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DERRICK

" Y ou want my dick down your throat, don't you, Baby Shaw?

" The warmth of Bast's breath so close to my ear startles me so bad the slushie we're sharing goes down the wrong pipe, leaving me gasping for air and sputtering like an idiot.

People give us a wide berth as they hurry past, everyone scrambling to get in line for rides, cotton candy, funnel cakes, or to secure a good spot near the main stage to watch Brea perform.

The summer carnival lights twinkle around us, casting colorful shadows across Bast's sharp jawline as he watches me choke with barely concealed amusement.

"Is he okay?" I hear Alexis, Tor’s wife, ask with genuine concern in her voice as the frosty blue liquid continues its mission to choke the life out of me. She steps closer, her brow furrowed, but Bast waves her off with a casual flick of his wrist.

"He's fine. A little excited. Swallowed more than he can handle," Bast replies, patting me firmly on the back as I splutter at the double meaning, my eyes watering.

His hand lingers between my shoulder blades, warm and steady against my t-shirt, and I swear I can feel each individual callus on his palm through the thin fabric.

"You guys go ahead. We'll catch up," he tells our friend group, his voice carrying that natural goalie authority. Ridley, Devan, Tor and Alexis exchange knowing glances before they nod and disappear into the crowd, the carnival sounds swallowing their laughter.

I mean, I'm suffering from death by blue slushie but I have to take a moment and wonder how I got here.

My entire summer before the start of my rookie season with Toronto.

A dream come true in itself and I got to spend it with most of the starting line of The Seattle Vipers.

Men I've watched on TV for years, whose hockey cards I collected religiously.

The most bizarre thing about it all is that I, Derrick Shaw, have spent the past two weeks of this cherished time with Sebastian Bergeron.

The man I've aspired to be and looked up to since the first time I strapped on goalie pads.

Okay, maybe not that far back but it feels like it.

His poster was the centerpiece of my bedroom wall through high school, for crying out loud, and now he's asking me if I want his—well, you know.

Sucking in a deep breath, I stand and pat my chest. Trying and failing miserably to look like his question didn't almost shock me to death. I hand Bast the big gulp-sized slushie and pull up my big-boy seductive pants.

"Yes, more than anything," I rasp, voice crackling with desire and blue raspberry aftermath. The confession leaves my throat raw and exposed, but the flash of heat in his eyes makes the vulnerability worth it.

Before I can second guess myself and spiral into doubt about whether my summer crush has been nothing but that.

Or whether I've imagined the lingering touches, the private smiles, the way his gaze follows me across rooms, Bast's warm, calloused hand finds mine with purpose, gripping with a pressure that sends electricity racing up my arm and settling low in my belly.

He pulls me behind him like a man on a mission, cutting through the carnival crowd with the same confidence he commands the crease.

I watch the broad planes of his back muscles shift underneath his white t-shirt with each purposeful stride, the cotton stretching taut then relaxing in a hypnotic rhythm that has me salivating.

My eyes trace the long line of his spine downward, following it like a treasure map to where it disappears beneath his jeans.

And there it is, taunting me with each step, that perfectly sculpted ass, round and firm from thousands of butterfly stretches in the net.

Hockey butt is a real phenomenon, and while I've developed my own from years of training, seeing Sebastian's right here in front of me, knowing where those confident strides might lead us, makes my jeans uncomfortably tight.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple despite the cool evening air, and my pulse hammers so loudly I'm certain he can hear it over the carnival music.

Before I know it, the sweet aroma of fried dough and powdered sugar hits my nose, mingling with the faint scent of Bast’s cologne.

My back is pressed against the hard corrugated surface of a food truck, the metal cool and unyielding through the thin fabric of my shirt.

I’m staring into Bast’s beautiful gray eyes, which seem to darken with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

A little taller and wider than I am, he completely surrounds me, his presence enveloping me like a warm, protective shield.

