Page 24 of Off-Ice Misconduct
My anvil over his head is a small one, something I’m sure he could have a workaround for if he put his mind to it—or his father and the dean. But he hasn’t done that. He’s barely protested. On some level, he wants this.
I caught him jerking off in the restroom after he left my office. He must have been involved, because I wasn’t careful entering—I hadn’t realized he was in there—yet it didn’t stop him.Fuck, the sounds he made. He was really going at it, too. No way he didn’t have a little cock burn after that. There’s only so much spit can do when you’re beating on it like he was. Although, he was probably leaking pretty good, but there was no way to tell for sure. I was deprived of the viewing with him behind the locked stall door.
He should be punished for that alone—depriving me of my things.
I was so close to breaking the door off its hinges to get to him, and I know he would have let me take over, or let me watch, or join—whatever the fuck I wanted. McKinnon can barely contain himself around me, and I’m walking a tightrope between restraint and taking what I want. If I’d seen the smallest glimpse of him pleasuring himself, I wouldn’t have held back.
So it was for the best. I can imagine McKinnon getting off, I can sink my hooks of control into him, but I—unfortunately—can’t fuck him. I might not care about my temporary job, but I care about Tate’s.
All my fun with Ace McKinnon will have to be through control via discipline. I have the willpower of a monk in a whore house, but the right candy can lure anyone, so I’ve got to be careful.
Class ends. It’s clear McKinnon was hoping I’d pat him on the back or something. Hasn’t he figured out I’m a hard-ass? I’m not giving him easy praise. If he wants a compliment, he’s going to have to work harder than shined shoes.
“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up,” he says to one of his fellow hockey hooligans.
“What do you want, McKinnon?” I say when the other students have filed out. “Our study hours aren’t enough? You need to stay after class, too?”
His jaw hardens, and his brow pushes so close together it looks like an angry caterpillar. Last time he did this, he fumbled and folded, but something tells me I’m not going to be so lucky this time. It’ll be good to know how far I can push him before he snaps.
“I did all of this for you.” He motions up and down his body, chest heaving like he’s been sprinting. A riled-up McKinnon is breathtaking. “Because of you, I feel funny about wearing my own goddamn jacket.”
“Language, McKinnon.” I continue to pack up my things as if I’m in a rush to leave him. As if I’m not waiting to see what he’ll say next. Frustrated McKinnon might be my favorite version of McKinnon so far, and there’s no way I’ll miss a chance to play.
“You did all of this because you had to. Do you need to be reminded? I can see the headline now—Would-Be Hockey Legend’s Career on Ice After Sexual Harassment Allegations,” I say, knowing full-well it’s all bogus.
Without a doubt, someone like McKinnon would be hailed for his penis cartoons. They’d frame them and put them up in the locker room for all future Scorpions to gawk at. They’d laud their hero and now NHL god McKinnon for being brazen enough to draw them, every time they walked by.
McKinnon crosses his arms, smirking. Wait, that’s not right.
“You think I’m a legend, sir?”
He’s doing that thing—the thing he does that I’ve seen him do around campus a few times. It’s a sinfully deadly look. His pretty eyes get bluer, sucking you in, two hypnotic pools of smoke curling from a forbidden flame.
I harden my jaw and my stance. Unfortunately, my cock hardens, too.
“You have two seconds to come up with an important reason for wasting my time.”
“Or else, what? You’ll punish me, sir?”
Fucking brat. He wants to be punished, and oh how I’d like to punish him, my way—my real way—but I can’t.
“I can take permission away as easily as I’ve given it. If you want to attend that season opener, you need to remain on your best behavior.”
His mouth opens and closes. He didn’t think of that. “You didn’t give permission very easily, sir.”
“Stop pouting, McKinnon.” His lip plumps out when he pouts. Can’t have that. It’s too tempting. I might lean in for a taste. I could change it all, give him the verbal gold star he’s looking for, but I’d rather dangle it just out of his reach. I lower my voice to a dangerous octave. “Keep showing me what a good boy you can be, and I’ll reward you without the need for a tantrum.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. His poutiness has already grown on me.
McKinnon blinks. Speechless. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was having a heart attack.
“You should get to your next class. Don’t be late for office hours tomorrow.”
Then I walk away before I do something I’ll enjoy too much to regret.
Rain pelts the windows like it’s trying to start its own metal band as the gloom tries to fight its way inside, but joke’s on the gloom—I’ve always preferred days like these. I don’t mind sunny days, but they’re unsettling.
Untrustworthy.
