I kiss the center of his chest. Then I move to his left pec, dragging my lips across the warm skin, and Oliver’s head drops back against the pillow. I kiss lower, following that trail of hair down his sternum to his stomach. The muscles jump and twitch under my mouth.
“Ryan.” His voice is wrecked already. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.”
I keep going. Lower. Past his navel, where the hair thickens and the waistband of his sweatpants sits low on his hips. I can see the outline of his erection pressing against the gray fabric, straining, and the sight of it sends a bolt of heat straight to my own cock.
I hook my fingers into his waistband and look up at him. “May I?”
Oliver nods. He lifts his hips, and I pull his sweatpants down his thighs, past his knees, off his feet entirely. He’s not wearing underwear.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, curving slightly to the left. The head is flushed dark, a bead of precome already gathering at the slit. Below, his balls hang heavy, drawn up slightly with arousal, and the dark hair at the base is full and untrimmed. Apparently, the Pube Pact that the Ice Queen once wrote about extends past the hockey season.
I’ve never seen another man’s erection in person. I’ve seen diagrams, illustrations, the occasional educational video that Marvin directed me toward during our excruciating FaceTime tutorial. But none of that prepared me for the reality of Oliver’s cock inches from my face, hard and leaking because of me.
“You’re staring,” Oliver says, echoing my words from earlier, and his voice cracks on the second syllable.
“It’s beautiful,” I reply.
His laugh dissolves into a groan as I wrap my hand around the base of his shaft. The skin is hot. Velvet-smooth over rigid hardness. My fingers don’t quite meet around the girth, and I watch Oliver’s entire body tense at the contact.
I stroke him once, experimentally. A full, slow pull from base to tip, and Oliver’s hips jerk upward. Precome smears across my thumb.
“Tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” I say.
“You couldn’t possibly do this wrong. You could read me a grocery list right now, and I’d still—ah—come.”
I stroke again, twisting slightly at the head the way I do when I touch myself, and Oliver’s sentence dies a spectacular death. His hands fist in the sheets on either side of him, and the tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief.
I lower my head.
The first touch of my tongue to the tip of his cock is tentative. I taste salt and something tangy. It’s not unpleasant, it’s…Oliver. His whole body shudders. Encouraged, I flatten my tongue and lick a broad stripe from the base of the head to the slit, collecting the precome that’s been gathering there.
“Oh God,” Oliver breathes. “Oh fuck, Ryan!”
I take the head into my mouth.
The stretch of my lips around him is unfamiliar but not uncomfortable. I keep my teeth covered, something Marvin stressed with mortifying emphasis during our talk, and I seal my lips around the ridge of the head, sucking gently. Oliver’s hand flies to my hair—not pushing, not guiding, just resting there, fingers threading through the strands.
I take more of him in. Inch by inch, letting my mouth adjust to the size and weight of him on my tongue. I can’t take all of him—he’s too thick, and my gag reflex makes itself known about two-thirds of the way down—but I find a rhythm. Bobbing my head, working the shaft with my hand where my mouth can’t reach, hollowing my cheeks on the upstroke.
Oliver’s breathing has gone ragged. His thighs tremble on either side of my head, and the hand in my hair tightens enough that I feel the pull against my scalp.
“Ryan—your mouth—I can’t?—”
I swirl my tongue around the head, pressing into the sensitive spot just below the ridge, and Oliver’s hips buck hard enough that I have to brace my free hand against his hip to keep him steady. The sound he makes is guttural, animal, nothing like the composed and easygoing Oliver the world gets to see. This version is mine. Only mine.
I pick up the pace. My jaw aches, and saliva is running downmy chin in a way that would horrify me under any other circumstances, but right now I don’t care. I care about the sounds Oliver is making. I care about the way his abs clench and release with every pass of my mouth. I care about the way his fingers keep flexing in my hair, caught between pulling me closer and letting me set the pace.
“Ryan, I’m gonna—” His voice breaks apart. “You need to pull off if you don’t want?—”
I don’t pull off.
I take him deeper, sucking harder, and Oliver’s entire body goes rigid. His back arches off the mattress, his hand clamps down in my hair, and he comes with a shout that I’m certain the entire Hockey House can hear through the walls.
The first pulse of cum hits the back of my throat, warm and thick and salty. I swallow on instinct, then again as the second wave follows. Oliver’s hips stutter through the aftershocks, small involuntary thrusts that push more of him across my tongue, and I take everything he gives me. Every last drop.
When his body finally goes slack, I pull off slowly, pressing one last kiss to the oversensitive head that makes Oliver twitch and hiss through his teeth. I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and look up at him.
