“Fuck, Jemma,” I groan, sucking in a deep breath.
Damn, she’s good with her hands. I want her mouth, too.
Pushing her hair behind her ears, I stare at her, and she holds my gaze. “Suck my cock,” I practically beg. I need to feel the warmth of her mouth.
Like a good girl, she gets on her knees in front of me, still holding onto my length. She stares at my size, as if wondering if it will fit in her mouth. I give her a look that says, ‘Go ahead. It will fit. Some of it will, at least.’ When her tongue makes contact with my sensitive flesh, I close my eyes and a deep growl comes up from the back of my throat. It’s primal and loud, but this is what she does to me.
Using her hands and mouth, Jemma sucks me off to completion. My entire body jerks when I come, and she swallows every last bit of my cum. She sits back on her heels, and her lips are wet and puffy. I help her up from the floor, my legs weak from how hard I just came. And then a loud noise cuts through the air.
What the fuck is beeping?
I wake to a buzzer. It’s so fucking loud I want to smash it. A second passes, and Jemma is gone, the noise now taking over. I blink a few times to clear my vision. Between the annoying sound digging into my skull and my complete confusion, I hear Trent laugh. He laughs so loud he howls.
Disoriented, I look over at him, confused. Until I realize it was all a dream.
Jemma and her skilled mouth and delicate hands.
Those perfect pink nipples.
All of it was an illusion.
Well, fuck me.
Trent throws a towel at me. It lands on my thigh. “You might want to jump in the shower.”
I sit up, just enough to look down and see my cock poking out of my boxers… and the mess I’ve made. Dammit.
Fisting the towel in my hand, I look over at Trent. “Don’t even start with me.”
Looking away, he shuts off the alarm clock, but he’s still laughing. “Practice starts in an hour,” he informs, as if I need a reminder.
It’s all I’ve been able to think about all week, other than Jemma.
Coach Bryant splits us into three-man teams for a half ice scrimmage. I’m tired after two hours of drills, but it feels good to be back on the ice.
We start at center ice with the first puck, colored a bright shade of yellow, with three others placed at various dots on the ice, all with different colors. Trent passes the yellow puck to me, and I draw my stick back, slapping the puck at Drake, who’s guarding the net. He’s like a giant wall of muscle, his entire body covering the net.
Drake swings his leg out to the right, his pad blocking the shot. Preston, always quick on the ice, swoops in to retrieve the puck, balancing it on the edge of his stick, before he taps it, just enough to place it in a perfect position between Drake’s legs. Even with his quick reflexes, Drake closes his thighs, about to drop to the ice, but Preston’s skill is effortless. The puck slips past Drake, and Coach Bryant blows the whistle.
Before we can celebrate our small victory, Coach Bryant calls out, “Red puck,” pointing at the puck in the face-off circle to my right.
Coach Bryant has us play with different colored pucks, constantly changing to show us that the game is also changing as it progresses, and that we have to be able to adapt. Up until last year, Coach Bryant was our assistant coach, and now he’s the head coach of the Senators. Apart from my dad, I’ve learned more from him over the last three years than I have any other coach.
And now Parker is fucking his daughter, which I hope doesn’t fuck everything up for our team. Not like I have room to talk after what I did. At least Dean Whittaker took some pity on us and is allowing us to practice with the team. It’s bad enough we have to miss key games. Any playing time is better than no time at all. We never know when a scout is watching, or if one play will get us noticed.
Our team draws more attention than others because of our famous fathers. But still, we want people to remember us for our skills—not our fathers. Practice continues with the same routine for another thirty minutes, before Coach blows the whistle one last time.
“Hit the showers,” he says to our teammates, and then focuses his gaze on Trent then me. “Tucker and Trent, hang back for a second. I need to talk to you two.”
After our team skates off the ice and moves toward the locker room, Coach slips between us, his hand rested on each of our shoulders. “One more game, and you’ll be back on the ice with the team.”