Page 19

THIRTEEN

DERRICK

T hree days. That's how long we've been holed up in this house, lost in each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist. Like the outside can't touch us here. It's as if we're in our own little universe, where the only thing that matters is the feel of skin on skin.

Bast's hands move like he's painting me with touch, exploring every inch of my body with a desperate hunger that I can't help but return. We've spent three days learning every curve and contour of each other's bodies, mapping out the places that make us gasp and moan.

Mornings are for slow, languid sex, where we take our time exploring, learning the rhythms and rhymes that make us sing.

The afternoons are for messy kitchen counters and rough fucking, where we lose ourselves in the primal need to feel each other.

The nights, they are for soft laughs, sharp gasps, and whispers that turn into screams as we push each other further and further.

I've learned more about Bast in these three days than I ever thought possible.

I know the spot behind his left ear that makes him shiver, the way his breath hitches when I trace my fingers over his collarbone, the soft curse he mutters in French when he's too far gone to pretend he's in control.

I know the way he stares at me after, like I'm something he still can't believe he gets to keep touching.

It's as if we're two halves of a whole, fitting together perfectly in a way that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

The electricity between us, crackling and sparking with every touch, every kiss, every gasp.

I know, deep down, that this is something special. Something that I never want to end.

I also know that, eventually, we'll have to leave this little bubble we've created.

We'll have to face the outside world again, with all its noise and chaos and distractions.

I'm not sure if I'm ready for that. For now, I'm content to stay here, lost in Bast's arms, and let the rest of the world fade away. . .but happy doesn't erase reality.

Every morning, I wait for the other shoe to drop. For another call. For Tony's voice on the line with something concrete. Right now, I'm living in limbo. Traded? Dropped? Benched indefinitely?

I don't know.

Bast's house has become a sanctuary, but even sanctuaries crack.

This morning, I wake up before him. He's still breathing deep and even, his arm slung around me like I belong there.

I lie still for a minute, listening to the steady beat of his heart behind my back, pretending we exist in a world where the NHL doesn't control my fate but the thoughts come creeping in, like always.

So, I slip out of bed. I tug on one of Bast's oversized sweatshirts, it smells like fresh pine, coffee and him as I pad down the stairs toward the kitchen. My body's sore in the best way, a dull ache in my thighs and ass makes me flush when I think about how it got there.

My brain is spinning. The coffee brews, filling the space with warmth and caffeine, but it does nothing to quiet the thoughts. I pull out my phone, staring at the blank screen. No messages. Not from Tony. Not from my coach. Not from the team.

Just silence.

I scroll through my photos instead. There's one Bast took on day two, when I was still lying in bed, half-asleep and shirtless, sheets tangled at my waist. The morning light had been streaming through his curtains, cutting golden lines across my skin.

He hadn't meant to show me, but I'd seen it on his phone when he handed it over to Google something ridiculous about whether penguins have knees.

In the photo my smile is soft. Unfiltered.

Eyes still heavy with sleep, curls a wild mess against his expensive pillowcase.

I look safe, like a man who'd forgotten, just for a moment, that his entire career was hanging by a thread.

I want to believe this thing between us can be more than borrowed time.

More than just a beautiful mistake we made while waiting for reality to crash back in.

The way his fingers trail across my skin like he's memorizing me.

The quiet French he mumbles against my neck when he thinks I'm asleep.

The unguarded laugh I've drawn from him exactly seven times in three days. Yep, I've been counting.

If Toronto cuts me, if I get sent somewhere else, thousands of miles away. . .Seattle to anywhere is a long-distance sentence neither of us signed up for. I don't think Bast is the type to build his life around FaceTime calls and red-eye flights.

I close my eyes and let the worst-case scenario crash through me like a wave.

The trade to a team in Florida or New York.

The awkward conversation where we both pretend three days didn't rewrite everything I thought I knew about connection.

The polite texts that would slowly fade to nothing.

The Instagram likes that would become our only point of contact.

The way I'd still search for his face first whenever I played against Seattle, hoping to catch his eye across the distance between us.

"Hey."

His voice, rough and groggy, floats into the kitchen.

I turn to see him standing in the doorway, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, sleep still in his eyes. Bare chest on display, tattoos on full lickable display. He's rubbing a hand over his head, watching me like he already knows something's wrong.

"You left the bed," he says, voice still scratchy.

I shrug, trying for casual. "Wasn't sleeping."

He crosses the space in a few steps and pulls me into his chest without asking. I melt into it, because even if everything else is chaos, this, him, feels like calm.

"You're thinking too loud again," he murmurs into my hair.

I exhale a shaky breath against his shoulder. "I can't stop."

"Then let me help you forget," he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.

Maybe I will. For a little longer. Even if the world is about to fall apart, for now, I have this. I have him.

Bast drops to his knees before me. Eyes lifted up to mine, waiting eagerly for me.

I look down at Bast, his gray eyes dark with hunger and intent, and I can't help but smirk. "Help me forget," I groan, anticipating the feel of his lips wrapped around my dick, the thought alone sending a shiver down my spine.

