Page 13 of Off Sides
“Hang on, baby.” I release him to grab the lube and chuckle when he protests. He’s so needy for me. What the hell kind of partners has he been with that couldn’t figure him out? Did they not care, or did he just not tell them what he needed?
I dribble some lube down his shaft and get him slicked up. He thrusts into my hand, his body moving in a rolling wave. His dick pulses as that innocent voice comes out again, desperate to come.
“Don’t stop,” he begs into my neck. His fingers dig into my arms as he holds on. “Please.”
“Come for me, baby,” I demand and pull his sweatshirt up to expose his clenched abs. “Give it to me. I want to see how much you want it.”
Joey’s back arches, and cum shoots out onto his stomach as he shudders and pulses against my palm. It only takes a few strokes for him to go limp in my lap, panting and sweaty. I can’t help but play with his cum on his skin, dragging my fingers through it and spreading it around like I’m fingerpainting.
“I don’t understand it.” Joey’s voice is almost a whisper.
“Understand what?” I lift my fingers to my mouth and lick him off my skin.
Joey looks at me, his head turning so he can watch. “Why it’s different with you.”
I release my fingers with a pop and lean down to kiss him. I want him to taste himself on my tongue. When he moans, I ache. I hold on to his jaw to keep him still and kiss him deeply, exploring his mouth and taking my time. It’s not frenzied like our others have been. It’s hot, sure, but it’s more than that. I’ve never kissed a guy like this.
The last time someone meant something to me, it didn’t end well. This guy is either going to be the best or worst thing to ever happen to me. I’m equally afraid of both.
We explore all the dark corners of each other’s mouths, slow and deep, sharing air and learning who we are through our senses. He’s a little shy when it comes to it, but I think that’s because of his experiences. He smells like the ice rink and man and body wash. I don’t know him in any sense other than the physical, but I already need him.
I don’t know how long we kiss, but my lips are sore and chafed when we break apart.
His lips are swollen when he looks up at me, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I should clean up,” he says and starts to sit up, but I tell him to wait and climb out from underneath him. “I’ll do it.” I grab two washrags, get one wet, and come back to him. He looks good in my bed.
Joey reaches for the rag, but I push his hand out of the way and clean his skin for him, then dry him off. He gets himself tucked away and fixes his clothes while I drop the dirty towels in the laundry.
He’s sitting up, feet on the floor, looking uncomfortable as he pulls on his shoes so I pull on my sweats too.
“You don’t have to leave.” I shove my hands in the pockets and lean against the foot of the bed. A blush creeps up his neck, and it’s fucking adorable. I know it’s a stereotype to assume all jocks are dominant, bold, aggressive, dumbasses, but I’ve never met an athlete as soft as Joey.
Not soft like wimpy or weak, but he’s not in your face. He tends to be submissive, at least with me, and it’s caught me off guard. I definitely want to watch him on the ice, see what he’s like. He’s the captain of the team so he has to have a dominant streak in there somewhere.
“I should go.” Joey doesn’t meet my eyes when he stands. “I’ll see you around.” He does some kind of weird half-shrug thing and walks past me.
“Hey, this doesn’t have to be awkward,” I turn and say to his back. “I would like to be your friend.”
He stops with his hand on the doorknob and sighs so heavily his shoulders drop.
“You’re not like anyone else,” he says to the door. “And that scares the shit out of me.”
Then he’s gone.
I don’t know what to do with that, and it bugs me. He’s not like anyone else either, but he didn’t even give me a chance to tell him that. He ran. Is that what he does instead of communicating? Or is this too new, and he’s not comfortable yet?
I pace my room for over an hour, going over it in my head. I’m not one to wait when a conversation needs to happen. Rip the Band-Aid off and get it over with. Deal with the problem head-on.
I hate this waiting shit.
Frustrated with myself, I grab my phone and call my best friend and former foster brother, Brent.
It rings a few times before his face appears on the screen.
“Hey, man, what’s up? Must be getting laid since I don’t have twelve new memes or TikToks on my phone.” He shoves a bite of pizza in his mouth and talks around it. “Bad lay? It’s still early.”
“Would you shut the fuck up?” I scrub a hand down my face, and he snorts. He knows I’m not mad at him. “I’m in a situation.”