Page 46

Chapter 46

Olli

I wake up in Nat Taylor’s bed.

Tucked into his side like a baby sloth. Breathing in his soft, faded cologne and cheap soap. Listening to the heavy rise and fall of his breath.

I’m still wearing my shirt. He didn’t try to take it off last night. Not that I thought he would, but like . . . You develop certain expectations. A dude wants to take you to bed, you figure, even if he says he’s not gonna try anything, things are gonna come up, you know, south of the border, and . . . things will get tried.

But he didn’t.

Granted, we were tired. The TV’s still on, but paused on the classic and iconic “ are you still watching” screen. I reach over to the bedside table to turn it off, and the slight movement shifts the blankets. Nat’s breathing hitches, and the faintest moan escapes his parted lips.

He nestles in closer, turns his head towards me, so I catch the flutter of his dark lashes. So his words whisper against my throat. “Morning.”

My stomach flips over. Or it’s more like a whole cluster of hummingbirds has launched into the sky—a sort of fizzy fluttery feeling in my gut and emanating through all my limbs. “Morning.”

“I really wish there weren’t two kids in this house.” He nestles closer, and ah, there is our south-of-the-border phenomenon I was expecting last night .

I chuckle. He’s adorable, let’s be totally honest here. “Think you could be quiet if I put my mouth on you?”

“Hey, I am quiet—” He winces, and it quickly dissolves into a grin. “Okay, I'm not quiet. But I have a better idea.”

I freeze solid as ice.

“Let me go first.”

And before I can protest or ask him if he’s sure, he slips down, taking the covers with him. So I get an unobstructed front-row seat to his show.

His fingers drag down my underwear in a quick, efficient thrust, and without warning, his mouth closes around the tip of my cock.

“Holy fuck.” I gasp at the zing of pleasure that shoots through me. “Holy fuck .”

His tongue explores the head, trailing over the slit and along that sensitive ridge—then slides down the shaft. Slowly, he works his way back up, then down again, and I swear I can’t even tell if he’s good at it or it’s just the idea of Nat Taylor sucking my cock making this so goddamn enjoyable but . . .

Holy fuck.

It’s goddamn enjoyable.

My fingers weave into his hair, pressing him gently lower, lower, until his nose brushes my abdomen, until my cock’s fully engulfed by his wet, warm mouth.

I am not going to last long. Like, at all.

When his green eyes flick upwards to meet mine, so I’m looking at him, meeting him eye to eye while he sucks me, that’s it.

“I’m gonna come,” I groan, my hips flicking in little pulsing half pumps. “I’m gonna come . . .”

He takes me all the way down, and I’m done for. My groan gets caught in my throat as the orgasm tears through me, so my back arches up and my head tilts against the pillow, and my mouth opens in a silent scream of pleasure .

I spill into his mouth, down his throat, and he swallows me like a goddamn pro. Leaving me panting and boneless as he climbs up beside me. “How was that?”

“Jesus H,” I manage.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He bites back a smile, but as he curls against me, the brush of his hard cock against my thigh tells me this morning fun is only half over.

My turn.

I slide down and get to work. Doesn’t take long before he’s bucking against my mouth—his own lips parted in a silent moan—and not long after that before I’m swallowing down the proof that I’m very, very adept at pleasing him.

Honestly, it’s quite flattering.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he says after we’re done coming down from our respective highs.

“As payment for my services?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows in what I hope is an expression of mock chagrin. “You think I’m only blowing you for the free breakfast?”

He grins, kisses me on the nose in a move that might possibly be the single most adorable thing a man has ever done. “I was sort of hoping you were blowing me because you liked blowing me?”

“You caught me.” I nestle against him, so soft and sated, and maybe that’s why the next words slip out. “I like it. I like you.”

Oops.

My heartbeat ratchets up in my chest—but like, calm thyself, Olli James. I didn’t confess some creepy undying love. Stop freaking out.

“Duh. What’s not to like?” Nat murmurs against my temple. “You and me . . . we’re pretty fire.”

“Yeah,” I agree, relief softening my muscles and bones. “We are, aren’t we?”

“I mean it.” He presses a kiss against my temple. “I don’t think anybody’s ever gotten me off in under five minutes before. Well, not since I was like, fourteen. ”

I groan, slap at his chest. “So you do just keep me around for the blow jobs.”

