He sends a picture of his face, indeed covered in sweat. He’s wearing a tank top that’s soaked through. Jesus, this man is hot.
Me: I want to lick you.
The dots appear and disappear several times before a message finally comes through.
Bouche: I want to let you.
Fuck yeah.
Me: You want me to fuck your slutty little hole again tonight? Say the word, Bouche, and I’m there. I can’t stop thinking about how tight and hot you are inside.
The message shows as read, but there’s no answer and I wonder if I’ve pushed him too far.
Ten minutes pass before my phone buzzes again.
Bouche: Made me pop wood in the middle of a set. Asshole.
That makes me laugh.
Me: Is that a yes?
The dots pop up again and I wait for the paragraph he must be typing.
Bouche: Give me an hour.
I smile. That’s what I’m talking about.
Me: Don’t shower first. I want to smell you.
Bouche: You really don’t.
Me: I’ll be the judge of that. I want you naked and sweaty and waiting for me.
Bouche: 1280 Washington Ave.
Me: See you in an hour, Bouche. Get yourself ready for me.
Bouche: Okay.
After tossing my phone on the bed, I head to my bathroom for a shower. I took a chance and it paid off. I can’t wait to get inside that man again. This is gonna be good. I’ll get him out of my system then I can focus on my target Saturday night.
Chuckling to myself, I start the shower and peel out of my clothes. Who am I kidding? I’m fucking Bouche any chance I get for as long as I can. I shouldn’t want this job to wrap up and remove my excuse to go and see Bouche play. Not that I’m interested in the game. Just the man on skates plowing through other grown men like bowling pins.
I think he likes it when I dominate him a little though. It’s a contrast to his on-ice persona, but maybe that’s why it works. He’s always in charge, but the look in his eyes when I take over says he doesn’t always want to be.
I can definitely work with that.
