“He… what?”
He leans back like he needs to be physically comfortable before speaking on the subject. “Ah, Jonas doesn’t like to talk about it. He’d throttle me if he heard me talking about this, but it’s not like it’s a secret he got put on a waiver a year into his first NHL contract. Shook him up real bad.”
I can imagine. I’m constantly traveling for competitions, but I’ve always got my home rink to go back to. “Leroy mentioned he gets traded a lot. Why?”
I’m ready for him to go all in, turn on the coach talk and break down where Bekken fucked up, but he shakes his head. “Not a clue. You’re right, Jonas can be an asshole, so can every professional athlete. Obsessive, egotistical, holds a grudge—great traits in an athlete. Not so great anywhere else. He’s fast and massive and most guys are one or the other. Still, every few year he ends up moving halfway across the country to play for another team.”
“You’re not any of those things,” I say before shoving a fork-full of food into my mouth. It’s pretty good. God I missed cheese.
“Guess that’s why I never made it to the national level.”
I keep eating, Christos’ cooking a good deterrent from asking,what’s my worst trait?
He lifts his arms, holding the back of his head with both hands.“You know, he’s not the only guy I know who's gone pro. I’ve been on a couple teams with guys now in the NHL. Lost to way more of them, games and fights. I’ve also played with guys who got injured, retired early, can’t even play a pick up game for fun anymore.
“No one on my high school team made it to my level, and I sure as shit know no one from our rival team made it to my level. I would have loved to go farther up the league…” He shrugs his shoulders with a deep breath.
“You sure none of your high school rivals made it pro?”
A smile spreads across his face, putting his ego on full display. “Abso-fucking-lutley.”
I hum to myself, finishing up my dinner. “You think they talk about you?”
“You mean about losing to me?” His nostril’s flair. “I hope so.”
“You’re such a jock. You and your cottage cheese meals. It’s really good, by the way.”
“Not exactly ideal for date night,” he points out. “And are you saying you’renota jock?”
“You said jocks aren’t your type.” I scrape some beans and potato skin into my fork. “I’m a performer. I think what I do is closer to something like dance more than hockey.”
We’re getting dangerously close breaching our rule about work, so I change the subject. “You want to try something new tonight?”
“Like what?” He gets up to grab my plate, but I stop him.
“You could clean the kitchen…” His flash of confusion is so priceless. I flash him a wink. “And I can fold the clothes you’re wearing.”
He smiles before checking over his shoulder. “Let me shut the blinds.”
He’s gone in a flash and back just as quick, now shirtless. He tosses it to me. The fabric is soft from years of use and smells of artificial wood and aluminum, a smell I’m painfully acquainted with from so many years of men’s locker rooms. But there’s a faint smell that’s distinctly Christos.
He takes his time with his pants, making a show of slipping the button from its hole. The sound of his zipper coming undone is almost musical. Opening his fly, he digs his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. His lips pull into a smirk.
My tongue drags across my top lip as I watch his boxers slip down his thick thighs. He tosses the boxers my way. I drop the shirt to my lap, catching the wad of cloth in both hands. He keeps his eyes on me as he grabs our dinner plates, a wry smirk on his lips as he goes to the sink, his tail swaying suggestively.
I bring his boxers to my nose. That faint smell from his shirt is overwhelming—earthy like cut grass and this heavy musk that colognes try to emulate with cedar and patchouli. This doesn’t smell like either of those things. It smells like Christos, masculine and strong, making my mouth water. I pull back and shove his boxers into my pocket before keeping up my end of the chores. Folding his shirt and pants neatly, placing them on his chair in the dining nook.
He’s washing our dishes by hand. He looks so good naked, his stark white fur only accentuating the muscles in his thighs and back. I slip up behind him at the sink, resting my hands on his lower stomach.
“Thank you again for dinner.” I nuzzle into his back. “And cleaning up…” I trail a hand down past his hips, brushing his shaft with the tips of my fingers. “And being so fucking sexy.”
Starting at the head of his cock I wrap my hand around him, taking one achingly slow stroke. He exhales, almost appearing calm, but his tail is going haywire—flicking against my inner thighs. “Are you already hard? Hoping I’ll jerk you off right here so you’ll have another mess to clean up?”
I pause, spitting in my hand before reaching for him. Again, I palm the head of his cock, now stroking his shaft as well.He grips the edge of the sink, his deep breath now a proper huff.
“If you spill anything you have to clean it with your tongue.”
He throws his head back with a grunt. His hips jerk ever so slightly, and I’m not even sure he’s aware of what his body is doing.
