Page 23 of Two for Roughing

Denisov kissed him then, and it blew every kiss Kilian had had since their hotel room hookup out of the water. One big hand cradled the base of Kilian’s skull while the other grasped his hip firmly. His lips were insistent, his body immovable, and Kilian could do nothing but give himself up to it. Kilian’s eyes fluttered closed, his mouth dropped open, and, oh, there was Denisov’s tongue moving slick and hot against his own.

Dimly, Kilian knew he ought to do something. Touch Denisov, maybe. Help him get undressed. But it was all Kilian could do to return the kiss and clutch at the countertop.

For a blissful moment, he didn’t think of the mess he’d made of the game or the mess he’d made of the team, of his friendships with Tom and Jax and Luca and Breezy.

Of course, the second Kilian realized how nice it was to forget, it all came screaming back, and he tensed up out of the pleasant haze Denisov had put him in.

“What?” Denisov asked against his lips.

“You’re not mad?”

Denisov pulled away, still caging Kilian in but no longer pressing their bodies together. “Why would I be mad?”

“I was such a dick during the game. I kept chirping you—”

“You told me my hair looks like shit. It does. I haven’t been to see my barber since the season started.”

“But—”

“Howard, who was dogging whom in the first period?”

“Heh. Dogging.”

Denisov’s grip on Kilian’s hips went tight, and he pushed himself into Kilian’s space. “Howard.”

“You were,” Kilian admitted.

“And who broke your goalie?”

“I was in the crease.”

“I was the one shooting pucks at him.”

Kilian sighed and knocked his head against Denisov’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“I’m not mad. Are you?”

“No, of course not.”

Denisov kissed him again, sharp and hard like the edges of his smile. “Good. I believe we had plans.”

Then he sank to his knees right there on the kitchen floor.

God, Kilian hadn’t mopped it a single time since moving in. He also hadn’t done any cooking, so it couldn’t be too gross, but—

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by Denisov opening Kilian’s pants, tugging them roughly down around his ankles along with his boxers, and wrapping his plump, plush lips around Kilian’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Kilian said, half shock and half pleasure.

Denisov gave no quarter. He sank down and down and down on Kilian’s dick until his nose was in the pubic hair at the base and his throat fluttered around the head. His beard scratched against the sensitive skin of Kilian’s thighs. The breath raced out of Kilian’s lungs in short, shocky bursts.

Before this, Kilian had been vaguely aroused in the way he usually was when the possibility of having sex at some point soon appeared on the horizon. Having Denisov’s mouth on him drove him from zero to sixty in seconds, hard and aching so fast he got dizzy with it.

Denisov either didn’t have a gag reflex or he didn’t care when it was triggered because his throat kept clenching around the head of Kilian’s dick.

Kilian’s balls drew up. The blood rushed in his ears.

Spit dripped from Denisov’s lips and ran down Kilian’s shaft.