Page 83 of Blocked Score

With Lane’s zipper undone, I grab the waist of his pants and underwear and pull them down his hips with a single firm tug.Possessiveness is still laced through my blood, somehow making me irrationally horny, and I’m in no mood to tease or draw this out.

Satisfaction roars through me when Lane’s cock springs up. The sound of him sucking in a breath is a harsh whistle through his clenched teeth. I wrap my hand around the base of his solid length, loving how he feels against my palm and fingers.

I glide to his tip. The smooth heat of his skin contrasts so deliciously with the throbbing stiffness of his member that sizzling heat snakes from my grip and spreads through me, settling between my clenched thighs.

Lane lets out a raw chuckle. “If this is the response it gets out of you, maybe I’ll start paying girls to hit on me.”

He winces when I pinch the tip of his swollen pink head in reply. “Do that at your own risk,” I say with a devious lilt.

“You know you have nothing to worry about,” he husks. “I’m yours.”

Damn fucking right he is. I pump his cock, marveling at how huge and gorgeous it is. When a pearl of precum glistens on his tip, I wrap my lips around it.

Lane spears his fingers into my hair and grabs hold. The roots of my hair pull at my scalp, the sharp and prickly sensation only winding my arousal higher. Wetness gathers between my legs as I pump my lips up and down Lane’s length, loving the way he throbs in my mouth.

Lane’s muscles dance and ripple as I work him to the brink. It’s outside of my power to go slow right now. I suck him like I’m staking my claim to his body, every moan and raspy curse of pleasure falling from his lips a confirmation.

His release gushes into my mouth. I keep my lips sealed around him, drinking every drop of his climax. Tonight, I’m so possessive that I don’t want to share even a drop of his orgasm with the floor.

When Lane catches his breath, he kicks off his shoes and pants, gathers me in his arms, and marches me up the stairs to his room.

Then he sets me on his bed, drops to his knees, and shows me that as much as his body belongs to me, mine belongs to him.

41

LANE

“Shit!” Tuck slams his stick onto the floor in front of the bench we have our asses planted on, powerless to stop the disaster unfolding on the ice.

I want to do the same thing, but as captain, I strain my muscles to keep my composure.

Since the five-minute mark of the first period, we’d been tied 1-1 against Northeastern in our first regional round game. The first line just came off the ice after Coach called for us to go all out and play as hard as we could to try and get a goal, but we came up short.

Just seconds after Coach called a shift change because we were spent, Northeastern decided to go on a roll. Our second line D Men shit the bed and allowed them to score two goals in quick succession.

Now, in the middle of the third period, we’re down 1-3.

I want nothing more than to hop over this barricade and get back out there, but my legs are like noodles. I know the rest of the first line guys’ are as well. It’d be suicide to put us back out there before our batteries have recharged some.

It’s a clusterfuck on ice.

But this game isn’t fucking over yet.

Instead of sitting on my ass and wallowing or getting pissed off, I rise to my feet. I stick my fingers in my mouth and let out a high, sharp whistle.

“Come on, Driscoll!” I shout to one of our defensemen out there. “Pump those fucking skates!”

Tuck pushes off the bench next to me and claps his hands loudly. “Nice fucking move, Markov!” he yells to one of our guys who just bodychecked a Northeastern forward into the dashers. “Don’t give those bastards an inch!”

The rest of the team rises to their feet on the bench, cheering wildly and willing our guys out there to hang on.

They do more than hang on. Jamie wins a stick battle with Northeastern’s left forward and gets a breakaway with the puck. He takes it right to the crease, flicking his stick at the last second to send the puck past their goalie’s right side to bring the score to 2-3.

Coach calls for a shift change, sending the first line back out. We hit the ice with a vengeance, reaching deep down to play as hard as we can.

A Northeastern player fires off a slapshot at Hudson, but he deflects it, and it comes right back to me. I unload it to Carter Prescott who dekes past a defender and hammers the puck into Northeastern’s net.

3-3.

---