Page 18 of A Loser by Christmas
I didn’t ask if he’d suck me off in French on purpose. I can barely think straight in English, despite my decade and a half here. “I . . . I said, I’m still not convinced.” His hand around me tightens, which feels so good my breath catches. “Actually, that’s not so bad. For a beginner.”
“Who said I’m a beginner?” His grin returns, and yes, I still have questions, but he quits bracing above me, and every single one can wait.
Calum’s tongue slides back where it belongs next to mine, and I can’t even be sad when he lets go of my dick because we’reback to the dry humping that, before this evening, I hadn’t done in forever.
He pants into my ear, “What did you just say?”
I didn’t know I’d spoken. “Uh, I said I haven’t got off like this since my last year of boarding school.” I push up against him, and there’s no need to translate what that movement begs for—he grinds down harder, still half-dressed and so, so frantic that we both almost lurch over the edge of the bench seat. Again, he braces, this time to stop both of us from hitting the deck, and I grasp him so tightly that the vibration of his question rumbles through me.
“You said this bunk pulls out?”
“It used to?—”
If I wanted a demonstration of strength, I get it. Calum wrenches my bunk to full-size with me on it, and with what looks like zero effort. I sprawl back to watch him lose the rest of his clothes. He steps out of his suit trousers first, quads just as impressive as earlier this evening. His shirt is next, snagging at his elbows while more fireworks explode. Red sparkles fill the whole cabin, and once Calum shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off, he’s speckled with sparks. And faded bruises. So many of them.
I kneel up to kiss the edge of one splashed across his belly.His cock is right there, so I do what he hesitated over, my mouth way too busy then for either French or English.
I lick all the way up his shaft until my tongue dries. Precome wets it again when I suck the smoothness of his crown. He’s so hot. Musky in a good way. Big, but not impossible to manage until his hips jerk, and then I splutter. I also hope we get another chance to practise because he’s good at reading silent signals—the moment I grip his thighs, he stops. Holds still. Goes slower, only giving me more after I dig my fingers into the meat of a phenomenal bottom.
More fireworks sparkle with ruby flashes. Or maybe lack of air does that to my vision. All I know is that I look up and Calum looks down, and I stop breathing.
He’s so into this.
Into me.
I taste it, getting a sudden mouthful of sharp-tasting proof he’s close already, and his hips tilt one more time in a frantic stutter. As suddenly, I’m flat on my back again with no warning, and with him as a warm and heavy blanket.
His kiss is desperate until he breaks off to roll us sideways. He gets a hand between us and holds our dicks together. I don’t know when my fingers found his hair. They spasm, but Calum’s growl doesn’t sound like anoin any language.
My brain can only process what his hand around our dicks has done—I’m there, coming with his face tucked into the crook of my shoulder. Calum shudders too, so I guess we both won this race to the finish.
I float while my boat bobs in the water, and me giving a hockey player a good, long cuddle wasn’t how I expected this evening to end, but I one hundred percent recommend it.
“Speak English around me, yeah?” His face is still against me, beard tickling my shoulder, my throat, the shell of my ear. “I want to understand you.”
“I might.”
“That means you absolutely won’t, doesn’t it?” His hand runs down my back to pinch my rear end. “Dickhead.” Pulling back, he looks at the mess we’ve made between us. “You’re not planning on making anything easy on me, are you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” And fun is what I’ve been missing. Or at least this heart-pounding feeling of not knowing what will happen. I lean up on one elbow to wipe us with a discarded T-shirt, then study what fireworks pop off to show me. Calum lays flat on his back, both hands covering his heart. His eyesare closed, eyelashes casting jagged shadows, and this sounds as rough-edged.
“My agent had this written into my very first pro contract.”
“What? Me being a dickhead to you en français?”
He laughs, which is loud in contrast to his voice quickly getting so much quieter. His eyes stay closed at this confession. “My contract has a clause about me being bi. And about no club I signed with dropping me for it, if I met someone who . . .”
I preferred that laughter to how his voice now fades, so I try to tease more of it from him. “Someone who what? Had a cock you couldn’t resist? Or who annoyed you into getting yours sucked?”
He chuffs out another laugh. It doesn’t hold much humour. “Believe me, cocksucking happens on the road. Teams close ranks on that. What I had written into my contract was me not being dropped for catching long-term feelings.” His eyes open. “My side of the deal was that I’d work with management if it happened. Give them advance warning if I could. Drop everything to be present if I couldn’t.”
“To deny it.”
I sink onto a pillow. It leaves our faces so close I can see how much he means this.
“No. To be out on my own terms. I wouldn’t even be the first in the league. They still tried to talk me out of it. Told me how much cash I’d lose in sponsorships and brand deals.” He shrugs. “And I told them I’d have to walk away completely. Go work with Reece at his foundation or help Pat with his fitness classes. Because me hiding who I am? That’s the same as saying there’s something wrong with my brothers, yeah? I’d never do it. Couldn’t.” He shrugs again. “Wouldn’t. So the media team took me seriously. They’re prepared for me being out and open about it. Been sitting on press packets ever since, just in case.”
“You didn’t already . . .?”
