The grin that crossed his face was so deeply satisfied that it should have been illegal in at least three provinces. He reached into the back pocket of the leather pants and produced a small bottle and held it up between two fingers like evidence in his own defense.
“I'm a prepared person,” he said.
I hauled him to his feet and spun him to face the shelving and pressed my chest against his back, my mouth at the side of his throat. The leather pants were so tight it took both of us working at them to get them down to his thighs, and the picture of him like that, bent forward with his hands braced against the metal shelving and the leather pooled at mid-thigh and his bare skin exposed in the single overhead light, was something I was going to be carrying around for a long time.
He passed the lube back over his shoulder without being asked.
I slicked my fingers and pressed the first one in and he pushed back against my hand immediately, a low rough exhale dropping out of him.
“Yes,” he said into his forearm. “Finally.”
I worked him open with two fingers, then three, watching the way his knuckles went white on the shelf edge and the way his hips kept rolling back to take more, and his voice had gone continuous and low and entirely genuine in the way it only got when he'd stopped paying attention to what he was producing.
“You have any idea what I've been dealing with?” I pressed my mouth to the back of his neck, three fingers buried in him while he pushed back. “Standing there watching you play, looking like that, knowing everyone in that building was watching you and you were doing it for me.”
“Yeah,” he managed. “That was the idea.”
I pulled my fingers free and slicked myself and lined up and he went still, braced and waiting, and I pushed in hard and fast in one stroke that bottomed out completely and drove him forward into the shelving with a clatter that I chose not to care about.
The sound he made was not quiet and his hand shot out to grip the shelf edge and his head dropped forward and he said something into his forearm that wasn't a word.
I gave him four seconds. The tight heat of him around me was doing things to my ability to count.
Then I moved.
The pace I set was brutal and neither of us wanted it any other way, one hand gripping his hip hard enough that I'd be able to read my own fingerprints there tomorrow, the other planted flat against the shelving beside his head for leverage. The closet smelled like industrial cleaner and sweat and the sound of my hips driving against the backs of his thighs in the small enclosed space was obscenely loud and I did not care.
He made a wrecked sound that pressed against the shelving and echoed back.
“Touch me,” he said. “Please. Rook.”
“Ask me right,” I said against his ear, and kept the pace going, deep and hard and unrelenting.
The pause before he answered lasted about three thrusts and the sound of each one of them traveled through his chest and into the metal.
“Please,” he said, and his voice had gone somewhere lower and quieter and entirely unguarded. “Sir. Please.”
I wrapped my hand around him and stroked in time with my hips and he came apart in under a minute, clenching around me and cursing into his forearm with a bitten-off ferocity that shook his whole body, and the feeling of him tightening that way pulled me over thirty seconds later with my teeth in his shoulder and his name somewhere in the noise I was making against his skin.
We stayed pressed together for a minute, both of us breathing hard and trying to remember how to function. Then reality crashed back and I pulled out carefully, dealing with the mess as best I could with the limited resources available in a fucking storage closet.
“That was insane,” Soren said, pulling his pants back up and trying to make his hair look less like he'd just been thoroughly fucked.
“You started it.”
“I regret nothing.” He kissed me once more, soft and quick. “Go win your game, Cap.”
I straightened my suit and checked my reflection in my phone screen. Presentable enough. Nobody would know I'd just had desperate pre-game sex with my drummer boyfriend unless they looked too closely at the beard burn on my neck.
We left the storage closet separately, Soren heading back toward the stage exit and me making my way to the locker room.The guys were already starting final prep when I walked in, and if anyone noticed I'd been gone longer than a bathroom break warranted, they didn't say anything.
I was lacing up my skates when Coach's phone rang. He answered it, listened for about ten seconds, and then said, “Fuck.”
The room went quiet.
“Tate's out,” Coach said, lowering the phone. “Food poisoning. He's been throwing up for the past hour and there's no way he can play.”
The silence got heavier. Tate was our offensive defenseman, our power play quarterback. Losing him for a playoff game was catastrophic.
