Page 85 of Breakneck Hockey

“My odds were good.” I still haven’t let him go, but I drop the knife from his throat. “Mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing?”

“You don’t pay attention. What if some crazy person was out here?”

“The only crazy person out here is you.” He sinks into me further, rubbing himself against me. My lips are right by his neck. I need a taste. Just a little pre-game snack. I lick and suck. He moans. “God, Sutter. Don’t stop.”

But I need to until I get him upstairs. I’m not gonna risk fucking Milton filming us again. What a pervert. “C’mon.”

Inside my apartment, I lock all six of the door locks and peek out the peephole for good measure.

“You do that a lot,” he says. “Even before this whole Boston-Vancouver drama. Do you really need that many locks?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked me that, and I usually ignore him when he does. It’s the perfect segue into telling him why I need that many locks, it’s the perfect segue into giving himanother piece of me. But I end up hesitating so long, debating if I should tell him, that no answer at all seems better.

“Yes. Shoes,” I tell him, pointing at his feet. He’s wearing a pair of high-top runners, and sweats. He’s still got the bandana, but it’s tied around his head, trapping his tumble of curls inside. He’s also wearing that dirty white hat, the one that’s glued to him when he’s not on the ice.

I steal it and place it backward on my head. I don’t know why I do it. I doubt this thing’s ever been washed, probably infested with his kitten fleas.

“I guess I can let you wear my hat since you let me wear your bandana,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “But that’s coming home with me tonight.”

When he’s de-shoed, I step into his space, resting my hands on his hips. “Do you have a knife?”

“Oh, God. What did I trigger?”

“Nothing. You need something for protection.”

“I’m pretty good with my fists, Sutter. Just ask your nose.” He cackles.

I back him into the wall, slamming a hand by his head. “Why won’t you take this seriously?”

He glances from me to all the locks on my doors. Something clicks for him.

“Okay, if it means that much to you. You alright?” I watch the way his neck moves as he takes hesitant breaths.

“I’m fine.” But shaking off the fear that crept into me’s gonna require my dick in him. That’s the cure to all my problems. “Get your ass in my bedroom.”

“Wait.” He seizes the waistband of my sweats. “Thanks for earlier. I was kinda panicking, I guess. It was nice to have you on my side for once.”

I shake my head. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I’ll never be on your side on the ice, Sutter.” He smacks my face and takes off for the bedroom.

The brat hasn’t been spanked in a while. Is that what he needs? I know I’d like nothing more than to teach his mouthy ass a lesson.

“You just made my palm itchy, Alderchuck!”

Ispank him good. Till he’s red with my handprints overlapping multiple times. I spank him till he cries and then I stand him up. Time to fuck the brat out of him. It’ll come back—it always does with Casey—but we’ll have a few moments of serenity.

“Here.” I toss my jersey at him.

He groans. “I thought you forgot,” he says, staring at it like I’ve just handed him a biological weapon.

“Forget how bodaciously Boston beat Vancouver to dust tonight? Never. Put it on.”

“No one uses words like bodaciously anymore,” he mutters as he slides into the thing. “Nineteen eighty-four called, they want their word back.”

I shrug. “My mom’s a Gen-Xer.” Yet another reason I don’t fuck with her. But I’m lost for words. Shit. Why didn’t I do this sooner? Alderchuck in my jersey—just my jersey—does things to my insides.

Mine. All mine. I own your ass, kitten

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