We stayed like that for a moment, both shaking, both trying to catch our breath. Then he pulled out carefully and I felt his come start to leak from my hole.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
I straightened slowly, testing my legs, and turned to face him. He looked wrecked—hair messed, face flushed, eyes dark with satisfaction.
“That was insane,” he said.
“Worth it.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small silicone plug. My eyes widened.
“You came prepared.”
“I know you.” His voice was rough but fond. “Knew you'd want this. Need this.”
He turned me around gently, hands on my hips, and I braced against the wall again. I felt his come still leaking from my hole, warm and slick, and then the press of the plug against my entrance.
“Relax for me,” he murmured.
I breathed out and felt him push it in slowly. The stretch made me gasp but he worked it in carefully until it was fully seated.
The fullness was immediate and overwhelming. His come was trapped inside me, the plug keeping me constantly stuffed, and the knowledge that I’d be skating with this still in me made my spent cock twitch with interest.
“How's that feel?” he asked, hands smoothing over my ass.
“Perfect.” My voice came out wrecked.
“Good.” He turned me back around and kissed me slowly. “Want you to feel me the whole game. Want you to remember who you belong to.”
“Yours,” I breathed against his mouth. “Always yours.”
He pulled back and looked down at himself—his cock still slick with lube and come, softening now but still impressive. “Clean me up.”
It wasn't a question. It was an order.
I dropped to my knees immediately, ignoring the protest from my bad leg, and took him in my mouth. He was soft enough that I could take him all the way, and I worked my tongue over every inch, tasting myself and him mixed together.
“That's it,” he said, hand coming to rest in my hair. “Good boy. Get me clean.”
I sucked gently, thoroughly, making sure I got every trace of come and lube. The taste was familiar now—salt and musk and something uniquely him—and I savored it, knowing I wouldn't get this again until after the game.
When I was satisfied, I pulled off and looked up at him. “Good?”
“Perfect.” He helped me to my feet and tucked himself back into his pants. “You're perfect.”
I pulled up my compression shorts and hockey pants carefully, adjusting around the plug, and felt the shift of it insideme. Every movement was a reminder. Every step would be a reminder.
I was carrying him with me. Literally.
He helped me straighten my jersey, hands gentle now, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You're going to be amazing out there.”
“I know.” I grinned despite the nerves and the pain and the absurdity of what we'd just done. “I've got the best good luck charm.”
“Insane,” he repeated, but he was smiling.
We cleaned up quickly—wiping down the wall, making sure there was no evidence of what had happened—and I tested my weight on the bad leg. It held. The pain was still there but manageable, overshadowed by the satisfied warmth spreading through my body and the constant pressure of the plug.
Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the equipment room separately—me first, then Grant a careful two minutes later. I was flushed, breathing hard, my jersey slightly askew. Grant looked wrecked and steady at the same time, and when our eyes met in the hallway, I felt everything we couldn't say out loud pass between us.
