Page 71 of Puck Tease
The word hung in the air, thick and heavy.Worship.
He opened his mouth and took me in.
It wasn’t the rough, urgent, almost violent face-fucking of the closet or the gym. This was deep, slow, and utterly consuming. He bobbed his head, taking me to the back of his throat, a low hum of pleasure vibrating from his chest. His tongue, his suction, the careful attention – he treated me like I was the trophy, the ultimate prize.
I looked down at him, the National Champion, the future NHL star. On his knees, servicing me in a hotel room, his mouth fastened around me, drinking me in as if I were the very source of his power. A shudder ripped through me, a sudden, overwhelming emotional cascade that felt like a breaking point. My muscles tensed, my breath hitched.
"Jax," I moaned, my hips bucking instinctively.
He pulled off, his mouth wet with champagne and saliva. He stood, his eyes dark, unblinking.
"Turn around," he said.
I obeyed, placing my hands on the back of the plush velvet armchair. I bent over, exposing myself. Jax didn't enter me immediately.
A metallicclinksounded behind me.
Then, something cold and heavy swung against my ass.
I flinched, a sharp jolt. "What..." I twisted my head, looking back.
Jax stood there, holding his championship ring threaded onto a heavy silver chain. It was massive—a two-tone beast of yellow and white gold, covered in gemstones that glinted like ice in the soft light.
"Ring ceremony," he whispered, his voice a low thrum against the quiet.
He turned the ring in his hand, exposing the smooth, polished gold of the bottom band. He pressed the cold metal against my hole. It was freezing, a shocking, solid weight against my fever-hot skin.
He held it there, pressing firmly, branding me with the cold gold.
"You earned this," he said, his voice thick. "Every shift. Every hit. You took it all for me."
He dropped the ring. It swung against my thigh, a heavy, rhythmic tap.
He spat into his hand, a wet, audible sound. He slicked himself, his fingers working quickly.
He stepped in close, pressing the tip of his cock against me, a blunt, warm pressure.
"You ready for the victory lap?" he murmured.
"Yes," I breathed, my voice thin. "Yes, Captain."
He pushed inside.
No slam. No sudden force. He glided, filling me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, stretching me open with a careful, almost reverent attention that felt more intimate than any kiss. He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, satisfying pressure. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, crushing me against the hard planes of his body.
"Mine," he growled, the word vibrating through my spine. "Feels like home."
He started to move.
It was a slow, grinding rhythm, deliberate and deep. He wasn't trying to punish, wasn't trying to assert dominance; his dominance was already a given, a palpable weight in the room. This was a celebration, an acknowledgment. He fucked me with long, deep strokes, hitting my prostate with every thrust, a sweet, aching pressure.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of our skin connecting, wet and rhythmic, echoed loudly in the quiet suite.
"Look at the window," he ordered, his voice raw against my ear.
I looked up, my gaze drifting beyond the hazy reflection of the room. The lights of St. Paul twinkled, a vast, glittering expanse stretching to the horizon.
