Page 34 of Puck Tease
He released my face, his hand dropping, a heavy weight, to my crotch. He squeezed the denim of my jeans. I hissed, a sharp intake of breath. My cock, already thick and heavy, had been straining against the fabric since his hand clamped onto my bicep in the kitchen.
"See?" he murmured, a low, satisfied sound. "Hard for me. Always hard for me."
He unbuckled my belt. The sharp jingle of metal was muffled by the music, but in the close confines of the closet, it sounded like a blaring siren in my ears.
"Jax, the door is open," I hissed, my chest fluttering like a trapped bird. "People are right there."
"I know."
He unzipped my fly. He shoved my jeans and boxers down past my hips, catching them at my thighs. My cock sprang free, pale and engorged in the shadows, a single bead of pre-cum glistening at its tip.
"Knees," he ordered.
"Here? In the closet?" The protest was weak, barely a whisper.
"Knees."
I sank down, the movement awkward in the cramped space. My knees landed on a pile of someone’s old, damp snow boots. The heavy coats brushed against the back of my neck. My eyes were level with the tarnished metal of his belt buckle.
Jax didn't unbutton his pants. He simply unzipped his fly and fished himself out. He emerged, thick and heavy, a pulsing mass of flesh that twitched in front of my face. The scent of his musk, sharp and primal, instantly overpowered the stale dust and wet wool.
"Open," he said.
My mouth parted, dry.
He didn't thrust. He stepped closer, nudging himself forward, feeding himself to me slowly. The blunt head pushed past my lips, filling my mouth, stretching me. He tasted of salt and skin, a familiar, robust flavor. I wrapped my lips around him, drawing him deeper, my nose brushing against the cold metal of his zipper.
"Good boy," he groaned, his hand coming down, firm, to the back of my head. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling gently. "Suck it. Keep me quiet."
I began to work him. My head bobbed, my tongue swirling around the ridge, sucking hard on the upstroke, a desperate, greedy rhythm. A surge of forbidden pleasure ripped through me, hot and dizzying. I hated the way my body responded, the sheer, animalistic thrill of having him in my mouth, of tasting his pleasure, of feeling the power of it. It was a potent, addictive drug.
Jax leaned his head back against the doorframe, his hips snapping forward, fucking my face in short, sharp thrusts. Through the six-inch crack in the door, a parade of feet shuffled past: worn sneakers, precarious heels, heavy work boots. They were *right there*. If anyone turned their head, if anyone pushed the door open just a few more inches, we would be exposed. The risk sent a jolt of pure adrenaline, cold and electric, straight to my groin. My cock throbbed, a slow, heavy pulse, a drop of pre-cum dripping onto the dirty floor of the closet.
"Yeah," Jax whispered, his voice hoarse. "Just like that. Use that tongue."
Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.
"Carter? You in there?"
I froze. Every muscle in my body locked. My breath caught in my throat, a painful gasp. It was Miller. The goalie. He stood directly outside the door. I could see the side of his worn hockey shoe through the crack. I tried to pull back, to spit Jax out, to create some space, but Jax’s hand tightened in my hair, a steel vice. He shoved my head down, forcing me back onto his cock, trapping me, my mouth full of him.
"Occupied," Jax called out, his voice calm, steady, laced with a faint annoyance, as if he were merely trying to retrieve ajacket or find a moment of peace. He did not sound like a man currently getting blown by his roommate in a coat closet.
"Shit, man," Miller’s voice drifted through the crack. "Coach is looking for you. Said something about the curfew check."
Jax didn't pause his movements. He kept thrusting into my mouth, slow and deep, forcing me to take him while he held a casual conversation. I gagged, a desperate sound caught in my throat. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I tried to breathe through my nose, but the overwhelming scent of his crotch filled my senses, a suffocating perfume.
"Tell him I left," Jax said to Miller, his voice still even. "Tell him I went home to sleep."
"You sure? There's a keg stand competition starting."
"I'm done. Head hurts." Jax bucked his hips hard, driving deep, hitting the back of my throat. I made a muffled, choking noise, a sound like a strangled animal.
"You okay in there?" Miller asked, a note of concern in his voice. "Sounded like a cat dying."
"Dropped my phone," Jax lied, his voice smooth as glass, without a hint of strain. "It's fine. Get lost, Miller."
"Alright, alright. Later, Cap."
