Deke (Fake Boyfriend 3)

“Damn, that’s hot.”

Ollie chuckles. “Me being injured is hot?”

It plays right into my jock fantasy, but I won’t be bringing that up any time soon. “Uh-huh.”

“I’ll try to get beaten up on the ice more often. Maybe become an enforcer.”

I shake my head. “Nah, you’ve got more talent than that.”

He stares up at me with nothing but appreciation in his soft gaze. I don’t know if it’s from the compliment or my hand skimming over his skin and giving him goose bumps.

My hand trails over his pierced nipple, and he shudders beneath me. “This wasn’t in the night you got super drunk,” I say.

“Playoffs. Need it in or we’ll lose.”

Ugh, hockey players and their superstitions.

“Worked tonight then,” I say dryly.

In the blink of an eye and with the strength of a hockey player, he rolls us over so I’m pinned underneath him.

“If this is supposed to be some sort of punishment for mouthing off, I have to say you suck at it.” My finger, still hovering on his nipple under his shirt, trails down his hard chest. “Isn’t that like … I dunno, a safety concern? You guys are so violent.”

“Eh, I put tape over it, and then we wear so much protective gear we can’t feel anything anyway.”

“Still. It’d be a shame to lose a nipple.” Especially ones as pretty as his. I don’t say this out loud though. Who tells a person they have pretty nipples?

Ollie laughs. “Would it now?”

His hazel eyes lock with mine, and the air between us becomes serious. Ollie’s face slowly falls. When his mouth comes down on mine, it’s soft and no longer urgent or exploring. It feels like a promise we both know he can’t keep.

His fingers make slow work of my buttoned shirt, and then they trail down my chest. They continue their sweet assault to my stomach and then lower to my pants.

“Your belt buckle is in the way,” he whispers against my mouth.

“That’s not my belt buckle.”

Ollie groans and collapses on top of me, burying his face in my neck. “Who knew you’d be a tease?”

“I’m full of surprises.”

His hand cups my cock over my suit pants, and I try not to yell out when his grip tightens, but a grunt escapes.

“Full of lots of big surprises.” He strokes my cock so slowly, and I let out a whimper. “Damn,” he whispers. “I want this inside me.”

That building anticipation, the soaring to higher heights, and that feeling you get while chasing an orgasm plummets, and his words sober me.

My eyes fly open and meet his half-hooded, lust-filled ones. “I’m a bottom.”

His hand stops moving on my aching dick, and I can practically see the moment his need crashes too. He sits up, straddling my lap, much like how I was on him only a few minutes ago. “So am I.”

We stare at each other at an impasse, neither of us knowing where to go from here.

“Blowjobs?” Ollie whines, and I laugh.

“How are you a bottom?”

He narrows his eyes. “Are you about to get stereotypical on me?”

“Well, shit. Yeah, I guess I was. I just … you look like a top.”

“And what exactly does a top look like?”

“Domineering.”

Ollie snorts. “Ash had been out for four years before we got together. He already knew what he liked and didn’t like, so …”

“So, you got the short end of the stick? So to speak.”

He barks out a laugh. “I’m not discussing Ash’s stick with you, but I will say if you ever met him, you’d think he’s the opposite of domineering.”

“Wait, does that mean Ash was the first guy you were with?”

Ollie cocks his head. “Ash is the only guy I’ve been with. I thought you would’ve known that.”

“But …” I think about all this time that’s gone past since we met. “No one?”

Ollie leans over me. “No one’s even come close to tempting me since I met this pain in the ass reporter a few months ago.”

“Not even when you hated me?” My voice is small.

“I’ve never hated you. Far from it. I’ve wanted you every day since we met.”

He kisses me again, slow and tender, his tongue massaging mine, and I try to savor it. Just because he’s admitted he wants me, that doesn’t mean it can happen.

I’ve been down this road with closeted guys before, and I can’t do it again.

But when he lowers himself on top of me fully, a little voice in the back of my head begs, “Maybe just for a little while?”

I’m about to surrender when—

Bang, bang, bang. “Strömberg. Open up.” The thick, Russian accent must belong to—

“Petrov’s back.” Ollie scrambles off me.

“Shit.” I get up as fast as I can and start putting on my shoes that are beside the bed.

Petrov bangs on the door again. “Wake up. I forgot key and need to piss.”