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Chapter twenty-seven

Trayton

One week later

A week without him was supposed to be a relief, a chance to clear my head, but it turns out to be anything but. He consumes my thoughts—every little detail of him is etched permanently in my mind. I’ve reached a point where I can’t decide if I want to let go of these thoughts or not. He mentioned to Cope that he’d be holed up in the library all week, trying to catch up. So what did I do? I haunted that library every day, desperate for even a fleeting glimpse of him, even if only from afar. It oddly soothed some turmoil within me. It’s fucked.

Despite knowing he was in the library, each time the locker room door swung open, I couldn’t help but hope it was him stepping through. I’m aware he’ll come today, and every time the door creaks, it’s an intense struggle not to turn around and look, torn between hope and restraint.

Then, just moments ago, I heard it again: the door opening. I sense his presence, my whole being suddenly alight, as if on fire. I feel certain it’s him this time; the sensation is unmistakable as the hairs on my neck stand up, my skin prickling with anticipation. My body seems to have its own awareness, recognizing his nearness.

I finally allow myself to look, a knot forming in my stomach. His eyes are shadowed, and a rugged five-o’clock shadow lines his jaw—yes, it’s undeniably attractive, but it’s wrong. It’s not the Daxton I know. He’s always clean-shaven, always .

He stands there, shoulders sagging and dark circles clinging beneath his eyes like storm clouds as if he hasn’t known a proper night’s sleep in days.

His gaze locks onto mine, and I see nothing but raw, unfiltered sadness. Cope strides over, slapping him on the shoulder. Daxton’s eyes reluctantly break away from mine.

Just then, Daxton’s phone erupts in a shrill ring, and I notice the tension ripple through his body, his shoulders growing stiff as a board. Cope’s brow furrows in concern, but Daxton just shakes his head, muting the phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

Once we hit the ice, I skate directly to Cope, urgency in my stride. “What’s going on?” I press, unable to shake the unease.

“Not much, bro, you?” he responds casually, lowering himself to the floor to begin his routine stretches.

“No, I mean with him,” I clarify, nodding subtly at Daxton, who’s sitting in the bleachers like he always does.

Cope releases a heavy sigh, glancing over at Daxton with a look that speaks volumes. “I can’t say,” he mumbles.

“Yes, you can,” I insist, my frustration bubbling to the surface.

Cope’s eyes meet mine, turning steely. “No, I can’t. He’s my friend, and I promised I wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

“I’m your friend too.”

“Yes, and I have other friends, Tray. Leave it,” Cope snaps back, standing up and skating away, leaving me teetering on the edge of losing my goddamn shit.

I shift my focus back to Daxton, whose eyes are locked onto mine, filled with a haunting sadness and a vulnerability that practically screams for help. Frustration gnaws at me as I shake my head, exhaling deeply before diving into the training session.

Me:

Stay in the lockers after everyone has left.

Quiet Boy:

Why?

Me:

Because I said so.

The rink is nearly empty as I glide across the ice, the chill biting at my cheeks. The echo of my skates against the frozen surface is the only sound in the vast arena. Everyone else has already gone back to the lockers, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I push myself harder, the muscles in my legs burning with each stride, hoping the energy will remove Daxton from my mind. But with every powerful stroke and every sharp slap of the puck, his image lingers stubbornly.

Eventually, I slow, my breath clouding in the crisp air. I skate off the ice and remove my skates, allowing my pounding heart to calm. By the time I’ve got back to the locker room, I notice all the team has left. Relief washes over me when I see Daxton still there, sitting on the bench with his sketch pads and pens scattered around him. His eyes lift to meet mine, a flicker of curiosity mixed with fatigue.

“What did you want?” he asks, his voice lacking its usual edge.

“You.” I breathe out, my heart racing as I move closer, pulling him to his feet and backing him into the cold metal lockers. My fingers press against his temple, my frustration boiling over.

“You” —I jab a finger against his head—“are in my mind too damn much, and I hate it.” My body trembles with intensity as I tap my finger against my head. “In here, all the damn time.” Daxton’s eyes widen in surprise, his face a portrait of shock as if I’ve gone mad. This is all his doing though. He does this to me.

