Page 51 of Rookie Recovery

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,“ Bowie moaned, and shit, the slapping was getting faster, harder, his breaths coming quicker, louder. I couldn’t stop listening. I saw him, the way his hand must be sliding up and down, bringing him closer to the edge. I would come in my pants if he didn’t stop.

My fingers twitched towards my own throbbing dick.

“I’m so close,“ he groaned, the words breathy. What did his face look like? What expression would he wear when he came apart? Why did I want so badly to see it? “Oh fuck, Jamie.”

It was almost a shout. As he—

Cold water, Sullivan. Cold—fucking—water. Dead puppies. Ugly old ladies. A bucket of icy Gatorade poured over my head after the last division championship win …

My lungs heaved. My fingers clenched down on my thighs to resist the urge to wrap around my dick instead. It had gone quiet behind that door, but I was still picturing his hand on his cock, his head thrown back, jaw slack—

Shit, he was going to walk out. And I’d have to look at him. And he’d see how much he’d affected me. What the hell should I do?

The bathroom door handle turned. And I panicked. Shoved my hand down my pants to adjust myself in an attempt to hide the evidence. Crossed my legs, and fixed what was probably a very pained smile on my face.

Bowie stepped out.

His hair neat, pants—flat. Everything to rights. Except the massive grin stretched across his face as his eyes dipped down to my legs.

He didn’t speak.

Was it obvious? I never crossed my legs, and even after my attempted tucking, there was still too much to hide. What did I say now? Do? I obviously couldn’t stand up. Or move. Or speak. Or look at him.

What would a professional do? Well, for starters, a professional wouldn’t have given him a special massage. Or let him get hard. Or get me hard. Or sat and listened as he—literally yelled my fucking name. Fuck. I was so far over the line and into forbidden territory, I had no idea what to do.

“We’re done for today, Bowman,” I said, and I was fooling absolutely no one with that very cheery, very un-Serious Doctor Sullivan voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He kept his shit-eating smirk as he strode across the office and grabbed his shirt off the table. Tugged it over his head and winked as he passed. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then, Dr. Sullivan. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

I sat in silence in my office, listening to Bowie’s departing footsteps. Trying to figure out what the fuck I was supposed to do. Afraid to uncross my legs. Or move. Or, honestly, think. As soon as I started thinking, I’d start remembering …

Shit.

Nope. I needed to get out of here. Go back to my condo for a nice cold shower. Maybe take a long, long run. Clear my head. Do something that had nothing to do with Bowie or what had just happened. To me. That was still happening to me.

Yeah, I needed out.

I had no more appointments for today. Bowie was gone. Katie had likely headed home. The other guys were in the weight room or the showers. It was now or never; time to make a run for it.

Tuck my dick into my waistband—check. Uncomfortable as fuck, but done.

Shoulder my messenger bag and work it around to the front to cover my awkwardly arrayed pants—check. Not casual, but it covered enough.

Leave—check.

I barreled out, my pants way too tight, my dick still aching, my messenger bag rubbing in all the wrong places. I locked the office and half-ran down the hall. Did someone call my name? I didn’t care. Didn’t look back. Shoved through the front doors and out into the sticky September humidity.

I threw myself behind the wheel of the truck, started the engine. Didn’t even bother to survey the cars lurking in the parking lot, make note of who might have seen me fleeing the rink like my pants had caught fire.

Which, they sort of had.

None of it mattered. I needed to go home, get my head straightened out, my thoughts calmed and sorted. Figure out what to do next. I squirmed in my seat—still hard, still uncomfortable, still way, way too warm—as I pulled out of the lot and into low evening traffic.

I’d have to have a talk with Bowie.

That should’ve been a sobering thought, except the name conjured up images. Of his hand, pressing down on his pants. Dragging back up, outlining that long, thick shaft, the curve of the crown. Just for me, because he knew I was looking. His grin. The dark heat in his eyes. For me.

Words followed, in his soft, British voice. I’ll be thinking of you.

---