Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
I trail my tongue down his skin. “Make love to me,” I murmur against him.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
Nope. He wants a fuck.
“You know it’s not,” I say. “I want you to make love to me. I want to go slow, and I want you inside me.”
Over the last two months since we’ve been on tour, I haven’t bottomed again for him. It’s not for any particular reason. I think Jet’s and my preferences align similarly. We’re both vers, but I prefer topping, and he hasn’t complained or asked to top me again.
“I want you,” I say again.
“We should go to bed.” Jet pulls me out of the shower and grabs a towel. When he starts patting me down, I laugh.
“I can dry myself.”
Jet sinks to his knees. “You always take care of me when you fuck me, so I’m going to do the same to you.”
Okay, so he won’t admit that this is so much more, but that’s okay because he’s right. I do take care of him, and him wanting to do the same for me is as much an acceptance of what we have as if he’d said it out loud.
I don’t need words.
Actions speak louder.
And our bodies are saying they don’t want to be apart from each other.
Jet goes slow drying me, even slower laying me on my back and prepping my hole, and by the time his cock is lubed up and sliding inside me, I have to wonder how long has passed. The reminder my alarm to leave will go off early in the morning pings in the back of my head, but I ignore it.
If this is the last time Jet and I can be together for a while, I want to make it last.
We move together. Jet’s thrusts are long and slow. His hands and mouth wander, tracing every inch of my skin. My fingers make their own path over Jet’s tattooed sleeve.
He hovers above me, his eyes piercing mine.
His deep-brown gaze is so expressive, and even though he’s trying desperately to hide his pain, I can see everything.
I want to reassure him. I might be leaving, but I’m not leaving him. No matter what I say, though, I know I won’t be able to change the stubborn thoughts running through his head.
And like a rubber band coiling tighter and tighter, something finally snaps.
Jet pulls out of me. “Roll over.”
I do as he says without hesitation, and then he’s right there, filling me up, only he’s not going slow anymore.
Maybe he was too close to letting out something he wasn’t emotionally ready for, and this is a way to put that barrier back up between us—the one I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist.
I don’t think Jet truly trusts that just because I’m walking away tomorrow that doesn’t mean I’m not coming back.
I will always come back for him.
Always.
Because I’m not going to make the same mistake again.
Jet moans his release, and I feel it inside me. I’ve been too lost in my thoughts to come.
Jet knows it and pulls out again, flipping me over onto my back once more.
Without words, he slides down and leans over me, engulfing my cock in his mouth.
“Oh, fuck—”
Two fingers breech my slick and used hole and press right against my prostate, shutting me the fuck up.
It takes a total of twenty seconds for me to come with Jet’s name on my lips and confusion clouding my head.
What was I worried about again?
My phone alarm going off competes with my groan. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to unwrap myself from Jet, and I really, really don’t want to get on a plane today and go to the team skate tonight.
Preseason is always grueling. Training camp brings out early competitiveness, reconditioning, and the offensive coach for New Jersey even has the superstition that if we lose the first game, our whole season is fucked.
I’m not just leaving Jet; it feels like I’m leaving an entirely different world. One I’ve loved being a part of.
Now, I’m going back to the only world I’ve known since I was a kid, and the idea of it sits wrong.
I try to pull away from Jet, but he holds me tighter.
“No.” His voice is firm.
“I have to.”
“I know.” He reluctantly releases me.
“Just think, you’ve only got seven more venues. Three and a half more weeks. And you’re in New York for three of those days.”
“But you’re at an away game for two of them,” he mumbles.
“Technically, it’s only overnight. We’ll still have two whole nights together.” It’s like the universe is working against me. I’m in Boston when he’s in New York. I come back, and then two nights later, Jet goes to Boston.
“Three and a half weeks is nothing. We went three years without each other.”
Jet nods. “True.”