Page 50 of Cherry Picking
“I think it’s time to remind you what a bendy fucker I am.”
He coats my dick in one of his travel packets of lube, and I slide between his cheeks to his greedy hole.
The hole that gives for me as I slip inside, a slow, agonizing stretch that has Griff’s mouth open in a silent groan and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Fully seated, he rides me like the world is ending. Like life is on fire, and the only way to put out the flames is to milk me for all that I’m worth.
“I fucking love you,” he says, sharp and harsh as he slams down on my dick. “Don’t you forget it.”
How could I?
How could I forget a single thing about this hot-heated, beautiful man giving himself over to me?
I hold his hips, his thighs, under his ribs, wherever I can reach to feel a fraction more of his passion.
He’s undoing me. Unraveling my very existence the harder he fucks himself on me.
Griffin needs control, and tonight, I readily give it to him.
He comes, and he comes, and he comes, but through all the tears and overstimulation, he stays seated on my dick.
He rests when I get close and only goes again once I’ve settled back down.
It’s only when we both reach our limit does he let me fill him. Release into his throbbing hole as one last orgasm tears through him.
We come together, physically and spiritually, and I hold him after as if we aren’t both covered in his cum.
If I whisper a quiet “I love you too” into his sweaty hair as the snoring starts, it’s just me and the four white walls that bear witness.
CHAPTER 13
RILEY
Six WeeksLater
The Hornets are having a fire season. I’ve never seen the team gel this well together, and I’ve been with them for nearly five years.
Mashburn and Rory are always a match made in heaven when they hit the ice, and Hawks has found a rhythm with nearly every player on the starting lineup.
Griffin? I called him a brick wall when he first joined, but I’d dare to call him a damn brick fortress these days. It could have something to do with him taking up extra goalie training when I’m in physical therapy, or maybe his passion for the sport has been reignited.
Whatever the reason, these guys are giving it all they have, and it’s paying off.
We have a home game tonight, so I’m at the team facility with Nash doing some rather boring stretches with my knee. He says at this point we’re focusing on pain reduction and range of motion, and that once I hit my one hundred and twenty degree mark, then we’ll move up to strength building.
Which means slightly less boring movement exercises.
“I do more than this with my knee at home, doc.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Nash says as he walks over to the wall of resistance bands and brings back a yellow one.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Still, he hands it to me, and I roll my eyes while lifting my leg enough to fit the middle at the sole of my foot. “I should be able to handle a green.”
“We start off easy, Easton. You wanna be the one to tell the surgeon you busted this perfectly good knee pushing too hard?”
No, but I’m starting to get antsy just sitting around the house and hotel rooms waiting for Griff to tell me about practice or watching him at games. Coach and I have talked about retirement, but I never realized how much I’d miss playing when permanence was directly on the table.
The only thing that’s truly kept me sane is reviewing plays and lineups with Coach. Sometimes during practice he’ll have me rotate with our assistant coaches and go over what my teammates can improve. Not something I thought I’d enjoy, but the analytical side of hockey is almost as enticing as the physical one.
