Page 116 of The Trade Deadline
“Sorry,” Lars said. His eyes didn’t leave Ryan’s lips, but he’d put a frankly illegal amount of space between them. Lars’s chest was no longer pressed against his and both their hands were empty. What the fuck? “We didn’t…you never said if…I shouldn’t…”
Was it weird that he completely understood Lars’s non-sentences?
We didn’t clarify what we’re doing.
You never said if you were still interested.
I shouldn’t assume.
He put both hands on Lars’s cheeks to make him actually look at him. “Jag saknade dig,” he said, hoping his practice with Google translate was enough to make the words comprehensible; he was sure Lars would hear the sentiment behind them, even if he butchered the pronunciation.
I missed you.
Lars’s answering moan was absolutely obscene. “You’re killing me,” he groaned, his arms back around him and his hard cock back against Ryan’s as he crowded in again. “You’re fucking killing me.”
“Me?” he accused and ran a hand through Lars’s beard. An actual beard, darker than his hair (which was also longer, so long Ryan imagined wrapping the strands around his fingers and giving it a good yank) and making him look both older and more distinguished. He wanted that beard rubbing against his thighs yesterday. “I’m gonna die if you don’t kiss me right the fuck now.”
Never one to disappoint, Lars stole his lips again and ran his tongue along Ryan’s teeth before dipping deeper. “Du smakar gott,” he mumbled, and then took Ryan’s bottom lip into his mouth. “You taste good.”
“Then taste me,” he challenged. “Shut up and make me come.”
Predictably, Lars accepted his challenge.
Somehow they ended up on the couch, which was a small miracle in and of itself. Ryan had managed to lose his pants and briefs, Lars his shirt and pants, and the mismatch didn’t occur to him until he was thrown backward onto the couch and Lars climbed over him. Suddenly his dick was surrounded by Lars’s hot mouth, and he was nosing at Lars’s boxers like an idiot. Lars was deepthroating him like his life depended on it while Ryan had to somehow find the presence of mind to work Lars’s boxers down his massive thighs so he could lick teasingly at his cock.
Holy shit he’d missed this. Lars was awesome, obviously, but sex with Lars was next level. Best sex he’d ever had, and it only seemed to get better as they’d learned each other’s bodies and preferences. Like he knew if he licked along Lars’s taint before sucking one of his balls into his mouth, Lars would?—
“Heliga fan,” Lars swore, abandoning Ryan’s dick to press his forehead against his hip. He stayed very still, only a slight tremble in his legs giving away how terribly thin his self control was. “Please,” he begged, and it was only from experience that Ryan knew it was a plea to stop.
His mouth plopped off with a wet smack, and he returned his attention to Lars’s dick; Lars took a moment before he returned the favor, devouring Ryan’s dick with an enthusiasm that made Ryan dizzy. It was intense, trying to balance what he felt and what he was doing, trying to exact the same pleasure he was receiving. This moment was everything, made those twenty-six days disappear. How could they matter, when it was still this good?
Ryan came first, thrusting weakly into Lars’s mouth. He couldn’t decide if he’d rather have Lars come down his throat or onto his chest, decided on the latter, then realized too late he still had his shirt on and made a mess of himself.
They lay there on the couch, wiggling so they were side by side. Ryan rested his head on Lars’s legs and marveled at the freckles hidden there while he tried to catch his breath. There were things he knew he should say, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. And then by avoiding the bigger things, he ruined it anyway by saying: “We need to be at the rink in an hour for practice.”
Lars groaned. He pressed a kiss to Ryan’s foot and then untangled himself from his legs.
“Where’s your bag?” he said as he nodded to Ryan’s shirt.
Ryan made a face as he inspected it. “I had them bring it to the hotel for me. Which I’m now realizing was probably not my best move.”
“You’ll have to wear CCM or Bauer or something. I don’t own any Otters shirts.”
They didn’t speak as they hastily cleaned up and got dressed, Ryan digging through Lars’s shirts not so much for a non-Crabs one but for one that smelled like Lars.
“What hotel?” Lars’s voice was gruff, a neutral edge he was barely holding onto. “I’ll drop you off.” That explained his bland white tee and a baseball cap. Lars must have thought it qualified as a disguise, though the messy blond hair escaping the hat gave him away.
Ryan was nauseous on the drive. The brief moments of comfort, of coming home, were replaced with an unease that spread through him like dread.
“How’s Ohio?” Lars asked as they left his parking garage. Ryan tensed, worried it was a jab, but it sounded like he was making a genuine effort to pretend things were normal.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I miss seafood, but I’m a Montana boy. Easy come, easy go. I can get used to meat and potatoes again.”
“I’ve always been near the ocean. I don’t think I would like living away from fresh fish.”
The conversation fizzled out.
“Your brother, he’s not as bad as I thought he’d be.” Ryan thought of their talk on the plane, Anders’s concern for Lars after the Prowlers incident, his easy acceptance of Ryan. “I don’t know if you give him enough credit.”
