ceiling, ruined and proud.
“Sure. Keep saying that.”
He sits up, tucks himself in, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and pats my leg. Gives me one last smirk before he unlocks the door and vanishes. I stay there, the taste of him still in my mouth.
Chapter 33
Rhys
“Blake.”
Silence from the living room.
“Blake, I fucked up.”
More silence.
“Blake, I need you right now this is serious—”
A grunt. A shuffle. My door swings open and Blake appears in the frame looking like a man who was deeply asleep and is not happy about it, hair sideways, squinting at me with pure undiluted resentment.
“Well?”
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed clutching my pillow like a life raft. He just stands there and watches me. “Okay so.” I pick at a loose thread on the pillow. “You know how we talked about Jamie and how I was sort of planning to ruin his life in like a sexy, fun way?” Blake’s face does not move, so I take this as enthusiastic engagement and support.
“So first I blew him in the locker room and he came in my mouth — victory, obviously — but then he broke it off, which pissed me off, so I made him jealous, cornered him at the bar last night, and—” I hold up the side of my neck to show the hickeys, “—I came in his hand.” I pause for effect. “Who do you think is winning right now and why?”
Blake sits down on the edge of my bed. He has the expression of a man who made one wrong turn several weeks ago and hasbeen lost ever since. Like a divorced father raising three kids all alone. “Rhys,” he says, tentatively. “Sweetheart. I say this with love. Even though I am not involved in this and have been actively begging you to remove me from the daily updates chat—”
“I can’t do that, you’re my emergency contact and the only one who knows about us—”
“You’re both fucked.” He says it simply. Clinically. Like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. “You supposedly hate each other. And you keep—” he pauses, visibly steeling himself, “—coming all over each other.” He grimaces. “That was hard to say.”
“Interesting. Continue.”
“Maybe.” He looks at me sincerely. “And I’m just throwing this out there. Maybe you don’t actually hate each other?”
I scoff. Because that is the most ridiculous thing Blake has ever said. Jamie Nash has hated me since the moment I set foot on the ice. He has been hostile and controlling and insufferable from day one, which made me want to get under his skin, which made him hate me more, which is a perfectly self-sustaining cycle that has absolutely nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with the fact that we are two incompatible people constantly forced into close proximity.
I hate him because he hates me. That’s the whole thing.
Blake watches me work through it and says nothing because he has known me enough to know when I’m about to talk myself into a corner. “Maybe,” he says carefully, “you should talk to him. Not fight. Not whatever else you two are doing. Actually talk.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
