Page 86 of Breakneck Hockey

It fits him well, just a little too big for him, and that makes it all the more perfect. It’s not the one I wore for the game, that one smells like ass and needs washing.

“Whoa, hockey cowboy,” he says, pressing a hand on my chest to stop my attack.

“What do you want?” I’ll give him just about anything right now. He’s all riled up. Extra feisty from the game. That in and of itself turns me on so damn much. But him in my jersey, Sutter in bold font across the back of him?Fuck.

His chest rises, pulling in a lungful of air. “This smells like you.”

He doesn’t ask it like a question, but it’s a question. He wants to know why a clean jersey has so much of me on it. I wore it for a few days, knowing I’d have it on him tonight one way or the other. Now he smells like me. And, well, I was hoping he’d keep it. After what happened today with Milton, I need him to.

“Are you planning on stating the obvious all night?” I’ve stepped into him again, sucking my way up his sweet-tasting skin, planning where I’ll leave my marks on him this time. Definitely somewhere Milton will see them. That’s the last time he gets bossy with my Alderchuck like he did today.

Casey opens his neck for me. “It’s not obvious to me, Sutter. Except that … fuck it, never mind. I need you, too.”

Yeah, never mind because I can’t make sense of my obsession with Alderchuck either. I just know I need to have him.

I suck bruises along his collarbone, adding to the ones I left on him during the game. I inhale him, knowing full well just how crazy I am for being addicted to his scent. But it’s not just his scent anymore, it’s his mixed with mine, and that drives me wild.

Spinning him, I cage him face-first into the wall, pushing the jersey up, digging my fingers into his tender cheeks, the ones I spanked red. Prying them apart, I sink down and shove my tongue inside. Casey smashes the wall with his fist.

“Dammit, Sutter. That fucking tongue. Mmm.” He loses the ability to speak. Little sounds fall from his mouth, he spreads his legs wider for me. I suck and tease him into submission. All thechaotic energy that spins around him settles and he’s putty in my hands.

Or, against my tongue, I guess.

He pushes back. I spank his ass. He moans.

“Please don’t tease me tonight. Just fill me with your cock.”

It’s what I want too. All I want is to be in him. Claiming his ass like we’re animals. I rip open a condom and slide it on. I push lube into him, coaxing him open for me, but only just enough. I want him to feel my dick.

I slide in slow, letting him adjust, and then I pull back to ram inside him again.

“Yes. Yeah! Like that,” he says. “Give it to me, Su-Sutter.”

I admire my name printed across the back of him again while I fuck him, my number, forty-four, right there. It’s like I’ve stamped him with a big, fat, “this one belongs to me” logo.

Theslap, slap, slapof my hips smacking against his ass bounces off the walls. I slide in and out of his tight hole over and over again, pounding his prostate the way he likes it.

“I thought you were gonna kill Milton,” he says.

Thank you for reminding me. I redouble my efforts, spanking his ass some more, basically leaving “Sutter was here” signs all over his body. He uses his hands against the wall to brace himself, leaning forward, letting his head drop as I rail him from behind. He has a trembling assgasm around my cock, and I moan my way through a frantic orgasm.

I still haven’t had enough. There’s never enough of him. “Get on the bed, kitten.”

“Whaaa…?”

He doesn’t move fast enough, so I toss him, throwing him onto his back on the bed. I get to see him buried in my jersey, the copperhead snakes looking at me from atop crossed hockey sticks.

Yeah, we got him back boys.

Was I worried that he meant it this time? That he wouldn’t bend to my seductions? Only a little. We agreed to do this until the flavor wore off. Until we’d had our fill. I didn’t mean what I’d said at all, but I couldn’t swallow my damn pride and call him to apologize. Neither could he, though. We’re immature bastards who can’t say what we mean, but we also don’t mean what we say. Not when we’re pissed at each other. At least we seem to get our non-verbal cues and have a mutual, indefinite understanding. There may be hope for us yet.

“For the record, killing Milton crossed my mind, and if he ever does anything like what he did to you today again, a Vancouver-Boston final will be the least of his worries.”

He rolls his eyes. “How sweet. My Goddamn hero.”

I give his face a gentle slap. “Your owner. I fucking own you, Alderchuck.”

He moans.

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