He didn't.
His hands moved lower, finding the waistband of my hockey pants, and I helped him shove them down along with the compression shorts underneath. The jockstrap stayed in place—standard game-day gear—but it left me exposed enough that when his hand wrapped around my cock I gasped.
“Fuck—Grant?—”
“Shh.” His other hand came up to cover my mouth. “Quiet. We can't let anyone hear.”
I nodded against his palm, biting down on my lip as his hand started stroking me. I was already hard, had been since the moment we'd stepped into this room, and every touch sent sparks of pleasure through my oversensitive body.
“Turn around,” he said, voice low and commanding.
I did, bracing my hands against the wall, and felt him press against my back. His hands ran over my ass, squeezing, spreading, and I heard the sound of a bottle cap popping.
“You keep lube in the equipment room?” I asked, voice strained.
“Shut up.” But I could hear the smile in his voice. His slick fingers found my hole, circling, pressing, and I pushed back against them.
“Please,” I breathed. “Please, Daddy. Need you inside me.”
He added a second finger, working me open quickly, and I bit down hard on my forearm to keep from making noise. The stretch burned but I didn't care. Needed more. Needed him.
“Please, Daddy. I'm ready. I can take it.”
The filthy words did something to him. I heard his breathing change, felt his fingers withdraw, and then the blunt head of his cock was pressing against my hole.
He pushed in slowly despite the urgency, and I felt every inch as he stretched me open. The burn was intense but I pushed back against it, taking him deeper, needing him all the way inside.
“Fuck—you feel so good—” His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.
“More. Deeper. Give me all of it.”
He bottomed out and we both went still, breathing hard, adjusting to the fullness. Then he started to move.
It was fast and desperate and nothing like the careful, thorough fucking at the cabin. This was need and fear and love all tangled together, both of us chasing something we couldn't name.
“That's it—fuck—taking me so well—” His voice was wrecked.
I braced myself against the wall, letting him use me, and felt pleasure building despite the time crunch and the fear of getting caught. Every thrust hit my prostate, sending shocks of sensation through my body.
“Harder,” I gasped. “Need it harder.”
He complied, slamming into me, and I had to press my face against my forearm to muffle the sounds I was making. The pain in my shoulder and leg faded into background noise, overwhelmed by the pleasure and the desperate need to feel him come inside me.
“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Gonna breed this hole and send you out there full of me.”
“Yes—please—need it?—”
His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and I felt my orgasm building fast.
“Come with me,” he ordered. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”
“Close—so close?—”
He thrust harder, deeper, hand working my cock, and I felt him swell inside me. “Fuck—Jace—gonna come?—”
“Do it. Fill me up. Please, Daddy, give me your come?—”
He came with a muffled groan, burying himself deep, and I felt the hot pulse of him filling me. The sensation pushed me over the edge and I came hard, spilling over his hand and onto the floor, biting down on my arm to keep from crying out.
