Page 72 of The Trade Deadline
When Ryan finally scored, he punched the air in victory.
“Take ‘em off,” he said and pointed to Lars’s sweatpants.
Lars wagged no with his finger and then very gingerly took off his watch. Ryan’s jaw dropped.
“Are you for real right now? Yourwatch?”
“You thought it’d be that easy to get me out of my pants?” Lars teased.
“Kinda, yeah.”
“You can count your watch, too,” he said generously. Knowingly.
Ryan held up his bare wrists. “I haven’t owned a watch since the seventh grade. You’re cheating.”
Lars shook his head. “It’s a valid article of clothing.”
“So if I were wearing earrings…?”
“You’re not and I’m not. You want to go through hypotheticals or you want to play?” Lars grabbed the puck and shot the disk across the table before Ryan could answer.
But not before Ryan could stop it going in. He shot it back and the game went on. Ryan scored thirty seconds later, earning him Lars’s sweats and a show.
“This isn’t fair.” Lars pouted but his eyes shone as he stepped out from behind the table. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and took them down inch by inch, never looking away from Ryan while he did. Again, it was nothing Ryan hadn’t seen before. Lars worked out in skin-tight compression shorts that did wonders for his thighs and ass, but the new context, the promise behind the slow reveal of skin, made Ryan half hard before Lars even finished getting the damn pants off.
Thank God he couldn’t see that Lars was in just his boxers when they were actually playing. The thought alone was enough to distract him, though, and although he fended off Lars, he didn’t have enough concentration to go on the offensive. It was only a matter of time until?—
“Mål!” Lars yelled and jumped up and down in excitement. “One more, Russell.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. He wasn’t nearly as dramatic as Lars, so he simply took off his joggers and kicked them aside to join the rest of his clothes. He could feel Lars’s eyes on him, and instead of making him self-conscious, it only made him harder. A fact that his boxer briefs did nothing to hide.
“One more, Nilsson,” he agreed. He took out the puck and set it down, wondering if he hoped to win or lose. It was his indecision that did him in: as soon as he got it, Lars banked a shot that ricocheted down the table at a weird angle. Ryan was convinced even after it slid into the goal that he could’ve stopped it, but he couldn’t deny he was glad the game was over.
“Mål,” Ryan repeated, liking the taste of the word and really liking the hungry look that came over Lars’s face when he said it.
Lars gently put down his paddle and rounded the table, unconcerned that he was in nothing but his boxers. Ryan stood there, watching and waiting until suddenly Lars was right in front of him, an inch away.
“Can I claim my prize?” he asked, his voice huskier than Ryan could remember ever hearing it. He swallowed thickly and nodded. When Lars dropped to one knee and then the other in front of him, he felt his cock jerk in his underwear. Now eye level with his crotch, Lars chuckled deep in his throat at that, then looked up at Ryan. Their eyes met, and Ryan had to lean back to grip the table for support because holy shit. Lars was gorgeous, with his rosy cheeks and blue eyes nearly consumed by dark pupils. “May I?” he asked quietly, staying very still until Ryan managed to nod.
Lars turned his attention back to Ryan’s boxer briefs. He rested his hands on Ryan’s hip bones and hooked his thumbs under the hem. Instead of taking off his boxer briefs, he kept a firm grip and leaned in. Holding Ryan in place, he first placed a small kiss on Ryan’s dick through the fabric, then nosed along it from base to tip. Ryan gasped. He held the edges of the table now with a white-knuckled grip, transfixed as he watched Lars breathe him in and press against his dick.
His breath hitched when Lars’s tongue darted out and traced the same path. Lars licked again and again, soaking the fabric. Worse, he pulled his boxers tighter and tighter, the tension of it both too much and not nearly enough. Ryan began to roll his hips forward slightly to match Lars’s movements. When Lars stopped to mouth at the head of his cock, pulling the waistband even tighter, Ryan moaned.
He buried his fingers in Lars’s hair, the silky blond strands the perfect length to pull. He resisted the temptation and focused on gently holding Lars’s head in place, more suggestion and request than anything else. As soon as he gave the slightest pull, an accident as he fidgeted, Lars gasped. Experimentally, he tugged again and was met with the same enthusiastic moan.
“You like that?” The roughness of his own voice surprised him. “Like being bossed around?”
Lars looked up at him with hooded eyes. “No,” he said honestly. “But you can tell me to do whatever you want.”
Ryan’s cheeks flushed. He wasn’t sure what to do with the trust and desire that implied, or his own reaction to it. So he did the only thing he could reasonably do with that information: he decided to take over.
“Take off my boxers,” he ordered. “But don’t touch.”
Lars did as he was told, careful not to touch Ryan’s dick or bare skin. He looked up at Ryan, licking his lips and then worrying the bottom one between his teeth. Ryan slid his other hand into Lars’s hair, stroking his cheek with his thumb and savoring the moment. The final seconds before there was no turning back.
“Lick,” he finally said, handing the reins back to Lars. “Show me you’re better than I remember.”
Lars’s eyes flashed with indignation, but he was too competitive to ignore the challenge, even if the person he was up against was himself. He turned his attention back to Ryan’s dick, and licked again and again up the shaft, around the head, his fingers bruising in their grip on Ryan’s thighs as he held him close. Soon he moved to the tip, lapping at the pre-come before tonguing at the slit then sucking just the tip into his mouth.
