Page 6 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Six

Trey

T he look on Sullivan's face was worth every second of the buildup.

"Fuck," he whispered, the curse sounding foreign and perfect on those prep school lips as he stepped into my bedroom.

I'd been thinking about this moment since I first saw him at training camp, all copper hair and perfect posture, looking down his nose at the rest of us like we were something he'd scraped off his overpriced skates. Back then, I'd just wanted to mess him up a little. See that perfect Sullivan composure crack.

I hadn't expected it to lead here—to Sullivan standing in my bedroom doorway, pupils blown wide with desire, cheeks flushed, breathing unsteady. Looking at me like I was both salvation and damnation.

"Having second thoughts, Harvard?" I asked, trying to keep the edge in my voice despite the way my heart was hammering against my ribs.

"No." One word. Clipped and certain. But I saw the tremor in his hands as he closed the door behind him.

"Good," I said, closing the distance between us. I ran my thumb along his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath my fingers. "Because I've been thinking about this since the first moment I saw you."

"Bullshit," he breathed. "You hated me."

"Yeah." I grinned, pressing him back against the door. "Still kinda do."

This time, I didn't wait for him to make the move. I claimed his mouth with mine, swallowing whatever sharp retort he'd been about to deliver. He tasted like beer and mint, and something uniquely Sullivan that I was already getting addicted to. His lips were softer than they looked, at odds with the hard planes of his body pressing against mine.

Sullivan's hands found my shoulders, gripping tight like he was fighting to maintain control. Always so fucking controlled. I wanted to shatter that composure, wanted to see him completely undone.

I slid one hand into his hair, gripping the soft strands and tugging his head back to expose the pale column of his throat. He gasped, the sound shooting straight to my groin as I dragged my teeth along the sensitive skin below his ear.

"Fuck," he hissed, hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"That's the idea, Harvard," I murmured against his skin, feeling his pulse race beneath my lips.

His hands moved from my shoulders, sliding down my chest with unexpected boldness. When his fingers brushed the hem of my shirt, grazing the bare skin of my stomach, I couldn't suppress the groan that escaped me.

"Off," Sullivan demanded, tugging at the fabric.

I obliged, stepping back just enough to pull my shirt over my head and toss it aside. Sullivan's eyes darkened as he took in my bare torso, his gaze tracking over the muscles honed by years of training. The hunger in his expression made my cock throb against the confines of my jeans.

"Your turn, straight boy," I said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

His hands caught mine, stopping me. For a moment, I thought he was backing out. But then he began methodically unbuttoning his own shirt, those precise, controlled movements that somehow never failed to get under my skin. Only now they were getting me hard instead of pissing me off.

I watched as he revealed inch after inch of pale skin, fascinated by the contrast between us. Where I was all olive tones and dark hair, Sullivan was fair, his chest lightly dusted with copper. Hockey had sculpted his body as it had mine, lean muscle and the occasional scar telling the story of years on the ice.

When he shrugged the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness, I couldn't wait any longer. I pressed him back against the door, savoring the feeling of skin on skin as our chests made contact.

"Jesus," he gasped, his head falling back against the wood with a soft thud.

"Not quite," I smirked, rolling my hips against his, feeling the hard line of his cock through our jeans.

Sullivan's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing ragged. I took advantage of his distraction to trail kisses down his neck, across his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. When I reached his nipple, I dragged my tongue across it experimentally.

The sound he made was better than any fantasy I'd conjured. A strangled, needy noise he immediately tried to suppress, biting his lip hard.

"Don't do that," I said, looking up at him. "I want to hear you."

"I'm not... I don't usually..."

"Make noise?" I finished for him, rolling my hips again, drawing another barely contained sound from his throat. "Or let someone else take control?"

His eyes snapped open, that familiar challenge returning. "Who says you're in control?"

I laughed, low and knowing. "Your body does, Harvard." I pressed my thigh between his legs, giving him something to grind against. "The way you respond when I do this." I rolled his nipple between my fingers, watching his face contort with pleasure. "And especially the way you reacted when I called you good boy in that shower."

The mention of the shower incident sent a visible shudder through Sullivan. His pupils dilated further, nearly swallowing the green-gold of his irises.

"That's what I thought," I murmured, leaning in to kiss him again, softer this time. "Let go, Sullivan. Let me take care of you."

Something in him seemed to break at those words. His resistance crumbled, hands coming up to tangle in my hair as he kissed me back with surprising ferocity.

I guided him toward the bed, our mouths still connected, bodies pressed together like we couldn't bear any space between us. When his legs hit the mattress, I pushed him down, following him onto the bed and settling between his thighs.

Sullivan looked up at me, hair splayed across my pillow, chest heaving, lips swollen from my kisses. The sight of him like this, undone and wanting, sent a fierce surge of possessiveness through me.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," I breathed, the words escaping before I could stop them.

