Page 40 of Home Ice Advantage

Ryan just had to move on to the next one the same way he always did. This would be Anaheim, which should have been agimme. There weren’t any sure things in this league, though: even the lowliest team in the standings could defeat a Cup champion, given the right bounces. There would be time to go over video with the team before the game, the specific small things they would need to tighten up, the things that Ryan had studied in Anaheim’s play that would be easy to exploit.

Meanwhile, by the time he got back to the hotel, he was exhausted, but too amped up to sleep. He could feel the anticipation shiver through him, knowing that Aronson was probably going to open the door if Ryan knocked.

Aronson did, one eyebrow raised. Even without his glasses to emphasize how high the eyebrow had gone, it was still a ridiculously sardonic expression. He was already stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, and Ryan, for some reason, couldn’t stop staring at the dark curls of hair visible over the neckline. It was especially difficult now that Ryan knew what it felt like, soft under his fingers.

“Can I help you, Sullivan?”

Even now, it felt ridiculous to say it out loud, but he was tired enough that he didn’t want to beat around the bush or play games. “Fuck me. I mean, you should, that is. Fuck me.”

Aronson looked at him for a long, silent moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to smile or frown. It was funny, how they’d gotten physical in a moment of anger, but once they’d actually started doing this regularly, it was like Aronson couldn’t keep up the pretense for real. He’d say one thing and his body would say something completely different. Ryan wasn’t sure what he actually felt about all of it, but at least Aronson wasn’t unwilling, anyway.

Aronson took a step back from the door and flourished an equally sarcastic gesture at the bed, and Ryan stepped over the threshold and into the room proper, chin lifted. Aronson wouldn’t embarrasshimout of this.

“That an order?” Aronson asked.

“What do you think?” Ryan said, stripping off his shirt.

Aronson followed him into the room proper, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?”

“What do you mean?” Ryan demanded, kicking off his pants.

“Just...everything about you,” Aronson said, almost a little bemused, as he stepped into Ryan’s space and pushed him back toward the bed.

Ryan let him do it, fell back against the duvet without much of a protest, Aronson crouched over him. Ryan looked up at him, searching over his face: the dark brown eyes, the full mouth that could so easily turn Ryan into a quivering mess, the shadowed hint of a beard, the sharp jaw and stubborn chin. Aronson’s face was all angles, and Ryan had the irresistible urge to touch it. There was nothing to stop him, so he did, fingers brushing over Aronson’s stubbled jaw.

“I’m tired,” Ryan said. “Make it quick.”

Aronson made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Jesus, you’re bossy tonight.”

“I’mtired,” Ryan reminded him, “and I still have to go back to my own room after this, you know.”

Aronson’s mouth did that little twitchy motion again, like he wasn’t sure how annoyed he actually was. He didn’t say anything right away, just took Ryan’s dick in his hand, and said, “Well, you better get it up, then, old man.”

It was pretty embarrassing how fast Ryan’s body obliged, and he could feel the hot flush of excited shame in his cheeks and ears. Even when they were rushing through the preamble of sex, Ryan still marveled at how different it felt from the last few times he’d slept with Shannon. They had felt emotionless and distant. This was anything but. Every small touch of Aronson’s fingers on his skin, every grip of Aronson’s hands on his biceps or hip, felt new and revelatory. Every dig of Aronson’s teeth against his lower lip was something Ryan wanted to study and commit to memory.

Ryan urged him on, and Aronson obliged, hands rough on Ryan’s skin, fingers rough in Ryan’s body. It was different than it had been the first time, when Aronson had been so fucking determined to treat him nicely even though it was the opposite of what Ryan wanted. It was like now that Aronson knew Ryan could handle it, he was trying to test Ryan’s limits instead. To see when he’d saystopor if he’d tap out.

Well, the joke was on him, because Ryan fucking loved all of it.

“Come on,” Ryan managed, voice strained. It was really too fast, what they were doing, and it hurt, and Ryan didn’t care about that one fucking bit.“Fuck me.”

Aronson, somehow, managed to look skeptical. He was on his knees, crouched above Ryan’s body, two big fingers in Ryan’s ass. It felt incredible; it felt like too much. “Fuck you? You barely seem like you can handle this.”

“I want to see what it feels like,” Ryan said, fingers wrapped around Aronson’s free arm just in case he decided to pull away. “Before I’m really ready.”

“I’ve asked this before and I’ll ask this again: Sullivan, what iswrongwith you?”

“Nothing,” Ryan panted. “I’m just competitive. You know this.”

Aronson’s mouth twitched again but he didn’t answer, just leaned down to kiss Ryan again, twisting his fingers. For a long moment Ryan couldn’t speak at all, and when he did, it was half phrases and unfinished sentences, ragged and wanting: “Come on, come on, come on, do it, please—”

In the end Aronson had to compromise. It wasn’t as slow as he seemed to want but it also wasn’t as fast as Ryan wanted. They were trapped in a close, humid limbo, a tangle of limbs and lips and teeth. It still felt electric, and Ryan was sweating with the effort of taking it, trying to breathe through it, trying to relax. Aronson pushing inch by steady inch, filling him.

It was strange, how a month ago Ryan would never in his wildest imagination have guessed he’d be in this position. On his back, wrists pinned down to the pillow, stuck on the knife’s edge between pain and pleasure. Equally strange how much he just did not fuckingcareabout anything except how good it was going to feel, once he could convince Aronson that he wasn’t made of glass.

“Insane,” Aronson mumbled into his mouth, “like you want a good grade in fucking. Where the hell did you come from?”

Ryan thought about telling him,from Southie, what did you think, but he was too busy shifting back against Aronson’s body, trying to force him to go deeper. Move faster. He thought that maybe Aronson was going to say something again, but they’d fallen into the rhythm of it now, and the only sound in the room was skin on skin and uneven breaths.

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