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Gail doesn’t hesitate as she tightens her hold on me. A surge of electricity zips through my veins at her touch, and I moan out in pleasure as she starts slowly stroking me up and down with an agonizing slowness that has my hips bucking into her hand instinctively.
“Fuck,” I grunt. It’s a carnal sound—raw and unedited—one that resonates deeply within me. “Suck me, whore.”
As she envelops my cock with her velvety mouth, I can’t help but gasp. The feeling is intense. Her tongue flicks expertly over the sensitive underside of my shaft, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through my groin and straight to my brain.
Next to me, I can hear the sounds of Mickey jerking off. Fucker doesn’t know what he’s missing out on by refusing her touch. But hey, more for me.
Urged by the building pressure, I place my hands on the back of her head, roughly guiding her further down my length as I rock into her sweet mouth with vicious thrusts. She chokes when I push too far, but I’m beyond caring.
Looking down at Gail, eyes watering, cheeks flushed in embarrassment, only adds fuel to the rising tide in me. As sinful as this may be, there’s no denying how sexy she looks right now; her tousled hair is a curtain around her shoulders, lips plump from sucking.
With each sloppy stroke of her tongue against my throbbing cock, pleasure ripples through me, culminating at the base where my balls tighten deliciously. “Do you want to swallow my cum, whore?” I ask, my tone hoarse and dark.
She whimpers and nods her head as much as my grip allows, making a wicked smile spread across my lips. I let go of her head and watch as she opens her mouth wide, ready to catch my jizz. My breath hitches as hot spurts of cum shoot from the tip of my cock, but instead of guiding it toward her waiting mouth, I angle the tip so the warm spurts splatter across her face, coating her in my cum.
Next to me, Mickey’s breathing intensifies, his hand furiously tugging at his dick. He grunts before adding his release to the sticky mess glistening on her dark eyelashes and dripping down her chin.
The sight is lewd yet so fucking satisfying, and I take a moment to admire how she looks while on her knees with our cum all over her face. “You really are nothing more than a desperate whore,” I chuckle grimly.
Where Mickey hurries to get his clothes back into position, I take my time, not taking my eyes off her face. Her blue eyes flash with anger. “Aww, don’t look at me like that,” I coo sarcastically. Then I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and pull some money out, throwing the wad on the floor. “For your services.”
Gail’s eyes widen like saucers. With steady fingers, she wipes away the jizz near her eyes, all the while holding my gaze. Then she slowly gets to her feet, not bothering to cover herself up. “You fucking bastard,” she hisses, taking a step toward me. “I have done nothing to deserve this. It’s not my fucking fault you’re too… too…” A sob steals her voice. “I did nothing wrong,” she repeats with broken resignation.
I pivot on my heel, the sound of my footsteps too sharp in the sudden silence. Mickey’s hot on my heels, and we leave the bathroom, the door to the bedroom clicking shut with an air of finality. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, each one tasting of bile. The coppery tang of adrenaline still lingers on my tongue, mingling with the sour aftertaste of what we’ve done.
“Don’t forget to lock the door,” Mickey barks, and I mentally cuss myself out for being about to do just that.
Mickey
The locker room hums with the low, steady beat of anticipation, almost like a second pulse beneath my skin. I lace up my skates, each tug on the nylon laces grounding me, pulling me back from the edge where thoughts of Gail live rent-fucking-free.
I can’t afford distractions tonight. Not when the ice calls and the roar of the crowd promises to swallow me whole. I’m already exhausted; mentally, physically… soully… is that a thing? With two home games almost back-to-back, well four days apart, and a lying slut claiming to carry my baby, yeah, it should be.
“Focus, Mickey,” I mutter to myself, slapping my gloves against my palms. The sting is satisfying, real. It’s game time, and nothing else matters—not even her sweet blue eyes or the way she says my name like it’s a touch, soft and lingering.
I stand, roll my shoulders, and the muscles flex, ready for battle. The locker room is filled with the stench of sweat and determination. Soren gives me a nod, silent as always, but his green eyes are sharp, locked in. Sawyer cracks a joke, the tension snapping for just a moment, but we’re all here for one thing—to win.
We pour out onto the ice, and the arena erupts. It’s electric, a current that sparks from the gleaming surface to the very top of the stands where the lights blare down. The fans are a living, breathing entity, their cheers a tangible force that pushes against the glass and spills over the boards. They chant, they scream—they’re hungry for victory, and so am I.
“Let’s show them what we’re made of!” Sawyer shouts, his voice barely cutting through the cacophony. We tap our sticks in response, a chorus of agreement. My heart beats in time with the rhythmic thump of pucks against the boards, the slicing of blades carving into ice.
“Missile! Missile!” They’re chanting for me, and damn, if it doesn’t set my blood on fire. The silver eyes that see everything on the ice, now see only the puck, the goal, the win. This is where I belong, where every check against the boards is a declaration, every shot a promise.
“Let’s tear them apart!” I hear one of my teammates bark, and I can’t help but grin behind my mouth guard. Oh, we will. Because tonight, there’s no room for error, no space for anything but the thrill of the chase and the glory of the game.
The puck drops.
And just like that, we’re unleashed.
I barrel into the corner, my skates carving desperate arcs into the ice. The puck ricochets off my stick, a sloppy pass that’s easily intercepted. I curse under my breath, feeling the sting of the crowd’s disappointment—a chorus of groans and muffled shouts. It’s not supposed to be this way. I’m The Missile; I don’t make mistakes like this. But Gail’s face flashes in my mind, her sad, defeated eyes haunting me, and my focus splinters.
She’s been a mess, refusing to eat or shower, locked up in her own world of pain. And hell if it isn’t tearing me apart. No, fuck it, I refuse to let her into my head. Being locked up in Soren’s spare room is exactly what the bitch deserves.
“Dammit, Mickey! Get your head in the game!” Coach’s voice cuts through the din of the arena, sharp as a skate blade.
“Trying, Coach,” I mutter, though he can’t hear me above the roar.
I glance over at Soren, and it’s like looking in a damn mirror—his usually impenetrable defense is crumbling. Pucks slip past him with ease, his reactions a half-second too slow. Soren’s known as The Wall, but tonight he might as well be made of paper. We’re both off our game, and the scoreboard isn’t shy about showing it.