“What are you doing to me, Daxton?” I whisper, my gaze drifting to his lips. His eyes, still wide, lock onto mine before dropping his gaze to my lips. And I know we are on the brink.

I understand that the moment I taste him, there will be no turning back. I will be completely undone.

“Don’t,” I grit out through clenched teeth, holding onto the last bit of resolve I have. My hands are balled into fists in Daxton’s shirt, knuckles white. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Daxton gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes remain focused on my lips. His breaths come in heavy, ragged waves, each exhale brushing against the fabric of my jersey as his chest rises and falls with intensity. “You fucking infuriate me,” I growl, feeling the heat of anger coiling in my stomach like a live wire. “Every word you say is like a match to gasoline.” My eyes lock onto his, and I see something flicker there, a momentary shift, like the flick of a lighter in the dark.

“And yet, you keep coming back for more. Just admit it, Tray, you love the burn.” He’s taunting me with his whispers that send shivers down my spine.

“I don’t like you. I fucking hate you,” I say, but I falter, the truth undeniable. He’s right. I love it all. I love the way desire ignites within me, scorching and consuming.

“I hate you too,” he lies, a tangled mess of contradictions. The tension between us snaps like an overstretched rubber band.

“Fuck you, Daxton.”

Then it’s fireworks. Every possible firework explodes inside me as I crash my lips against his. His lips are both impossibly soft and fiercely demanding as they move against mine, a clash of passion and fury. Daxton’s tongue slides against mine, igniting a wildfire that rages through my veins. Right now, I don’t fucking care if the world burns around us; as long as I have Daxton’s lips on mine in the final moments, nothing else matters. He’s addictive in every sense of the word.

His fingers thread through my hair, pulling me closer, as a deep, guttural moan escapes him, vibrating through me. I moan back, the sound mingling with his, a symphony of raw need. Our teeth clash, our lips bruise, and our tongues dance in a desperate, greedy rhythm, each swipe leaving us craving more. His lip ring rubs against my lips, causing me to realize and really let it sink in. It’s him. I’m kissing Daxton Rivers. I run my tongue over his lip ring, causing another moan to rise up his throat. I swallow it whole.

It’s never felt like this, and right now, it feels too good to even question how something could feel this amazing. I’m drowning in sensation, lost in the taste of him. Daxton’s lips are like a fire against mine, burning away every doubt, every fear. His hands tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to send shivers down my spine. I press closer, desperate to feel more of him. My hands run over the muscled ripples on his back.

The world narrows to just us—the heat of his body, the urgency of his touch. I breathe him in, all spice and sweat and something uniquely Daxton. It’s intoxicating. My fingers trace the hard planes of his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath my palm.

We break apart, gasping for air. Daxton’s eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with desire. His lips are swollen and bright red, hair mussed from my fingers. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“I…” he begins, his voice gravelly with emotion. But the words seem to escape him as he pulls me into an embrace once more. His tongue invades my mouth.

It’s wild.

It’s sloppy.

It’s messy.

It’s rough

But it’s so damn perfect.

His teeth sink into my lips as he bites hard, and I take the lead, guiding him with a determined urgency to where I want him. As I do, I start to strip off my gear, ensuring my lips never break contact with his. I need his lips like I need air right now.

My fingers clumsily work at his belt buckle, trembling with impatience, but he suddenly snaps back to reality. He pulls back.

“Wha—what are you doing?” He gasps, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Blood stains his lips and chin. I wipe my finger against my lip, catching the blood from where he bit me.

“I need you right fucking now,” I growl, my voice a low, urgent rumble as I tug at his shirt. It’s then that he realizes where I’ve moved him.

The showers.

Daxton hastily tears at the remainder of his clothes as I pull the rest of mine off quicker than I think I ever have done, and I push him into a shower stall. I twist the knob, and the shower sputters to life, the initial blast of cold water hitting us like shards of ice. Yet neither of us flinches. The water streams down, slicking Daxton’s dark hair against his forehead. His eyes, intense and smoldering with desire, meet mine, and I find myself unable to look away. The chill of the shower fades as a different kind of warmth blossoms between us, steam rising in tendrils from our skin.

