Him (Him #1)(68)

Jamie settles himself so he’s propped up on the headboard, pillows at his back. He applies some lube to his cock, and the sight of him rubbing himself makes my mouth water. He positions himself beneath me.

Right then, with those brown eyes looking up, full of lust for me, he’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

So I do it. I sink down onto his dick. Jamie’s mouth opens on a silent groan, and those beautiful eyes go half-mast. The burn returns, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I give myself a minute to adjust, and I use the time to take Jamie’s gorgeous face in my hands. For a second I just admire the view. He’s flushed and sex-tousled, burning up with arousal. I came to Lake Placid hoping we could still be friends. I got much more than that. And I’m so grateful.

The kiss I give him tries to let him know that. He’s almost whimpering into my mouth now, so maybe he hears me. I give my hips an experimental thrust, and I like the results. So I brace my hands on Jamie’s shoulders and begin to slowly f*ck myself on him. I shift my hips until I get the angle just right. And when I do, it’s miraculous. Pleasure pulses through my body each time I thrust. It’s so, so good.

Beneath me, Jamie takes my weeping cock in hand. His lips are parted, his throat working. I see yearning anywhere I look at him. It’s in the set of his jaw and in the ripple of his forearm while he jacks me.

He licks his lips. “If you come, you’ll take me with you.”

Now that he’s said it, I really want to. Closing my eyes, I slow my pace and focus on the pleasure of each stroke. Out and in blur together. There’s only the ruffle of bliss I get from him.

When I open my eyes again, it’s Jamie’s expression that finally takes me there. It’s a cocktail of desire and wonder so potent that I feel myself tip over the edge. “Jamie,” I gasp, chasing the sensation. Leaning into it.

I shoot and he shudders beneath me. I collapse on his messy chest before it’s over. My lips land beside his ear and I moan quietly while my ass clenches around his cock.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

Indeed. I wrap my arms around him and hold on for as long as I dare.

I honestly don’t know how I’m ever going to give him up when summer comes to an end.





32





Jamie





Camp is almost over. Seriously, these past five weeks have flown by. And now there’s one week left and I can’t wrap my brain around it. I guess time flies when you’re playing hockey every day and getting laid every night.

As the afternoon scrimmage winds down, the kids are in high spirits. Correction—the offensive players are in high spirits. My goalies, on the other hand, are grumpy as hell. It was a high-scoring game for both sides, and there was no stopping Wes’s forwards today.

Killfeather’s absence is definitely noticeable. He had real talent. Has, I correct myself, because it’s not like the kid dropped dead. His gay-bashing father decided that pulling his son from one of the most prestigious training facilities in the country was a smart move. You know, because Elites is crawling with perverts. Moron.

I skate over to the net, where my fifteen-year-old goalie lingers, scowling as he removes his helmet.

“I was dog shit today,” Brighton informs me.

“You had an off day,” I say with a smile. “But you weren’t dog shit. You stopped more than you let in.”

“I let in seven.”

“It happens, kid. You did everything right out there.” I’m not lying—Brighton heeded every piece of advice I gave him today. Just happened that Wes’s advice to his forwards was better.

I blow my whistle to signal my other goalie, who looks equally glum as he skates over to us.

“I played like—”

“Let me guess, dog shit?” I cut in, grinning at Bradowski. “Yeah, Brighton and I just went over that. But you guys played hard today, and you played well. I don’t want you going back to the dorm and sulking all night, okay?”

“Okay,” they say in unison, but it doesn’t sound too convincing.

I sigh. “Look at it this way. Brighton, you let in seven out of—” I call out to Georgie as he skates by us. “How many shots did Wes’s boys take on net?”

“Thirty-five,” Georgie calls back without stopping.

“Seven out of thirty-five,” I tell Brighton. I do some quick math. “That’s twenty percent. And Bradowski, you had eight get by you, but stopped about as many as Brighton. It’s not a terrible statistic.” I chuckle. “Coach Wesley and I used to challenge each other to shootouts all the time when we were training here. There were days when he’d slap five shots at me and every single one would hit its mark.”

Wes’s ears must be burning, because he suddenly appears beside me. “Everything okay here?”

“Yep. Just telling the boys about how you used to smoke my ass in shootouts.”

When his brows shoot up, I realize he’s thinking about the last time we faced off. Awesome. Now I’m thinking about it too, and I hope to God the kids don’t see the blush on my cheeks.

“Yeah, Canning didn’t stand a chance against me,” Wes says, recovering quickly. “On either side of the goal, actually. Didn’t matter if I was holding the stick or wearing the goalie pads—he lost every time.”