Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
It’s been so long since I’ve been turned inside out so thoroughly, I shouldn’t be surprised by the amount of cum that decorates the black leather in front of me.
My muscles turn to jelly, and I flop forward, resting my chest in the mess I made while the last few drops hit the floor.
Lane silently pulls out of me and walks away, leaving me exposed, used, and dirty. And yeah, I fucking love that too. When he returns, I flinch because I’m not expecting the warm cloth that runs between my thighs and over my ass, cleaning out all the excess lube.
“Turn around for me,” he instructs, his voice losing the edge he had while inside me.
I stand upright and then turn, resting my ass on the back of the couch next to my mess. Lane leans over and licks any cum off my softening dick while wiping down my chest and the couch with the cloth. It feels a hell of a lot like looking after me, and I’m realizing that’s a running theme with us.
“Now, I’m definitely not complaining,” I say, “but what exactly prompted this little romp?”
He stands again. “I saw what you did today. With the LGBTQ youth shelter. You deserved a reward.”
And even though my chest dances with happiness that I made him proud, the rest of those fuzzy feelings about us being domestic and almost like a normal couple die a horrible death.
Because this wasn’t an “Oskar is irresistible” thing. This is still an “I need to keep Oskar on a leash” thing.
That shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
I think I’m getting in way too deep here.
TWENTY-ONE
LANE
Oskar’s lying stretched across the other couch, holding his phone high above his head while I work opposite. We’d been as close as two people could be barely half an hour ago, which has to be the only reason all this distance feels wrong.
From where I’m sitting—right beside where we had sex—I have a direct line of sight out the front window, but no one can see in. I know because I checked before Oskar got home. With the porchlight on, all you can see in here with the lights off is shadow.
“Why do I feel like you’re ignoring me?” I finally ask.
“How am I supposed to know why you feel what you feel?” His voice is dry, giving away that something’s up.
I’d thought things were good. Oskar made a choice today I never would have expected, and the fact he didn’t go out to lunch or come here to sulk—or worse, head to a strip club—speaks volumes about where he’s at.
Oskar is actually trying because he’s scared of losing the one thing he truly cares about: hockey.
But while he was happy and relaxed right after we had sex, it’s like something tripped in his brain, and that contentment disappeared.
“How was it today?” I ask.
He grunts but doesn’t answer.
“Oh, goodie, one of those nights. At least with you ignoring me, it’s quiet around here.”
Oskar flips me off.
Okay, I’m done with this. I set my laptop aside, then push to my feet and reach over to steal his phone.
“Hey.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
He scowls. “Why? As we’ve established, therapy isn’t in your job description.”
I perch on the side of the coffee table, right beside his head. “Did I overstep earlier? Should I not have done that?”
“If I didn’t want you to fuck me, I wouldn’t have let you fuck me.”
“Then where’s this attitude coming from?”
He closes his eyes and tucks his hands behind his head. “News flash, I always have attitude.”
But stupid me assumed he was changing. Growing. And there I go proving I can’t be trusted in these kinds of situations. Both hands scrub over my face as I resist the urge to shake him. Maybe I should have thought things through more, taken a step back today and planned out my next move instead of getting home, scrambling for supplies, and then spending the afternoon pacing the living room as I waited for Oskar to get home so I could pounce on him.
Seeing him being kind and putting himself out there was such a turn-on, I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be more calculated in my moves.
My laptop dinging alerts me to an email coming in, so I leave him to his weird mood and open the web page. I still have too many to count left unread, but something about the subject line of this one catches my attention.
Fundraising volunteers needed—LGBTQ players encouraged.
It’s from someone named Richard Cohen from Montreal’s PR department.
I open the email and skim through the details. A training facility is being opened in Vermont for hockey players ranging from pre-K to eighteen, focusing on readiness for college. The kicker? It’s all not-for-profit, and their plan is to supply everything for kids who wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford it. Hence, the fundraiser.