I press him against the cool, slick tiles, my hands exploring the contours of his lean muscles. Each touch sends jolts of electricity through me. His artistic fingers trace intricate patterns across my back, igniting trails of fire wherever they pass. I shiver, but not from the cold.

“Dax,” I whisper against his neck, inhaling his scent deeply before letting my tongue glide up his skin. The taste of him mingling with the water is intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.

In response, he pulls me closer, our bodies melding together as soft lips capture mine again. I glide my tongue over his lips, collecting my blood. My hands wander lower, and Daxton gasps into my mouth as I wrap my hand around his dick. Suddenly, I pause. I pull back from Daxton, eyes wide with surprise, and glance down. There, a silver hoop protrudes from the head of his dick. I step back slightly, staring in fascination at how it pierces through, entering at the top and emerging at the bottom, curving around.

Daxton breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling, as I stand there, holding his dick as if it were a fucking masterpiece.

I mean, it pretty much is. The air is thick with steam, and my eyes are drawn to the metal glinting on the thick, rigid cock that’s leaking like it’s got an endless supply. I reach out, swipe my thumb over the slick tip, and bring it to my lips, craving his fucking taste like it’s the antidote to a poison.

“Shit.” Daxton gasps, his body jerking as if he’s been shocked.

“You taste just as good as I imagined, Dax,” I growl. I’m hoarse with lust. He whimpers as I rub my thumb over the cool metal of his piercing, his body trembling like a leaf in a storm. I trail my fingers down the thick veins that pulse along his dick, feeling the heat of him, the silkiness of his skin. Fuck, his cock is like a work of art. My hand moves down, cupping his heavy, full balls before giving them a gentle squeeze, causing him to gasp again.

“Turn around for me, Dax. Press your chest to the wall, and spread those cheeks for me.” I smirk, and he nods eagerly, turning to face the cold, wet tiles. He grips his ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh, and pulls open, presenting himself to me like a fucking gift.

“Fucking hell. Look at you.” I groan, the words ripped from my throat. I kneel behind him, push his hands away, and my fingers dig into his ass cheeks, spreading them wide. His hole pulses, begging to be licked, and I dive in, not wasting time. My balls are drawn up tight, aching with the need for release, but I don’t want to rush this with Daxton. I flatten my tongue and lap at his hole, savoring every whimper and whine that echoes off the tiles. I feel the tremble in his legs as I stiffen my tongue and push into his tight heat.

“Trayton.” He purrs my name like a prayer, over and over. I moan into his heat, the sound of my name on his lips making me fucking feral. I need to be inside him. Now. I stand up and spit on his hole once, twice, three times, then push two fingers into him, urgent and demanding, as I scissor my digits over and over until he’s a moaning mess. I don’t have time to be gentle. I feel like I might die if I’m not inside him within the next twenty seconds. The water cascading down our bodies helps, and I line my aching cock up with his hole. “I’m clean,” I whisper.

Daxton gasps and then nods. “Me too.”

“I’m not being gentle, Daxton,” I rasp. I barely recognize myself.

“I don’t want you to be gentle,” he snaps. He’s breathless and desperate, like he needs me just as much as I need him.

I swallow hard, my throat constricting as I slowly push the head of my cock inside him. The water is still warm. The tiles are slick beneath my feet as I slide in one inch, then two, then three. Daxton’s breath hitches, his body tensing as I drag my tongue up the curve of his neck, pushing myself a fraction deeper. A low, guttural moan escapes his throat, resonating through his back and into my chest.

“Remember, I hate you. I just want to fuck you,” I whisper, my desire making me hoarse.

“Then hate me and fuck me,” he growls.

I thrust into him, hard and deep, then pull back; the water cascades off his shoulders and runs like a stream down his back.

