Page 37 of The Official Problem
God, that shouldn’t have been so hot. That kind of demand should have pissed Kieran all the way off. He should have been enraged—forced to wait on Matthieu’s beck and call. Not allowed to acknowledge him outside this fucked-up arrangement but forbidden from seeking intimacy elsewhere.
That was how he should have felt. Instead, he was overwhelmed with intense, scalding desire.
He locked eyes with Matthieu, daring him to break the standoff before he buckled. It was a silent battle Kieran knew he couldn’t win.
“Yes, sir.”
Matthieu nodded, apparently finished with his rules. “Now come here and ask me again.”
Kieran walked slowly back to him, biting his lower lip as he closed the final distance. He leaned in, voice dropping low with promise and want, his words little more than a breath against Matthieu’s ear.
“What do you need?” He cupped Matthieu’s rock-hard dick through his pants, dragging a delicious, growly moan from him.
“Briefs off. Hands and knees. On the bed. I want to eat that perfect ass before I fuck you senseless.”
Yes, fucking sir.
Kieran didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped his briefs and scrambled onto the bed, reveling in the appreciative groan Matthieu let slip. He knew he had a great ass—all hockey players did. There was something addictive about knowing the sight alone could draw that animalistic sound from Matthieu.
He stayed in position, on hands and knees, ass in the air, eyes locked on the headboard, while Matthieu took his sweet time undressing and coming over. Kieran was certain Matthieu was dragging this out on purpose. The anticipation alone had pre-cum leaking from Kieran’s cock. Which was insane—he hadn’t even been touched.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the bed dipped behind him, Matthieu’s hand smoothing over the soft skin of his ass. The touch was feather-light, gentle, almost reverent.
“This ass is a work of art, sweetheart,” Matthieu hummed, the praise lighting Kieran impossibly more on fire, before lifting his hand only to bring it back down with a hard thwack.
“Fuckkkk.” Pain bloomed across the spot where Matthieu had hit him, a blinding sting against sensitive skin. Kieran loved it.
“Do that again,” he begged.
Matthieu obliged, pulling another pathetic whimper from him. “You love that, don’t you?”
Kieran nodded eagerly.
“The big, bad hockey player who throws people around on the ice likes being manhandled off it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Oh my god.“Yes, sir.” Kieran trembled, struggling to stay still.
Matthieu lowered his lips to the tender skin on Kieran’s cheek, which still stung deliciously from the blow. He ran his tongue along the hurt, soothing it, worshipping him, teasing him, as his lips trailed over the curve of his ass, dipping into his crease, sneaking closer and closer to exactly where Kieran wanted him, needed him, then pulling away.
“Ahhh,” Kieran groaned, prompting a deep rumbling chuckle from Matthieu against his skin.
“You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” Kieran could hear Matthieu’s grin. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you have it. Maybe I’ll stroke myself to the sight of you on your knees, bent over, begging. Maybe I’ll cum and leave you to finish the job yourself, just like last time.”
Matthieu hummed thoughtfully.
“Tell me. When I left you there on your knees, my cum running down your chin like the fucking slut you are, did you stroke yourself to the memory of my cock down your throat? Did you imagine it was my hand? My mouth? Did you cum with my name on your swollen lips?”
Kieran was panting. Matthieu had barely touched him, and he was already inches away from the edge.
“Tell me.”
The hand came down again, harder. Whip-like. Agony. God, did he want it.
“Yes.” Matthieu’s fingers dug into tender flesh, sharp, bruising, coaxing the words from Kieran’s mouth. “Yes, I thought of you. I screamed your name into the dark. Every night since.”