“Maybe.” He grins, but it softens, dissolves into something . . . else. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“Um. Sorta?” I stare up at the ceiling, so I don’t have to read the reactions on his face. “I don’t know. Like, I got this big smile, right, but inside I am a very underconfident kid. Ya know? Well, no you probably don’t, because you’re Nat Taylor and you’ve probably never been underconfident in anything—”

“Olli.” Nat’s fingers slide against my cheekbone, and he turns my head towards him. “Stop it. I like you too. A lot.”

And in spite of the fact that like, yeah, it should be obvious at this point—the dude brought me to his mom’s house to meet his goddamn family, for dinner, then invited me over to sleep in his bed and didn’t even take my shirt off, and now he’s making me breakfast—it still feels good to hear him say it.

I grin.

His own smile matches mine. “But I am serious about getting up to make breakfast. You do not want hungry teenagers afoot.”

He nudges back the blankets, and we’re up and getting ready to face the day. He makes breakfast, and I try not to stare too hard at the way his bare shoulders bunch and flex under his black tank as he lifts the pan or scrapes the spatula.

Then Sydney joins us, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, and Avery after, looking like the actual walking dead, between the bruises and the sleepiness.

Breakfast ends, and Syd’s saying something about high school practice, so I get in my truck and Nat’s piling the kids into his truck. And then I’m at the rink changing for my own upcoming skate.

Everyone’s yapping about the tournament last night, but I’m over here in my head, listening to the hum of the Zam out on the ice. Thinking about the man driving it.

Definitely, definitely should not be thinking about things like that.

At all .

Gonna be even worse the next time we skate together. Which we will, because me and Nat on the ice . . . might be even better than me and Nat in bed.

Well, toss-up. Fifty-fifty. Forty-sixty.

One hundred-one hundred, actually, ’cause both are—pardon my French—fucking awesome.

And then Nat comes in to take his usual seat in the cubby beside me. Right where he belongs. Which of course means I’m thinking about this morning with that very same man—Jesus. I’m gonna have to get used to not thinking about how I gave my cubby mate a pre-practice BJ, aren’t I?

Is he thinking about it too? No, he’s not, because he’s talking to Holls about cars, something with cars, and I’m not talking about it because I don’t know anything about cars.

And I can’t join another conversation because I’m too distracted, and everyone else is a little shouty anyway. Two of the guys are having a conversation literally across the locker room about a sandwich place, and someone else is talking about alt rock and nobody is talking about things I’d know, like plants or hiking boots or why the hell they named it the DRUTS—

Overthinking, Olls. Focus on the music.

“Alt rock got nothing on metal,” I say, and then I commandeer the stereo ’cause I know of at least one person who’ll back me up if I slam some Trivium through the speakers.

I’m surprised when I get cheers from a couple of the other guys too. Can’t hold back the grin that cracks my face because damn, it feels good to be yourself and have people appreciate it.

Maybe that’s what gives me the courage to walk up next to Nat and hold out my hand. A silent offering, or maybe a request.

One he accepts without hesitation.

He weaves his fingers through mine, so the whole locker room can see—the two of us, together. Someone hoots. Someone else cheers.

“Hot damn!” Everton shouts. “Tay and James! ”

“Jay! Tay and Jay!” someone else—origins unknown—giggles in the background like the unseen peanut gallery. “TayJay, like a celeb couple.”

“TayJay!” Ever laughs in agreement. “That’s great.”

“We are great,” I shoot right back. “Thank you for noticing.”

Everyone in the locker room laughs.

I must be feeling good, ’cause me ’n’ the boys are fire in practice today. We wind through passing drills like we’ve been doing it our whole lives. We sling shots back and forth so fast, I’m pretty sure even major league pros would be hard pressed to keep up.

When Coach adds defenders in, we annihilate the competition. Zig-zagging passes through the defenders, making Adyn spin in his net. We score on every damn play. I think Coach might have come in his pants. Naturally, he pretends not to be pleased.

“You better hope you and Avery can find this kind of synergy,” Coach mutters as we file off the ice.

Which honestly ain’t that much of a smackdown because, “Don’t worry, Coach. Avery and I are a pretty bomb duet.”