Page 18 of Off-Ice Misconduct
My goal was to have him under my command, but I didn’t think I’d have him this desperate for my approval so quickly.
That’s fine. It makes my job easier. But I’m not going to make it easy for him. He wants approval? He can fucking earn it.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I got a hundred percent on that quiz. I just thought…”
“Thought what?”
He scowls. “Nothing, you’re a real dou?—”
“Donotfinish that sentence, McKinnon. Get out of here before I revoke the permission I gave you.”
He leaves after that. Storms right out. Do I watch his tight ass in those jeans as he stalks off, probably to take out his frustrations with me on a punching bag? Yes, I fucking do. I’m not the purest of souls, but looking at the asses of my students isn’t something I do.
McKinnon is the exception.
It’s always right there. So big and round, begging me to pry it apart and shove my cock inside. Maybe that’s the way to keep him out of trouble, fuck him into submission.
No. Bad Luke. You can’t fuck a student, even if this is a fake job, and he looks older than the average twenty-four-year-old. That would be reckless, even for me. Looking at his ass is depraved enough.
I head across campus, toward my brother’s office, thinking about the way McKinnon hovered, practically begging for praise without saying a word. I liked the expectant way he looked at me. The way he sucked his bottom lip as he waited. Was that a little shyness creeping in? Do I make the big, strong hockey man bashful?
That’s dangerously fucking delightful.
Perhaps it was a tad cruel to hold out on him, but it makes me feel like I’ve got a piece of him, like I’m holding him captive.
Besides.
Ace is competitive—all pro athlete types are. He’ll get a thrill if he has to work for my praise. Win it. And I’ll get to bathe in his desperation.
So, I won’t give it to him, yet. Not until he’s starving for it.
A loud thud echoes through the ice rink. Then again. Another one. Again. Someone’s pissed off at a hockey puck. I took my time walking here. I don’t have any classes until the afternoon, but Tatum will be in his office.
Peering through the doors to the rink, the form on the ice is unmistakable. Ace McKinnon. He’s not in full gear, only wearing a tracksuit, helmet, skates, and gloves, hurtling pucks toward an empty net, most of them hitting the boards.
Tatum said he was good—better than good. If that many pucks are hitting the boards, it’s on purpose. Bet he’s picturingme, wishing the boards were my face. He’s fucking mesmerizing, the way he pulls his stick back, the dip, and then the follow-through as his body slashes through the air. The determination on his face. His body is a conduit for power, all the force in the world his to harness.
It bends to his will.
That’s probably what makes him such a sex magnet. His sex partners probably want to be controlled by all that wild power.
Not me. I want to restrain it. Keep it under my thumb. Keep him under my thumb.
I know a little too much about his schedule, which means I know he’s supposed to be at the gym with his team right now. I don’t doubt I’m one of his frustrations, but missing lifting time with his friends? He wanted to be alone for a reason.
It’s a struggle to tear my eyes away from him. What does the permanent crease between his eyes mean?
I rap on Tatum’s door before I enter. He’s on the phone talking animatedly to someone.
“I’ll call you back,” he says. “Hey, bro.”
“We need to talk,” I say, getting to business. VanCourts aren’t built for small talk, and thankfully, neither of us expects it.
“Please don’t give me bad news right now. Everything’s going my way for the first time in history.”
“What goes on at these frat house parties?”
