Page 80 of Flagrant Foul
A small, delusional part that thought getting Teddy on his back would make me see that he’s not all that special. That the only reason I wanted him was because someone said I couldn’t have him.
That’s not what’s happened at all.
When I’ve been with him, I do feel reset. I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted, ever done, ever wanted to do in the past, doesn’t matter. My mind is clear for a while after we’ve fucked. A good while. A minute, maybe more. A lovely blank page with no lines and no writing on it.
The second I open my eyes or breathe in, I see him or smell him, and I swear, it hits me like a fucking freight train. I want him worse than I did before. I want him worse than all the years I couldn’t have him rolled into one. Worse than the torturous nights I hung out with him and Nate in Alabaster, in restaurants or bars, or in cold cities that hockey brought us together in, trying my best not to let Nate see my gaze linger on him.
I want him worse than I did in locker rooms dotted all over the country. Worse than I wanted him in the showers. Worse than I did every single goddamn time we’ve ever been on the ice together.
Worse than I did when he made his debut for the Blackeyes, and I saw the number on his jersey.
Seven.
When he was a kid, he told me once his favorite number was seven. He pronounced itSeven, and even way back then, it melted my heart.
Teddy walks his clean, shiny face and perfect body across the living room to his fish. He moves like a regular, normal guy. Like someone with good points and bad points, like everyone else.
“Aw, look at you, Raggie,” he coos. “You’re more beautiful than ever this morning.” His shoulders hitch up and he lets out an adorable, impish sound. “And I’m willing to bet you’re more of an asshole too.”
He looks back at me, waiting for me to say something similar to, “Like owner, like fish,” but I don’t.
I can’t.
Teddy’s perfect lips formed the wordasshole, and unfortunately, I seem to be experiencing a rather intense blank page moment as a result.
When I snap out of it, I’m at the fish tank with him, sliding my hand into the back of his pants.
I was right. His skin is still warm from his shower. His cheeks are like freshly baked brioche in my palms.There’s no way I can hold them and not squeeze them. No way I can’t pull them apart.
“Sev!” he says, lips twisting into a heated grin. “We can’t. We’ll be late.”
His eyes sayDo your worst, big boy, I dare you.
I yank his pants down to just below the shelf of his ass and sink to my knees before I’m consciously aware that I’ve decided to do so. I watch, emitting a low sound that reverberates through the apartment as I peel his cheeks open. My fingers caress twin mounds of flesh. Stroking them. Harpooning them. Turning them as pink as the cheeks on his face.
When he squirms in my grip, I dive in. Mouth open, tongue out, hitting my target dead center. A perfect pink star puckers and pulses from my ministrations. He squirms again, shoving his ass into my face hard. I lick for my life. For the ages.
For the man who thought he’d come out of this unscathed.
For the man who knows that now that I’ve tasted him, I won’t ever be the same.
He thrashes against my lips and tongue, fighting for more. More friction. More contact. I love seeing him like this. I live for it. Nothing has ever gratified me more.
From the depths of my stupor, I become aware of his movements—he’s freed his dick and is taking it in hand.
That brings me back to myself.
I’m on my feet in an instant, holding his beautiful, perfect right wrist firmly in my hand, easing his hand away from his cock.
“W-what the fuck?” he exclaims, struggling and glowering at me in a way that makes me suspect he’s experiencing a little blank page moment of his own.
I lead him to the door, tugging firmly to get him moving. “We gotta go. You said so yourself. You don’t want to be late, do you?”
“Yes, I want to be late!” he cries, wrestling with his pants with one hand. “OfcourseI want to be late. I love being late. Don’t you know me at all?”
He’s still grumbling, and I’m still holding his wrist by the time we get downstairs to the garage.
“I can’t fucking believe you,” he scowls as he clicks the buckle of his safety belt into the anchor.
