Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
I watch as my dick slides in and out, disappearing and reappearing so quickly it’s almost a blur. Either that or my vision is already going wonky. My hand tightens in his hair. Holding him in place. Keeping him at my mercy.
Ezra.
Pinned.
Controlled.
By me.
Fuck, I’m close.
So close.
I jerk him faster than I’d be able to if I wasn’t determined to send him over the edge first.
Just a bit more …
A bit more …
Ezra gasps, and his ass clenches tight. The second his cum hits my hand, I let go. My orgasm crashes over me, and I fuck him through it, unable to stop if I tried. By the time I finally slow, finally start to get blood pumping back to my brain, I’m breathing hard and Ezra is slumped against the wall. I want to drop down against him and catch my breath, but instead, I force myself to pull out.
We’re both gasping hard, and when he turns to lean back against the wall, I avoid his gaze.
I quickly tuck myself away, condom and all, as the awkwardness starts to kick in.
“The spare rooms are over there.” I point. “Clean up before bed. I don’t want cum in my sheets.”
Then I stalk away to my bedroom. As soon as I have the door closed between me and Ezra, I turn and slump against it.
Reality kicks in way too soon.
I wait for the regret to follow, but oddly, it doesn’t come.
All I can focus on is remembering the sound of Ezra’s deep moans, the muscles in his ass, the way the shadows played over the side of his face, parted lips visible behind that filthy beard.
A smile starts to build as I realize I beat his ass twice tonight.
Three
EZRA
There are a couple of things I’m grateful for when waking with the world’s worst hangover. One, Anton doesn’t wake when I slip out of bed and sneak out of his penthouse with an ache in my ass. Two, my fight with some random Philly fans wasn’t secretly filmed and leaked to the press—thank the hockey gods for that. But thirdly, and this is probably the thing I’m most grateful for, I can blame being drunk off my tits for having the impression that sex with Anton Hayes is the best dicking out I’ve ever had in my life.
The alcohol made it good. It has nothing to do with his skill or magnificent cock.
To try to forget my indiscretions, and with the season being over, I deal with the usual end-of-season crap with the team and then run away to Vermont to hang out with my best friend for a while.
Westly Dalton used to be in the NHL. Used to be my ride or die. Used to be being the key word. We’re still tight, but after he retired, we see less and less of each other.
Once I wear out my welcome there with him and his huge family of five kids, I go on vacation with some of the guys, and I finish off my summer visiting family in Poland with Dad. My father goes back to Poland regularly, but I only make the trip maybe once every couple of years when he guilts me into going to see his mom and sisters and all my relatives who speak to me in Polish even though I can barely understand them.
I speak a little, but I’m nowhere near fluent enough to hold a deep conversation. I have some cousins who are pretty cool, so it’s not complete torture.
This time though, I had to pick the year to go when my team was knocked out of the playoffs so close to the end.
“That last game was an embarrassment to watch,” Dad says. We’re barely at thirty thousand feet when he starts in on me.
“I agree,” I say, hoping that will be the end of it.
It’s not.
My father is what a lot of people will call distinguished. He once had dark hair but is now graying. Who knows where I got my caramel-colored hair from considering my mom is platinum blonde. Maybe their DNA mixed light with dark and got … me.
He has that overweight athlete’s body where he’s still fit but carrying a few extra pounds. And he’s the epitome of a closed-off Polish man when it comes to expressing himself. He can’t muster up a “Good job” but can tell me when I’m an embarrassment to his name.
The whole flight, I listen to Dad telling me how he would’ve played that last game better and giving me unsolicited advice on how to up my skills.
Never once does he praise me for helping to get my team that far. We didn’t win the Cup, so we are losers. Obviously.
The only consolation to that is Anton didn’t win it either. Philly was knocked out the next round, and I watched on with a huge smile on my face.