He holds my gaze as he slowly slides my boxers down to my ankles, his knuckles grazing my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

He leans in, pressing his nose to my groin, inhaling deeply.

"Parfait, Princesse," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.

Perfect, Princess. The words, spoken in his native French, send a thrill through me, and my dick twitches in anticipation.

He reaches up, squeezing my balls in his large, calloused hand, pulling a moan from deep within my chest. "Please, Sebastian," I pant, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter behind me for support.

I need this. I need him. Another distraction, a much-needed distraction from the chaos of my thoughts.

He looks up at me, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "Oui, ma princesse, laisse-moi te faire du bien." Yes, my princess, let me make you feel good . With that promise, he takes the head of my dick between his lips, his tongue swirls around the sensitive flesh, and my hips buck involuntarily.

I let out a sharp hiss, my fingers find their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer but he doesn't gag, doesn't pull back. Instead, he swallows me down, taking me to the back of his throat, his mouth hot and wet and perfect.

"Fuck! Yes, Bast. Oh God." I shout, my voice echoing through the kitchen, filling the empty spaces with my pleasure.

I grip the back of his neck tighter, my fingers tracing patterns in his closely cropped hair, holding him in place as I fuck his mouth.

. .and he lets me. He lets me use him, lets me take what I need.

I get lost in the warmth of his mouth, in the sensation of his tongue sliding against my shaft, in the sight of this strong, capable man on his knees for me.

It's a heady feeling, a powerful one. It makes me feel worshipped, honored even, like I'm something precious, something to be cherished, and in this moment, I believe it.

I believe that I'm more than just a rookie goalie with an uncertain future.

I'm more than just a kid from a single-parent home, more than just a man with quiet scars and hidden fears.

I'm Derrick Shaw, and I'm worthy of this. Worthy of him.

My orgasm hits me hard and fast, a wave of pleasure crashing through me, leaving me breathless and shaking. I scream Bast's name, my voice hoarse and raw, as I cum down his throat. He takes it all, every last drop, like it's a gift. Like it's something to be savored.

As the last of my orgasm fades, Bast rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine.

He steps closer, his body pressing against mine, his lips capturing mine in a fierce, possessive kiss.

I taste myself on his tongue, salty and bitter, but I don't care.

I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring all my fears, all my hopes, all my desires into this one, perfect moment.

When we finally pull apart, we're both breathless, our chests heaving, our hearts pounding in sync. Bast rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breath warm on my face.

"Better?" he asks, his voice a soft rumble.

I nod, a small smile playing on my lips. "Better," I confirm, and it's true. The chaos of my thoughts has quieted, the uncertainty of my future has faded, if only for a moment. All that matters is this. Him. Us.

As we stand there, our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating as one, I feel a pang of fear. Fear that this is all just a dream, a beautiful, perfect dream that will shatter as soon as I wake up. Fear that I'm falling too hard, too fast. Fear that I'm setting myself up for heartbreak.

The truth is, I'm falling in love with Sebastian Bergeron.

I think I fell in love months ago, even though I fought hard to push it down deep.

I'm falling in love with his grumpy demeanor and his hidden smiles.

With his strong, capable hands and his gentle touch.

With his quiet strength and his fierce protectiveness.

I'm falling in love with every part of him, even the parts he tries to hide.

I'm terrified that he doesn't feel the same way. That this is just a fling for him, a way to pass the time until the real world comes crashing back in. That I'm just a distraction, a convenient body to warm his bed.

Even as the fear threatens to overwhelm me, I push it aside. For now, I have this. I have him. And that's enough. It has to be enough.

Bast pulls back, his eyes searching mine, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Come on," he says, taking my hand and leading me out of the kitchen. "Let's go back to bed."

I follow him because I can't resist. I want to spend every moment I can with him, even if it means ignoring the fears and uncertainties that lurk in the shadows of my mind. I'm in love with him, and I hope that maybe, just maybe, he's falling in love with me too.

As we climb back into bed, Bast pulls me into his arms, his body warm and solid against mine.

I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, letting the sound lull me into a sense of peace.

As I drift off to sleep, I let those words run through my mine on repeat, the words that I'm too afraid to say out loud.

I love you, Sebastian.

I have loved him for months. I'm not ready to confess my feelings. He might not feel the same way, but maybe, just maybe, he will someday. This feels right. It feels real. I believe that it's meant to last.

With that thought, I drift off into a fitful sleep, my dreams haunted by the specter of a future without him. A future that I'm not sure I'm ready to face. A future that I'm not sure I can survive.

For now, this is enough. It has to be enough because the alternative is too painful to bear. The alternative is a life without Sebastian Bergeron, and that's not a life I want to live.

So, I hold him tighter, my arms wrapping around his waist, my body pressing against his. I let the sound of his heartbeat lull me back to sleep, back to a place where the real world can't touch us. Back to a place where it's just the two of us, lost in each other's arms.

I pray that it's real. I pray that it's meant to last, because I can't bear the alternative.