Page 52 of Game Misconduct

Danny didn’t know what he wanted to do first. They had all day for once, and maybe if he distracted Mike long enough, thoroughly enough, he could get out of—no, that wasn’t what he should be thinking about. Not now. He leaned over Mike, whose eyes were open now, watching him warily, and said, “I’m going to blow you and we’re not going to be even today.”

“No?” Mike asked, his voice jumping a little higher.

Danny didn’t answer, just leaned forward and pressed one hand hard against Mike’s hip, kept the other on his dick. Mike was squirming a little, with anticipation, but he stilled when Danny said, “Shh, stop moving, stay still,” and slid his lips around Mike’s dick.

“Danny,”he groaned, and he was already trembling when Danny started to move.

Danny’s mouth and eyes and head were full of him. He couldn’t see anything else, couldn’t think about anything else. He wanted—needed—to make this something that Mike would remember, no matter what happened after, no matter how far Mike would run when he inevitably figured out what the fuck was going on with Danny’s life. He needed Mike to think of him one day when he wasn’t there anymore, because that was inevitable, needed him to feel Danny’s hands on him like a brand.

Mike’s hand twisted in Danny’s hair. “Danny, you okay?”

Danny pulled away. “What? I’m fine.”

Mike, on his back, frowned up at him. “For a minute you just looked—I don’t know.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever known who’d argue while getting a blowjob.”

“Well...you know me.”

“Yes,” Danny said, full of that horrible, melancholy fondness again, “I do.” And he went back down.

By the time he was finished, Mike was a groaning, panting mess, incapable of coherency, and he probably would have punched himself thrashing around if Danny hadn’t grabbed both of his wrists in an iron grip and held them down against the mattress. As it was, he almost choked Danny when he came, thrusting up with a sobbing cry, his entire body struggling mindlessly against the weight of Danny’s hands and knees pinning his arms and legs down.

Danny wiped the spit from his mouth and chin and watched Mike trying to recover from it, mouth slack and fists clenching and chest heaving, and thought,goddamn.

“Here, let me,” Mike said, reaching for Danny’s dick.

“No,” Danny said, catching his hand, “that’s not how this is gonna go today.”

Mike’s eyes were so dark and so warm and he stretched his thumb forward to rub it against Danny’s forearm where it still gripped his wrist. “How’s—how’s it gonna go?”

Danny didn’t answer him immediately, just took the time to enjoy looking at him.

“Danny—how’s it gonnago?”

“Impatient,” Danny said, teasing. “That’s not gonna work for you.”

How it went was Danny shoved Mike over onto his stomach, his face pressed into the pillows, and just didn’t do anything to him. He left his hand on Mike’s lower back, pressing him down just enough to indicate he should stay. The silence in the room was loaded and although Mike hadn’t said anything, he was tense and almost screaming with nerves. But he wasn’t moving, and Danny pressed his thumb down harder.

“Danny, what are you...”

“Shh,” he said, distracted, thinking about all of the ways he wanted to touch Mike, all of the things he could do to him now that he had the time and the space. At first, he just looked.

Mike was on the small side for a defenseman, probably twenty-five pounds below average, but the muscle he’d worked so hard to pack on was impressive, and so were his surprisingly broad shoulders. There wasn’t an ounce of extra body fat and with every small movement, Danny could study the shift of muscle beneath his skin. He knew exactly what Mike could do on the ice despite his size.

He ran his hand down Mike’s back again, tracing the line from shoulder blades to his waist to his ass, which was also tattooed as part of a larger piece that went up his lower back and wrapped around the side of his ribs, a knight fighting a lion that had dragged him down from his horse, mauling him with his claws.

“Danny...”

In response Danny slapped him hard enough on the ass that the sound of his hand almost echoed in the room. Mike made a choked-off noise of surprise, but didn’t cry out and didn’t pull away, so Danny hit him again on the back of his thigh. Mike’s breath hissed out but still, he didn’t move.

So Danny kept hitting him, keeping his hands moving at first, arousal roiling in his stomach at the way Mike tensed in on himself every time, absorbing the shock of it, instead of pulling away. Danny started searching for the places he’d been bruised during games and targeting them specifically, three times, four times, over and over, until Mike, who had his head buried half under the pillow, took a great, heaving breath and exhaled with a whimper, like the noises had been dragged from him involuntarily.

Danny soothed his hand over a bruise on Mike’s shoulder blade before he hit it even harder, the blow falling with all the force he could muster, and Mike cried out, his entire body rocking up like he didn’t know if he was trying to get away or lean into the touch.

“Jesus, Danny,” he managed, shivering every time Danny touched him, whether it was to stroke him or slap him. “God—please—”

“Please what? Should I stop?”

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