Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
His cock is angry and red trapped between us, leaving behind a pool of precum in his happy trail. Every time I move in and out, I get a quick glimpse of my cock before it disappears again, and it’s the surreal thought of this actually happening that only makes the experience more intense.
I’m inside Dex Mitchale.
Dex Mitchale is the one who gasps and drops his head back while I pound into him.
And it’s Dex Mitchale’s neck that I suck on while trying not to come. I don’t want this to end, but I know I’m close. I straighten up, gripping onto Dex’s narrow hips. Taking in his impressive muscles, his darkened eyes, the way his dampened dark blond hair looks brown from sweat and is plastered to his forehead. His wide jaw clenches, and his eyes meet mine.
“I’m about to come …” I warn. “What do you need to get there?”
“Cock. Touch.” Dex’s hand desperately searches for his dick, but I swat him away.
“My job.” I practically strangle his cock as I pump inside him hard and fast, chasing release for both of us. Dex’s whole body flushes, not just his cheeks now, and I know mine would look the same. His gaze is on my freckled chest, and he runs his fingertips over my pecs.
I’m so close.
So. So. Close. The sweet relief I get when Dex beats me to the punch is short-lived because as soon as I see his cum splash all over his abs, my balls tighten, and my orgasm hits. I ride the brain-numbing high until my limbs feel boneless.
I collapse on top of him, our hot and sweaty bodies melting together, and Dex wraps his arms around my back.
“You were right,” he says breathlessly. “But I can’t pick the best part. That was the goodest sex ever.”
That’s an understatement.
I roll off him and onto my back, my chest still heaving, and I wait for the regret to come. I wait for that little voice to tell me all of this will end soon enough. But it doesn’t.
The power of the almighty orgasm is too strong to wreck this for me.
So far.
Dex leans up on his elbow, and there’s the dread I’ve been waiting for. As he looks down at me with a frown on his face, I hold my breath for what he’s about to say.
He doesn’t want to do it again.
He can’t keep up the charade.
Yeah, he came, but … meh.
What he does come out with though … “Do you think sex will up my game? Ezra and Anton swear by it. They always fuck the night before, and it won them the Cup last year.”
The laugh that leaves my mouth is relief and a metaphoric eye roll in one. “Yes, because the entire hockey season is dependent on who got some D and who didn’t.”
“My game can use all the luck it can get.”
“It’s still preseason. You have time to turn it around.”
“I’m just hoping your dick has Ezra’s magic touch.”
I screw up my face. “Please don’t say Ezra and touch and dick in the same sentence. It does things to my brain that I don’t want to imagine.”
“Sorry. I … I really need to do something.”
I turn my head, and my heart almost breaks at the sight of Dex’s glistening puppy dog eyes. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”
“It’s the worst preseason I’ve had since I was a rookie. I have a right to be worried.”
“It’s still preseason. I promise it’ll turn around.”
It doesn’t turn around. Not for Dex, and not for me. If anything, his bad playing has rubbed off on me.
The rest of preseason is a disaster, and we’re going into the first game of the regular season with one win. One.
Dex and I aren’t the only ones out there, but it’s like the team can’t get their shit together this year.
We were one goal away from winning the Stanley Cup just months ago, and now we can’t find the net. Our opponents can though.
It’s why I’m no longer on speaking terms with my goal. It’s in a time-out.
At least we have a home game up first, which should give us the upper hand, but as we hit the ice for warm-ups and I’m stretching, it’s like I can see the black cloud of negativity floating above the team. At the other end, Anaheim—who didn’t even make the playoffs last year—looks ready and eager to go. But hey, who wouldn’t be when they won six of their preseason games.
As I take my place in front of the net, I suck in a sharp breath. “Okay, postie. We’ve got this, okay? Can we call a truce? Please? No answer means you agree, and that agreement is legally binding. Let’s do this.” I kiss the bar and lower my helmet so the guys can fire warm-up shots at me.