Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Why the fuck have you not had sex for a year?”
“Really want to get into that right now?” I ask, holding up the lube.
“We’re so coming back to this later.”
I’ll have to come up with another way to distract him from asking that again, because no way in hell am I admitting that since meeting him no one else has even interested me. And before that, I was already in a slump.
As I squirt lube into my hand, I feel his stare on me, and I become a little self-conscious. “If we’re supposed to pretend like the other one of us isn’t here, you’re gonna have to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, innocently.
“Like you want to tear me apart.”
“I’d much prefer you tear me apart.”
I snort. Ollie’s a bottom. Still can’t get over it. It’s not like I haven’t topped before, but when I have, I’ve been too self-conscious about making it good for them, and I can never last long. Bottoming, I can let myself go.
Ollie kicks off the blankets, and miles of mouthwatering muscles lay two feet from me, and I can’t tear my eyes away. If I thought he felt big while we rubbed against each other last week, it’s nothing to seeing how awesomely huge and pretty his dick is. I don’t even know if it’s possible to have a pretty dick, but Ollie does. Thick, veiny, and uncut.
“If we’re supposed to pretend like the other one of us isn’t here, you’re gonna have to stop looking at my cock,” he mimics but in a much higher voice. I want to dispute that’s not at all how I sound, but that doesn’t come out of my mouth.
“I can’t help it,” I blurt instead.
“Shame we can’t hook up then.”
We can’t. We really can’t.
“I mean, really, if we’re looking at each other, it’s the equivalent of watching porn,” I say, trying to rationalize my blatant worshiping of his cock.
“Yay, more technicalities,” Ollie says, as I watch him lazily stroke his long, hard, gorgeous length.
“So long as I don’t have to break out the clown makeup for you, it’ll be fine.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t last long as he watches me grip the base of my shaft and squeeze a little too hard. It’s not going to take long to send me over the edge, and this is supposed to be about getting off, but I want to make it last.
Ollie breathes heavy beside me, his teeth gritted, and if I had to guess, he’s trying to hold back from moaning too loudly. His strokes slowly increase in pace, and a pearly drop of precum drips down the side.
I want to lick it. God, I want to lick him. All over.
I shudder and start a punishing pace on my cock. Tightening my ass muscles, I thrust up into my hand over and over again, never once taking my eyes off Ollie.
“I wanna touch you so bad,” Ollie whispers. “I won’t, but fuck, I want to.” Ollie lifts his legs and moves his lube-slicked hand down to his balls and farther down while the other one takes over pumping his cock.
“Wait, are you—” I make the mistake of giving him eye contact.
His eyelids are hooded, his mouth parted slightly. The look of lust is almost enough to have me coming.
“Am I what?” he taunts. “Playing with my ass? Is that what you wanted to ask?”
I nod.
“Flip around and see for yourself.”
I hesitate.
“Just like watching porn, remember?” he reminds me.
As soon as I maneuver myself on the bed and get full sight of Ollie two fingers deep inside his own ass, I can’t hold back anymore.
The grunt that escapes me as I shoot all over myself has me biting my knuckles on my free hand to prevent it from turning into a shout.
Ollie’s large fingers disappear all the way inside him and stay lodged in there, no doubt pressing against his prostate. He strokes his cock faster until ropes of cum land on his impressive abs. Some reaches his tats, and I had no idea how hot cum-covered tattoos could be. We both sink against the mattress.
“Best live porn ever,” Ollie says.
“Fuck yes.”
Chapter Thirteen
OLLIE
Lennon might be going back to Chicago. Yet another sucky thing about losing last night, although, that’s not the worst of it. The worst is that I thought I was getting somewhere. This year wasn’t my first playoffs, but it’s the first year I imagined winning it and holding that cup over my head and believed it was a possibility. Recently the fantasy also included me coming out and telling the world that being gay doesn’t affect playing hockey. Idealistic, maybe, and complete bullshit that I need to win the Stanley Cup before feeling worthy, but that’s how it is.
Lennon’s relaxed face sleeping next to me gives me the kind of optimism I want to hold onto—something I never really had with Ash.