Page 4 of Blindside Me
Then the banging starts.
“Hey! Open up!” Some asshole outside yells, pounding on the door.
He swears and pulls back, but I keep going. I tighten my grip on his thigh, work his base with my other hand, and suck him harder and faster. My lips are wet and messy as I work him toward that edge. The tequila’s got me spinning in the best way, making me bold and desperate for more.
“They’re gonna fucking come in,” he mutters, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Let them,”I think, my mouth too full to say it out loud.
His hips jerk forward, and I take him deeper, swallowing past the gag. He’s so close. I can feel it in the way his cock twitches and in the way his breathing gets ragged.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants as his hands grip my hair like he’s trying to hold on.
The banging on the door grows louder and more insistent. “Come on! Open up!”
Jesus, they’re going to burst in any minute. I should stop, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m on a mission to finish him.
Pulling back, I shift my focus to his cockhead. My tongue circles it, teasing him closer to release. His hands are tense as if he’s hanging on to control by a thread. I’ve got him. I know it. I take him in again, hollow my cheeks, and suck hard. His cock pulses in my mouth, and I know he’s right there, ready to explode down my throat.
“Hurry,” he grits out, his voice strained. It almost sounds painful. I take that as his needing me tofinish strong.
I redouble my efforts, sucking him like my life depends on it. My jaw is screaming, but I don’t care. I want to make him come so hard he sees fucking stars.
He swears again, but it’s not nearly as sexy this time.
Before I can analyze it, the lock clicks open just as he’s about to blow. But when the door slams into the wall with a crash that echoes in my skull, I pull back and stand.
Then, I do what I do best and bolt.
CHAPTER TWO
Drew
Cold sweat beads on my forehead, stinging my skin as I leave the ice. Coach Howell waits in the shadows, arms crossed, face unreadable but loaded with more meaning than he’ll ever say out loud. We both know why he’s waiting for me. The clipboard in his hand taps against his thigh as I get closer, each smack like a countdown, the game clock winding down on my season.
“Saturday night.” That’s all he says at first.
I rip off my helmet, jaw clenching. My knuckles, still raw from the fight, rake through my sweaty hair. I try to catch my breath before he knocks it out of me again.
He jabs a finger into my chest. “What the hell is wrong with you? Saturday night was brutal.” He leans in, coffee and frustration thick on his breath.
I wince, the words landing like a check into the boards. My shoulders hunch, and I force my gaze to his shoes, the rubber floor slick under my skates. The fight, the bar, the girl. It’s all a blur of bad calls, and his voice cuts through every excuse I don’t dare make.
“You think this is funny?”
No. But I’m sure as hell trying to act like it doesn’t freak me out. The rest of the team snicker as they head to the locker room,eating up the show. I hate them right now. Almost as much as I hate myself.
“Your little spectacle made a fool of this team.” Spit collects in the corners of his mouth. He’s pissed. “You picked a fight. A fucking street fight.”
“I didn’t pick—” I start, but his glare shuts me up.
“We can’t have your name plastered all over the papers. We’re trying to keep the fight low-key, but the scouts? If they hear about this, you’re done. There are hundreds of other guys fighting for a spot.”
My balls shrivel up inside me, and it’s got nothing to do with the current condition of my manhood.
“You think you can just skate through the season like this?”
I stare at his shoes, keeping my mouth shut. My silence only pisses him off more.
