Can I call it cute? I’m not sure. It would definitely be a weird-ass version of cute. But there’s no fucking way Tate would let anyone see me like this. If they did, even by accident, he’d rip out their bones while they were still alive and beat them to death with them.
Call it a hunch.
And if by some chance it’s his exception—maybe exhibitionism is a kink of his?—I like the rush it’s giving me. It’s not so much the exhibitionism for me, though. It’s the control, which I don’t fucking get. I want freedom; Tate wants to be my prison. But when those tendrils of his possession wrap around me, when I feel like I belong to him, I crave more. I want to please him. I want to be his in every way possible.
Fuck. Does that make me pathetic? Is that all I am? Sad, broken boy, just wanting to find someone to please?
“Spread your legs wider. I want you on display.”
I spread without a thought, but it means arching back. The position moves my head to the crook of his neck, and my hands climb the back of his skull. I’m trying to figure out what kind of touching is okay.
His hand moves faster, and I writhe and moan on his lap. “Please.Please.” There’s no one down there, but I imagine it, me exposed, his hand around my dick, stroking it, a whole crowd watching. I squeeze my ass cheeks, straining. I become a symphony of raw chants and pleading moans, and a shiver of embarrassment works its way through me. This is what they’d see. Me, needy, writhing.
“That’s it, dollface. Come apart for me.”
That’s what finally does it. It’s up, up, up, and over that edge. My orgasm pours forth, and for two whole heartbeats, I don’t breathe. Tate continues to milk my cock as I move my hips in time with his strokes. They’re slow now, dragging the orgasm out as long as possible. He paints a trail of my own cum over my abs, along my neck, shoving his thick fingers into my mouth. A salty flavor bursts over my taste buds. I swirl my tongue, swallowing everything he gives me.
I collapse against him, my chest rising and falling. He gives me a minute, but I know we’re on a tight clock. My eyes scan to my phone, where I left it on his desk. I set an alarm, knowing things might get carried away, it will probably go off any minute.
Moving to stand does me no good. Tate traps me with his arm. “Tate, I have to get going.”
There’s a huff, but he moves his arm. I stand and do up my pants. Do I look ravaged? I feel ravaged. The outline of his cock is noticeable through his pants. God, it’s so big. “Um, sorry about that.”
“I’m not. We play North Point in the exhibition game next weekend. That’s when you’ll make it up to me.”
He’s so cocky, it’s hard not to roll my eyes.
With only thirty minutes, I knew this could only be some form of a booty call. But there’s so much to talk about. I might have to dive into his marriage proposal without all the info. I don’t know if I can watch another day with that mask on Griff’sface. But I’m trying to shove panic aside and be smart. What they’re doing to Griff is awful, but he’s not in immediate danger—yet. It just feels like he is.
Tate stands. He towers over me, which is something. I’m six feet tall. I think he’s only actually five or so inches taller, but it feels like more at his size. What do they feed VanCourts? He runs a gentle thumb over one of the bruises on my cheek, and his facial features tighten. He’s pissed. Not at me, but the rage is burning in his eyes. Don’t think there’s much I can do about that.
“Maybe I’ll give you my ass as a consolation prize when you lose,” I say, seeing if he’s teasable. I need to know if there’s a human in there somewhere, because it’s hard to tell. It’s as if he only has a few modes: Anger, protection, scheming, and arousal. If he’s not busy doing those four things, he’s like stone. Always dark and serious. Does he even laugh? Joke around? What would it be like being married to stone?
“I have McKinnon.”
I frown. That didn’t go where I thought it would. Is he a fucking robot? Or did I fail to give off enough playful inflection? Still, how fucking offensive. McKinnon isn’t better than me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’ll win the game, even if I blindfold him and tie his hands behind his back.”
“Why do I feel the need to remind you that hockey is a team sport?” I try not to let the jealousy show, but I’m fucking jealous. Does he think McKinnon’s better than me?
“No one needs a team when they have McKinnon.”
It’s childish and fucking stupid, but that pisses me off. He asked me to marry him, and I’m what? Second best? Fuck, am I even second best? I thought … what did I think? That he needed to have me,hadto have me, so he picked me out of everyone? The marriage is attached to some scheme; one he won’t even tell me about. It’s not real. All his possessive and protective,beast-like behavior is because he can’t stand sharing. If he owns something, it’s his, and no one else gets to touch. I’d be nothing but a “pretty” prize, because somehow, he thinks I’m pretty, even with a missing tooth.
“Why don’t you marry McKinnon, then? Sounds like you’d be very happy together.”
I spin away from him, but he catches me, caging me against his body. “I don’t want McKinnon.”
“He’s just a better hockey player than me.” I fight, but it’s useless. How is he so strong?
“I’d tell you not to be jealous, but I like it when you get jealous,” he breathes into my ear. And fuck me, I’m trapped, not by his way-too-strong muscles either.
You cannot fall for Tate VanCourt, Ryan.
I haven’t. This is lust-based. And I wanna feel like I can trust him enough to follow through. My phone alarm goes off, the annoying sound rattling my bones. I don’t want to leave his arms. It’s safe here. Finally, a place to rest. To breathe. I feel so many things when I’m with him that don’t make any fucking sense.
“I have to go.” That’s non-negotiable. We have to get back to campus before curfew. As is, we’ll have to drive like maniacs to make it in time. I can’t waste a minute.
