Page 157 of Stick It
“Is this what you wanted, Hurricane?” he purrs, fisting himself with slow, sultry movements that coax a bead of precum to his tip. My tongue is heavy in my mouth with the desire to flick out and lick it, to taste him. I nod, sucking my lower lip between my teeth as I watch him work himself over, heat pooling between my thighs.
“If you’re so set on not talking,” he murmurs, eyes dark as they drop to my mouth before he brings his hand to my face, tugging my lip free, “I guess I better keep your mouth busy, huh?”
Applying slight pressure to my jaw, he coaxes my mouth open, and I lean forward to meet him as he pushes the blunt head between my lips.
My tongue drags over his silken skin, and he groans. Salty mustiness washes over my tongue, and when he slips down the back of my throat, momentarily obscuring my airway, I moan. My hands come up to grip his thighs, the muscles tense beneath my palms as I dig my fingers in.
I flick my gaze up the hard planes of his body, until I fall, enraptured, into his glazed-over eyes. Watching Griffin shed the mask he constantly wears, knowingI’mthe one responsible… It’s empowering. I always thought nothing could feel better than skating toward the crease, the puck at my feet, and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I’m going to make that shot. But this…this moment, having this strong-willed, reserved, domineering man falling apart at the seams all because of me…yeah, this feels infinitely superior.
It’s the hottest thing, watching him shudder and fracture before me, and I soon find myself shifting on my heels, squeezing my thighs together in a desperate need for friction while I suck him deeper into my mouth.
Hot and needy, I slip my hand down the front of my leggings, but I barely make it past the waistline before a sharpslap to my cheek makes me freeze. It’s not sore, it’s more the surprise of it that catches me off guard.
“None of that,” Griffin says, pumping his hips with shallow thrusts.
I moan around his thick shaft, blinking my teary eyelashes in a plea for release.
“This ismyroutine you’re interrupting, so you’ll do asIsay, and I’m telling younot to come.I want you to think about this moment, to remember how frustrated you’re feeling right now for every shift you play tonight. Every time you have possession of the puck. Every goal you make.” He runs his fingers possessively down the side of my face, before wrapping his hand around the front of my throat—firm, but not tight.
“Only when we win tonight’s game—only when you’veearned it—will I let you come. And it won’t be by your hands.” Saliva dribbles out the side of my mouth, and he scoops it up with a finger before pushing it back in, stretching my lips thin. “It’ll be by mine. My fingers. My tongue. My cock. You understand, Hurricane?”
All I can do is moan in response, even as my panties disintegrate and my nipples chafe against the inside of my bra.
He smirks down at me, looking like a dark king atop his throne. “Now show me what a good girl you can be and let me fuck your mouth.”
There’s no waiting for permission. No easing into it. Griffin grabs the back of my head, and in the next second, I’m choking on his cock. Tears stream from my eyes and my fingernails leave half-moon indents in his thighs, but the grunts that fall from his lips and the way he uses me, like he’ll fuckingdieif he doesn’t come in my mouth this second, has me hornier than I’ve ever been in my life.
My lungs burn and my jaw aches, and I swear, I could probably get off on the friction I get from my leggings. With asharp tug on my hair, Griffin throws his head back and roars my name as his seed spills into my mouth, washing over my tongue, and dripping down my chin before I can swallow.
Dragging me to my feet, he kisses me with abandon. “You realize, if we win, you’re going to have to get on your knees for me before every game?”
With my hair a mess and cum on my face, I grin at him.
Totally. Fucking. Worth. It.
47
GRIFFIN
The locker roombuzzes from our win—half-dressed bodies moving between the showers and benches, towels snapping, someone blasting a too loud victory playlist on a Bluetooth speaker. The air reeks of sweat, soap, and adrenaline. Everyone’s riding the high.
I sit at my stall, towel around my neck, laces undone, half listening as the guys go back and forth, debating on which club we should hit up to celebrate.
I’m already calculating how much bullshit I’ll have to suffer through before I can get Dylan back to the hotel. The only way I want to celebrate is by stripping her bare before making good on my pre-game promise.
I glance up just as she steps out of the shower room, dressed in tiny black boy short panties that cling to her curves like sin and a fitted tank that leaves nothing to the imagination. Every head turns. She doesn’t notice—or maybe she just doesn’t care—but I do. I growl at those closest to me, promising a painful, torturous end as I glare down everyone else until they quickly avert their eyes.
She’s rifling through her bag for her jeans when somethingslips out. A small, folded piece of paper flutters to the ground, skidding across the slick floor until it stops right at the toe of Kyle’s sneaker.
I tense. “Dylan—” I start, but Kyle’s already bending.
She whirls toward him, eyes widening in horror. “Don’t!” Her voice slides through the locker room like a puck to the glass. It has everyone stopping what they were doing, chatter cutting off abruptly, as everyone turns to soak up the drama.
The only person who appears wholly unperturbed is Kyle. With casual ease and absolutely zero regard for personal privacy, he unfolds the note. The entire locker room seems to be holding its breath as he scans it, expression morphing into something ugly and smug all at once. Then he chuckles, one of those slow, venomous sounds that spreads like oil on water.
“Oh, that’s rich,” he says, loud enough to cut through the last of the locker room noise.
“Kyle, give that back!”
