Page 76 of Goalie Lessons

I close my eyes and focus on what I’m doing—one hand wrapped around the base of him, working what I can’t reach with my mouth, the other splayed out on his thigh for support. His skin is warm under my fingers, his body feeling entirely different from my own.

If I wanted to keep up a facade, I could try and coach him through the blow job. But, if I’m being honest, I don’t want him to act a certain way right now just because I say he should.

I want to see what he does with my mouth on him. I want to know exactly what Grayson O’Connor looks like when he’s in a position like this. When I think about this later, I want to know that he was being fully himself.

“Astrid,” he rasps, saying my name like it’s a prayer. I can tell he’s getting close, his muscles stiffening, his hips thrusting in little bursts against my mouth. When I open my eyes, I realize he’s staring down at me, something like wonder in his expression. Wide open and raw, marveling. Like I’m a goddess, a miracle.

He looks at me like I’m something absolutely precious.

It cuts through me to my chest, tightening it, making my throat feel thick with something I don’t even want to risk describing. Something that longs for him, that only wants him, andachesto be near him.

Something that loves knowing I can make him feel this good.

When he jerks hard, on the verge of orgasm, he tugs on my hair, gesturing for me to pull away from him. Normally, I would. Every other blow job I’ve given in my life has ended with my hand on him, a towel or tissue to catch the mess.

But for the first time in my life, I don’t want to pull away. I want to stay close to him, taste him. For the first time, it doesn’t feel disgusting, but really,reallyfucking sexy.

I ignore his tugs on my hair, hear his hastily whispered “Oh fuck,” and keep my lips wrapped around him as he comes.

Grayson

“Ready?”

Astrid emerges from the bathroom, hair dried, wearing a pair of jeans and yet another patterned, knit sweater. I stare at her for a moment, watching as she turns and pulls her beanie down over her head, running her hands through her hair in the mirror.

Forty-five minutes ago, she had her lips wrapped around my cock. Less than an hour ago, Astrid was insisting that I come in her mouth, and now she stands nonchalantly by the door, like that entire encounter didn’t completely rewire her system.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe that was only me.

“Yeah,” I grunt, pushing up from the bed, not letting myself think about how domestic this feels. How I’d sat in the bed while she showered, listened to the pattern of the water hitting her body, then falling to the shower floor. When I heard the hairdryer click on, I lost all concentration on the images flickering over the TV, and instead could only think about Astrid, and how much I’d want to hear her hairdryer every morning.

But, based on how she’s acting, she’s not thinking about this at all. For her, this is an arrangement—a case study for her, Callie counseling for me, and hook-ups thrown in as an extra.

Together, we move toward the door, and when we step into the hallway, Astrid pauses for a moment, her hand on the handle.

“Got the room key?” she asks, and I tap my pocket.

“It’s all in the phone,” I say, and we turn, walking down the hall and toward the lobby. It’s late now, the sky fully dark outside. I was surprised Astrid wanted to go out to get dinner. If I’d had my choice, we would have stayed in the room and had room service brought up to us.

If it was up to me, Astrid would still be in my bed right now.

But the moment we were done, she’d peeled away from me, a stark, neutral expression falling over her face. She’d gone to the bathroom, and when she returned, grabbing her bag from the floor, I’d looked up at her, heart flipping.

When I asked her if everything was okay, she responded so smoothly, so naturally—“Yes, of course.”—that I couldn’t find it in myself to even question her. It felt like if I pressed it, I would single myself out as the one thinking differently about this whole thing.

Just like at the farmer's market, it feels as if Astrid has wholly and completely shut me out of her head, leaving me at the door wondering what in the world could be going on inside.

We exit into the dark street and the bracing Minnesota cold assaults us. I resist the urge to put my arm around her shoulder.

One block later, we find the place she looked up earlier—Burger in the Building, a fifties-themed burger place tucked right into the bustling Minneapolis night life. We slip in together and the place envelopes us in warmth, the smell of sizzling beef and the light, drifting scent of milkshakes.

The walls are a bright red, and there are stacks of potato bags on the far wall. The tables are all black-and-white checkered, and servers wear baby blue fifties-style outfits, complete with aprons and hats. One smiles at us when we walk in.

“Well, hello,” she says, “just the two of you tonight?”

I nod, and Astrid says, “Yes, in a booth please.”

When we sit down together, I realize we walked the entire way here without saying a word, and it feels natural. Normal to walk in companionable silence, and slide into the booth and each reach for our menus.

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