A flush spread across his cheeks, and he looked away. "Shut up."

"Make me," I challenged, echoing his earlier words as I rocked against him, our clothed erections grinding together.

Sullivan groaned, hands flying to my hips to hold me in place as he thrust up against me. The friction was maddening, not enough and too much all at once.

I reached between us, fumbling with the button of his jeans. "Need these off. Now."

He nodded, lifting his hips to help as I tugged the denim down his legs, leaving him in nothing but tight black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how hard he was.

"Fuck," I whispered, running my hand along the outline of his cock through the thin fabric. "Look at you."

Sullivan's breathing hitched as I traced the length of him. "Harrington," he warned, though what he was warning me against wasn't clear.

"Trey," I corrected, squeezing him gently through the cotton. "If I'm going to make you come, you should at least use my first name."

His eyes met mine, something vulnerable flashing in their depths. "Trey," he said, my name sounding different in his mouth, softer somehow.

"That's better... Beau." I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his boxers. "Can I?"

He swallowed hard, then nodded once, lifting his hips again.

I slid the fabric down slowly, revealing him inch by inch. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, already leaking at the tip. I couldn't take my eyes off him, couldn't help the way my mouth watered at the sight.

"Jesus Christ, Harvard," I muttered. "Look at you."

Sullivan's hands fisted in the sheets, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "This isn't fair," he managed, gesturing at my still-clothed lower half.

"Impatient." I smirked, but stood to shed my own jeans and boxers in one quick movement.

His eyes widened slightly as he took me in, gaze lingering on my cock, thick and heavy between my legs. The hunger in his expression made me throb.

"See something you like?" I asked, stroking myself once, twice, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"Asshole," he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

I laughed, returning to the bed and settling between his legs again. This time, with nothing between us, the first brush of our cocks together pulled twin groans from our throats.

"Fuck," Sullivan gasped, hips jerking up involuntarily.

"That's it," I encouraged, grinding down against him, creating delicious friction. "Let go, Beau."

His hands found my back, nails digging into my skin as he arched up. I lowered my mouth to his neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive spot I'd discovered earlier, careful not to leave marks where the team would see them.

Sullivan's breathing quickened, his movements growing more desperate. I slipped a hand between us, wrapping my fingers around both our cocks, stroking slowly.

"Oh God," he moaned, his head falling back, exposing more of his throat to my mouth.

"You like that?" I asked, tightening my grip slightly, picking up the pace.

"Yes," he breathed, the admission seeming to cost him something.

I kept stroking, watching his face as pleasure overtook him. His usual mask of control had slipped completely, leaving him open and vulnerable beneath me. It hit me suddenly that I was the only one who'd ever seen Sullivan like this, who'd ever taken him apart this way.

The thought was unexpectedly intense.

"You close?" I asked, my own orgasm building at the base of my spine.

He nodded, unable to form words, his hips thrusting up into my hand in an increasingly erratic rhythm.

"Good," I whispered, leaning down to speak directly into his ear. "Come for me, Beau. Show me what a good boy you are."

The effect was instantaneous. Sullivan's back arched off the bed, a broken cry tearing from his throat as he came hard, spilling hot over my fist and onto his stomach. The sight of him coming undone, combined with the pulsing of his cock against mine, sent me over the edge moments later.

"Fuck, Beau," I groaned, burying my face in his neck as my orgasm crashed through me, adding to the mess between us.

For several long moments, we lay there, breathing hard, bodies still pressed together. I could feel Sullivan's heart racing against my chest, gradually slowing as we both came down from the high.

I rolled to the side, careful not to crush him with my weight, but kept one arm draped across his waist. The quiet of the room was broken only by our breathing and the distant sounds of traffic outside.

Sullivan stared at the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

"You okay?" I asked, surprising myself with the genuine concern in my voice.

He didn't answer immediately. Just kept staring upward like the answers to the universe were written on my cracked ceiling.

"I don't know," he finally said, his voice so quiet I almost missed it.

Something twisted in my chest at the vulnerability in those three simple words. This wasn't the reaction I'd expected. Panic, maybe. Denial, definitely. But not this raw honesty.

"Hey," I said, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him better. "It's okay to not know."

His eyes flicked to mine, searching for something. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"But it did." I ran my fingers lightly across his chest, feeling his muscles twitch beneath my touch. "And it was fucking amazing."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips before vanishing. "This doesn't mean... I'm not..."

"Gay?" I finished for him. "Maybe not. Doesn't have to be black and white, Harvard."

He frowned slightly. "Everything in my life has always been black and white. Clear boundaries. Defined categories."

"Yeah, well, sex rarely fits into neat little boxes," I said, reaching for a discarded t-shirt to clean us up. The gesture felt strangely intimate, more so than what we'd just done.

"Remember the first time Coach paired us in practice?" I asked, surprising myself. "You looked so offended."

He seemed startled by the change of subject. "I wasn't offended."

