Page 77 of Flagrant Foul
I spank him again, and yes, I admit, it’s a spanking, not a smack by any stretch of the imagination. I’m as bad as he is. I must be because even I can’t deny that I’m actively encouraging him to succumb to pants feelings.
A little gasp follows the impact, chased down by a tiny purr and a slight, seductive arching of his back.
It’s too much for my knees. They give way, and I sink onto the floor. I turn him around, steering him by the hips so he’s facing me as I look up at him. He’s as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen. More beautiful. He’s an explosion of blue eyes and pink lips. A wry smile and a snarky tilt of his head.
“Now this,” he says, looking down at me, “is the stuff wet dreams are made of.”
I ease his pants down until they’re pooled at his ankles, and I smile at his dick. “So pretty,” I mumble before shoving as much of it as I can into my mouth.
It is pretty. It’s so, so pretty. Cut and pink and perfectly formed. It stands up at an arrogant angle, jutting away from his body and curving back toward his navel. It’s so hard that I have to catch it in my hand to bring it to my lips.
His head slides over my tongue, the ridge scraping just enough to make me moan. I suck him into my throat without a thought in my head. I don’t think about what I’m doing, or whether I’m doing it right. I don’t wonder if it feels good for him or if he likes what I’m doing.
I look into his eyes and see everything I’ve ever needed to know written across them.
He widens his stance, spreading his legs as much as the sweats knotted around his ankles allow, and begins to thrust. For my part, I let him, relaxing and warbling ecstatically around him.
The whole time, he looks down in dull amazement, running his hands through my hair, gently at first, and harder as his orgasm chases him down.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispers over and over.
40
Sev Delorean
So,itturnsoutTeddy O’Reilly is completely insatiable. He’s the first partner I’ve ever had who’s been able to keep up with me, matching me round for round, and still wanting more.
We’ve fucked in every room in the apartment. On the floor and on most of the surfaces. By some miracle, in addition to all the fucking, we’ve managed to play fairly decent hockey. Not great hockey, but still. We’ve gone to practices and trained, and we’ve taken our shifts at the hospital to be with Bryce.
Amelia is still hooked up to a ton of machines, but she’s gaining weight, and that’s a really good sign. Kell is pale, but she’s looking and feeling much better.
“D’you think Bryce is okay?” I ask Teddy as we get home from our latest trip to the hospital.
He frowns and takes his time answering the question. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think the shock of what happened might only be hitting him now. I think he wentinto survival mode when Amelia was born, and he’s only really starting to work through everything now. It’s a lot. I think experiencing that level of fear is hard to deal with.”
“I was thinking of asking Kell if it would be okay if we stole Bryce for, like, forty-five minutes tomorrow and dragged him out for a run and a coffee. Maybe it would be good for him? Get him some fresh air, get his heart pumping, you know? He’s not used to being stationary this much, so maybe he needs it. What do you think?”
He comes to me easily, like it’s something he doesn’t have to think about, something that comes naturally to him, and puts his hand on my chest. “I think you’re a good friend, Sev.”
I have no idea how he does it, but lately, when he touches me, looks at me, or talks to me, something deep in my core shifts. A hard thing. A rigid shell that was purpose-built. Designed to keep bad things in place. Things like fear and self-doubt and very old, deep-seated notions of not being enough.
I’m on edge. We’re in the locker room, ready to play the Dogs in their arena, and there’s a feeling I don’t like tapping my shoulder, trying to get my attention. A lot of the guys are looking at me as if they need something from me. I push it aside and focus on the tap on my shoulder.
It’s that fucking Capaldi.
I don’t like him. I can’t explain it, but something about the guy doesn’t sit well with me. The Dogs are a tough opponent. They always have been. They’re known for playing rough. I started my career playing for them, so I know how they operate. Their antics have never bothered me. Do they play close to the line? Yes. Is that a problem? No, not if they stay on the right side of it.
But Capaldi? He bothers me.
There’s something off about him. I’ve watched a bunch of his games since the last time we played, trying to get the low-down on him. He’s young and, like all rookie players, has a lot to learn.
The problem is, I’m not sure he’s teachable.
I look over at Teddy like I always do before a game. He’s padded up, looking straight ahead. He’s getting his head in the zone, which is exactly what I should be doing. Instead, I’m remembering the way Capaldi lookedat him when he picked himself up off the ice after Tee checked him last time we played the Dogs.
“Hey, T-Dog,” I say softly, warming inside when he glares at me for daring to address him by his team nickname. I have to do it, though, because I need to soften what I’m going to say next, or at least, I need to distract him from it a little. “Do me a favor and stay in goal tonight, okay?”
He scoffs and gives me a gloved-up version of the finger.