“Fuckkkkk,” Daxton all but screams, his voice echoing off the shower walls, the sound of the shower almost drowning him out. I thrust into him again, then pause, my eyes closing as I savor the tight, pulsating heat wrapped around me. Daxton’s breath comes in ragged, desperate pants, his body trembling against mine, the water flowing over the flames between us. I could stay in this moment forever.

“Move,” he demands, his low rumble of impatience evident as he pushes back against me, his body begging for more. My fingers dig into his hips, hard enough to leave marks. I grit my teeth and start a punishing rhythm; the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin echoes off the tile walls, mingling with our grunts and moans.

Steam begins to rise around us, the water slowly warming, and I can taste the salt of his skin on my lips. Daxton braces one hand against the shower tiles, his fingers splayed wide, the other reaching back to tangle in my hair. He yanks hard, pulling my head down to his shoulder. I bite down on the curve of his neck, the sweet sting of his skin between my teeth, my tongue licking at the indentations I leave behind.

“Harder,” he demands; he’s utterly wrecked with desperation. My stomach clenches, my balls drawing up tight at the raw need in his tone. Ragged breaths leave me as I moan his name over and over, the sound vibrating through my chest. I can’t get enough of him. He feels too fucking good. Too fucking right.

“Can you feel how much I hate you?” I hiss, hating how fucking amazing he feels squeezing my cock right now. His hand slides down the tiles, his fingers scraping against the grout. “Tray, Tray, Tray.” He repeats it like a mantra of need as he wraps his hand around his dick, and he begins pumping furiously, his body chasing its release.

His breath hitches, a desperate gasp. “Don’t stop, Tray. Please, right there.” His fingers curl against the slick tiles as his knuckles go pale.

I lean in, my words a low rumble against his ear. “You’re not so quiet now, are you? Not when my dick is buried deep in your ass.” His moans increase, echoing off the walls, and I know he’s teetering on the edge. My hips slap against his ass, each thrust punctuated by a grunt from deep within my chest. “Come for me, Daxton,” I growl, my lips brushing his earlobe. “Show me how much you love my cock buried deep inside you.”

His body convulses, every muscle tensing. “ShitfuckTray!” His cry is a jumbled mess of pleasure. His head lolls forward, forehead pressing against the cold tiles.

“Fuck yes,” I roar, slamming into him once, twice, then stilling. My body goes taut, every nerve alight with euphoria. I come hard, filling him, and it feels like it goes on forever. Daxton’s moans continue to reverberate through the showers, his body milking me for all I’m worth.

We stand there, panting, as the water washes over us. My forehead rests against the back of his neck, my arms wrapped around his waist. I can feel his heart pounding, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

Slowly, reality starts to seep back in. The chill of the water, the hard tile beneath our feet, the ache in my muscles. But I can’t bring myself to let go of him just yet.

Daxton shifts, turning in my arms to face me as my dick slips out, causing me to groan again from the tenderness. His eyes are wide, pupils still blown with desire. A mix of emotions flickers across his face—confusion, wonder, fear. I’m sure my expression mirrors his.

“Tray,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “What… what was that?”

I swallow with difficulty, my throat tight as I struggle to find the right words. “I don’t know,” I finally confess. My hand instinctively rises to touch his face, but then I let it fall, retreating a step backward, distancing myself.

His expression shifts abruptly, turning cold and unyielding. “That didn’t feel like you hate me.”

“But I do.” I don’t. “And you hate me,” I follow up.

“I do,” he whispers. He doesn’t. His words falter and uncover his vulnerability.

The silence stretches between us. Water continues to pour over our bodies, but I barely notice it anymore. My eyes are fixed on Daxton’s face, searching for something—anything—that might give away what he’s really thinking. But his expression is a mask and unreadable.

“We should go,” I mutter, reaching behind him to turn off the shower. The sudden absence of sound is deafening.

Daxton nods, not meeting my eyes. He moves to step out of the stall, but I catch his wrist. The touch sends a jolt through me, and I see him flinch.

“Wait. What happened this week? Why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?”

His eyes finally meet mine, and the sadness I saw earlier is back, mixed with something else. Anger? Uncertainty?

“It doesn’t concern you.” He brushes past me once again, and this time, I don’t push it.

I let him go.