"Please. You looked like you'd rather be paired with a traffic cone." I shook my head, the memory still fresh despite how much had changed. "But then we ran that defensive drill and—"

"Our stats jumped 22 percent," he finished, a small, genuine smile curving his lips. "I noticed."

"Of course you did, you fucking numbers nerd." I grinned, unable to keep the fondness from my voice. "I couldn't believe anyone could be that smooth, that controlled on the ice."

"It was a good drill."

"It was fucking beautiful, and you know it." I tossed the shirt aside and lay back down beside him, closer than necessary. "That's why Coach keeps pairing us, despite the fact that we supposedly hate each other."

Sullivan turned his head to look at me more directly. "My father would disown me if he knew about this."

The stark statement hung in the air between us. I'd meant to keep things light, to not make this into something heavier than it needed to be. But Sullivan's words tugged at something inside me, a protective instinct I hadn't recognized until the Voyagers game.

"Your father sounds like an asshole," I said finally.

Sullivan laughed, a short, humorless sound. "He is. But he's also the reason I'm here. The reason I have a shot at the NHL."

"Bullshit," I said, more forcefully than I'd intended. "You're here because you're good, Sullivan. Really fucking good. I've watched you play. Your positioning, your hockey IQ, the way you see the ice... that's not something daddy's money bought you."

He looked genuinely surprised at my assessment. "You've been analyzing my play?"

"Don't let it go to your head," I muttered, suddenly uncomfortable with how much I'd revealed. "Know thy enemy and all that shit."

"Is that what we are? Enemies?"

The question was loaded with a weight neither of us was prepared to address. I deflected with a smirk, running my hand down his side to rest on his hip.

"Well, I just made you come harder than you probably ever have in your life, so I'd say we're something a bit more complicated than enemies."

His cheeks flushed again, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he surprised me by reaching out to trace the line of my jaw with his fingers, the touch unexpectedly gentle.

"You're nothing like I thought you were," he said quietly.

"Yeah? What did you think I was?"

"Reckless. Undisciplined. All impulse, no strategy."

"And now?"

His eyes met mine, something honest and unguarded in them. "Still those things. But also... more."

The simple admission shouldn't have affected me the way it did. Shouldn't have sent warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with physical satisfaction. I'd gotten what I wanted, hadn't I? Cracked Sullivan's perfect composure, seen him come apart beneath me.

So why did I suddenly want more?

"For what it's worth," I said, capturing his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm, "you're not what I expected either."

He raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Uptight. Arrogant. Daddy's boy with a silver spoon."

"All the above," I grinned. "Plus, I thought you were straight."

Sullivan laughed, the sound startling both of us with its genuineness. "Until about an hour ago, so did I."

"Happy to help with that sexual awakening," I said, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively.

He rolled his eyes, but the tension had eased from his body. "Your modesty is truly inspiring."

"I'm known for many things, Harvard. Modesty isn't one of them."

A comfortable silence fell between us, surprisingly free of the awkwardness I'd anticipated. Sullivan's breathing gradually deepened, his body relaxing further into my mattress. I watched as his eyes grew heavy, fighting to stay open.

"Stay," I found myself saying the word out before I could consider it.

His eyes met mine, searching. "You sure?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to explain why it mattered that he didn't leave yet.

Sullivan hesitated, then shifted closer, his head finding my shoulder as if it belonged there. The simple trust in the gesture hit me harder than it should have. I wrapped an arm around him, feeling his breath warm against my chest.

"Just for a while," he murmured, already drifting.

"Sure, Harvard. Whatever you say."

Within minutes, his breathing had evened out completely, body heavy with sleep against mine. I lay awake, studying his face in repose. Without the constant tension, the perpetual analysis, he looked younger. The furrow between his brows smoothed out, the tight line of his mouth softened.

In sleep, Beau Sullivan looked nothing like the uptight, privileged asshole I'd convinced myself I hated. He looked like someone I could actually care about. The realization was as unwelcome as it was undeniable.

This was supposed to be simple. Physical attraction, mutual release, maybe the added satisfaction of getting under his skin. It wasn't supposed to make my chest ache when he asked if we were enemies. Wasn't supposed to make me want to protect him from his asshole father and anyone else who tried to force him into their narrow definitions.

I watched the rise and fall of his chest, feeling something shift inside me. Something that had started during that shower, when he'd been vulnerable and I'd responded not with mockery but with care. Something that had grown stronger when I'd watched Mercer target him during the game.

"Fuck," I whispered to my empty room, careful not to wake him. "This is not what I signed up for."

Sullivan stirred slightly, pressing closer in his sleep, one arm draping across my waist. The casual intimacy of the gesture made my throat tight.

I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come before I could think too much about what had just happened. About what it meant. About what would happen when Sullivan woke up and reality crashed back in.

For now, I'd take this moment of peace. Tomorrow would bring complications enough.