The heat of his body radiates through the narrow space between us, sending delicious tingles down my spine and straight to my dick, which is already painfully hard and straining against the zipper of my jeans.

A quick look to my right reveals that we’re now tucked in between two trucks, hidden from the prying eyes of the festival goers.

The sounds of the carnival, the distant laughter, the whir of rides, and the music all seem to fade into the background, leaving only the two of us in this intimate, secret space.

Alone, just the two of us, with nothing but the electric tension that crackles in the air between us.

I turn my attention back to Bast, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum.

His gaze is fixed on me, unwavering, and I can feel the weight of his desire like a physical touch.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, my mouth suddenly dry.

Every nerve in my body is on fire, every sense heightened, and I can feel the anticipation building within me like a storm, ready to break at any moment.

He lifts a brow, and I watch mesmerized as he gives me the sweetest smile.

I blink, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man smile like this.

A smirk, yeah, but this is just for me, a real treasure, and I want to take a picture, hold on to this prize I’ve been given, because it is fleeting.

All of this is fleeting. I’m not Cinderella, this all ends, whatever this is, at midnight.

The camp is over and I’m off to Toronto for training camp in a few days.

Bast, Tor, and Ridley back to Seattle. We’ve danced around this for weeks and tonight is a culmination of stolen moments, flirtatious jabs, and competitive seduction on the ice.

“No words, Baby Shaw? Or shall I call you, ma Princesse?” Bast asks, lips hovering a breath away from mine.

It wouldn’t take much to lean in and take his bottom lip between my teeth. Suck on his flesh, moan at the remnants of slushie on his tongue. Yes, please.

“Ma Princesse?” I ask breathlessly. Because, of course, I’m confused by my newly appointed nickname.

Is that French? A princess, huh. I took French in High School, but I can barely string a sentence together now.

There are some words I do remember. Princesse is self-explanatory.

I’ve never considered myself a femme boy, but for Bast, tonight, hell yes.

Bast closes the distance between us and presses his body into mine, and I moan at the feel of his hard erection pressing into my stomach. “Yes, my beautiful Princesse. I’ve been wanting to call you that for days now,” he says as he finally puts me out of my misery and captures my lips with his.

The kiss is rough, yet tender, making my toes curve in my shoes. I fall into his mouth, opening up completely as he steals my breath from my body and I let him. I mean, if I die tonight, death by Sebastian Bergeron is not a bad way to go.

His lips are a perfect blend of soft and demanding, and I can taste the lingering sweetness of the slushie on his tongue.

My hands find their way to his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were a lifeline, pulling him closer, needing more of him.

Every touch, every taste, every sensation is magnified, and I’m lost in the moment, lost in him.

Pulling away panting, my knees weak, I remember why we’re here, hiding away from the public.

I boldly drop to the ground, the cool grass a sweet reprieve from my overheated skin.

I’ve never done this so openly before, but I can’t shy away now.

Not when I’ve wanted this for weeks now.

If I don’t take this leap now, I will regret it.

Bast sucks in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating as he takes in the sight of me kneeling before him.

I don’t think he expected me to go through with it but I’m nothing if not determined.

I’m competitive, always rising to the challenge, and this time I’m answering it with my lips parted and a waiting throat. Well, I’m going to try at least.

I look up at him, the cool grass beneath my knees a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body.

My hands are steady at the zipper of his shorts, waiting like the obedient good boy I appear to be.

His gaze is intense, burning into me, and I can feel the weight of his desire like a tangible force.

“Look at you, Princesse,” Bast murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. He strokes his hands down the side of my face, a barely-there touch that has me leaning in for more, craving the contact. “I knew you would look good on your knees for me.”

“Give me this,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

It sounds like a plea, and maybe it is. This man has me throwing all caution to the wind, all dignity out the window.

I will possibly reevaluate this night for all the lonely months ahead of me and learn something of importance from it, but for now, I’m going with it. I’m all in.