Page 52 of Blind Spot
“Bed,” I said against his mouth.
“In a minute.” He kissed me again, longer. “I drove past a firing squad to get here. I’m enjoying the pardon.”
“You walked nine feet.”
“Longest nine feet in hockey,” he said, and I pulled the henley up and over his head.
I put both hands flat on his pecs and took a second to appreciate what ten days of road hotels had stolen from me. He watched my face while I did it.
“Done?” he asked.
“Never. But proceed.”
I opened his belt, and he tugged off my shirt. Our jeans and shorts landed on the floor, and then his skin was against mine from collarbone to thigh. His jaw was smooth against my cheek. It was never that way at home at night.
He pressed me back across the bed and put his mouth on me like we had a week instead of an hour.
“Missed this,” he said against my throat. “Ten days. Watched you across that bus tonight and couldn’t do anything about it.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“I’m doing something better.” His mouth moved lower, found my nipple, and tugged with his teeth until I arched off the mattress.
“Rook—“
“Mm.” He moved to the other one, slower, working it with his tongue while his thumb kept the first one busy. I tangled my fingers in his hair.
“You’re going to kill me before we get anywhere.”
“We have till one.” A kiss below my ribs, then his voice again, half a murmur. “Luki, stay still.”
“I am still.”
“You’re never still.” Lower. “There. I know. I’ve got you.”
Nobody at the rink would believe it. The four-word guy ran a constant commentary into my skin.
I wanted to shout when his lips closed warm and wet around my cock.
He went slowly. Every time my grip tightened in his hair, he eased off, pulling back to long, lazy strokes of his tongue. When I relaxed my hand, he took me deep again until my hips rose off the bed.
He pinned me flat with a forearm and didn’t even break rhythm to do it.
The first time he brought me to the edge, I didn’t believe he’d stop. He pulled off with a soft sound, wrapped his hand loosely around the base of my cock, and rested his cheek against my hip while I lay there breathing like I’d done bag skates.
“You’re doing it on purpose,” I managed.
“I’m doing everything on purpose.” He kissed the inside of my thigh. “We have till one. I’m using every minute.”
“I have a heart condition.”
“You don’t.”
“I’ll develop one.”
“Then we’ll list you day-to-day,” he said into my skin, and I laughed. The laughter turned to gasps when he took me back into his mouth.
When I pulled him up by the shoulders, he came willingly, settling his weight over me on his forearms. I reached for the Dopp kit on the nightstand.
