Elias clutches the Stanley Cup and yells, “REAPERS OUT, BITCHES!” as we disappear into the hotel elevator.
The door clicks shut behind us.
Elias doesn’t speak. Doesn’t chirp or bounce or whine like usual. He stalks forward, slow and focused, hands on my chest—one step, then another—until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the hotel bed.
I raise a brow.
“Tonight I’m taking care of you,”he says, fingers splayed over my chest.
I let out a breath, let him guide me down, arms catching my fall. My back hits the mattress with a grunt, and I look up athim as he steps back, eyes burning. “That so, cap?” I murmur, smirking.
And he gives me the kind of smile that ruins. He pulls his jersey off slow, arms raised high, curls tumbling as the fabric slips past his face. His bare chest is flushed, freckled, damp with sweat and glitter from god knows what. He drags it out. Makes a show of it.
Then his belt. He unbuttons his jeans like a striptease, hips rolling slightly as he peels them down, every movement deliberate—eyes on me the whole time, watching, waiting.
My cock twitches under the sweats I still have on.
He sees it, fucking smirks and purrs at me “Sir, lay back. Let me make you feel good.” And then he’s on his knees between mine, hands on my thighs, mouth soft and filthy and everything I never thought I could have.
Everything I do.
Elias shifts between my legs, hands spreading my thighs like they belong to him—which they do. “Mine,” he whispers, brushing his mouth just above the waistband of my sweats. The heat of him hits me, and I nearly flinch. My ribs are bruised, my shoulder’s on fire, but none of it matters when he looks at me like that. Like I’m a god.
He kisses the fabric first, then he peels it down, careful not to jostle my bandages, his fingers grazing skin
I hiss softly when the air hits me, but he just murmurs again, “Mine,” and wraps one hand around the base of my cock.
Jesus fuck. I throb in his palm, hard and already leaking, and he’s not even started.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers, almost to himself. Then he kisses the head—slow, tongue flicking the slit.“So I’m gonna make you forget everything else.”He takes me into his mouth, inch by slow inch, lips flushed, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on mine.
I groan, head tipping back. The suction is perfect. The rhythm slow. He moves like he’s savoring every second. Like he’s worshipping me, not just blowing me. His fingers stroke the skin just behind my balls, teasing, grounding, and I swear I see stars.
He pulls off just once to pant, wrecked. “You’re not allowed to almost die again, sir.”
“Noted,” I rasp, grabbing a fistful of his curls.
He smirks and then he devours me, wet and filthy and beautiful until my thighs are trembling and I’m panting and cursing, helpless in the hands of my captain—my boy—and I snap. Fist in his curls, dragging him up, swallowing that smug mouth with a kiss that tastes like weeks of blood and fire and missing him. I devour him like I haven’t touched him in years.
He gasps into it, moans when I nip his bottom lip hard enough to sting.
And I growl, low, wrecked, desperate“Ride me.”
Elias pulls back enough to blink at me, lips red and swollen, panting. “Sir… you’re—your ribs, your stitches—”
“I said ride me,” I whisper against his lips, voice cracking. “I miss you.”
Something shifts in his face, like the whole world dropped away and there’s only us, in this hotel bed, post-Cup, post-crash, post-fucking survival. He cups my jaw, thumb stroking just beneath my eye.
Then he nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ve got you.” He climbs into my lap with that same determined look he wears before a faceoff. Spits in his own hand, slicking me up, then sinks down slow, careful, guiding me into him with one hand and clutching my shoulder with the other.
I choke on a moan as he takes me inch by inch. He’s so goddamn tight. Warm and perfect. “Fucking hell,” I rasp.
Elias pants through it, pupils blown, mouth parted, trembling just a little as he bottoms out and sits flush. “Sir...” he whines, “I missed this. Missed you.”
I dig my fingers into his hips, resisting the urge to thrust. “Then show me, pup,” I whisper. “Fucking ride me.”
And he does. Slow at first, grinding in smooth rolls, dragging his nails down my chest, watching my face. I hiss when he clenches, bite down a growl when he tilts his hips just right, chasing the angle that makes him moan like a slut.
