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Oh, god. The talking, the stroking . . . Bennett’s eyes closed and he threw his head back. “What else do you like?”
Nico bit Bennett’s jaw, then licked a strip across the abused skin. “You are the best player on the ice at all times. I cannot look away. I always want to see you.” He dropped his head so their foreheads were touching. “And I also want to hold you down and fuck you until you pass out.”
That did it. Bennett’s lower back seized and his balls compressed as the orgasm slammed into him, the come racing through his shaft and out the head. Hot jets shot between them, coating Bennett’s stomach, and then Nico lost his rhythm, his hips moving erratically as he began pouring onto Bennett’s skin, as well. He heard a shout—or maybe two— then they were left with aftershocks, sensitive skin, and racing hearts.
“Madre di Dio,” Nico said, easing to the side and lying down next to Bennett. “That was . . . ”
“That was fucking hot,” Bennett finished as he tried to catch his breath. “Jesus Christ, Nico.”
Nico didn’t comment. But he didn’t roll away, either. Bennett glanced over and found Nico’s eyes closed, but a muscle was jumping in his jaw. He almost appeared angry. Which made no sense—they both just shot their loads all over Bennett’s stomach and chest, their bodies still buzzing in a joint post-orgasmic glow.
“Annoyed you came so soon?” Bennett asked.
A sound escaped Nico’s mouth, a mix between a huff and a laugh. “You are pressing your luck with me, Verreault.”
“Me? You started this by breaking in. Don’t blame me if you have post-nut regret.”
“Post . . . what?”
Bennett couldn’t help but smirk. “You heard me.”
Nico’s face softened and he reached over to drag the pad of his thumb over Bennett’s lips. “I am regretting much at the moment.”
Mouth curving into a pleased smile, Bennett stretched his arms over his head. “Well, I’m not. This was exactly what I needed. After I clean up, I’m going to sleep for a fucking week.”
“What time is your practice tomorrow?”
“Off day,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “The two best words in hockey besides good goal.”
A beat of silence passed, then Nico moved to the edge of the mattress and stood. “Wait here. I’ll get a cloth to clean you up.”
Nico’s hands were shaking.
His hands never shook. It was a point of pride. Rock steady, no matter the circumstance. He’d shot at people and never missed. Had sliced and disemboweled and broken jaws. Five years ago, he shook the hand of His Holiness, the Pope. Never once had Nico hesitated or shown the least bit of nerves.
And now, standing in Bennett Verreault’s bathroom, waiting for the water to heat up in the sink, his hands were trembling.
It had to be low blood sugar. Or exhaustion. Because it could not—he would not allow it—to be the other thing. The terrible, impossible thing. This was nothing, a way to get information, to help his cousin. He didn’t actually like Verreault. He liked fucking him, yes, but Nico had fucked plenty. This closeted hockey player was nothing special. A hole, a cock—they were everywhere in Toronto. Maybe he needed to find another partner, someone else to remind him that sex could be this good with anyone. It was friction and body fluids and sweat, not magic.
He watched the water run and disappear into the drain. Tested it. Not quite warm enough. He wanted it to be perfect—and that in itself was a big fucking problem.
Che idiota che sono. What an idiot I am.
He shouldn’t have come tonight. But he’d been lured here by watching Verreault on the screen, skating so beautifully and being so talented on the ice, and Nico hadn’t been able to resist seeing him. Then Nico was helping Verreault to bed, offering comfort in the form of a hand job, and before either of them knew what was happening, he’d climbed on top and grabbed both their dicks. It had been so good that he lost his mind a little, nearly blacking out when he came.
And now his hands were shaking.
He needed to get out of here. Nico needed to put all this behind him before it was too late because this was already dangerous and each time only made it worse. No more. È finito.
The water was warm, so Nico wet a washcloth and cleaned himself quickly. Then he got another one ready and took it into the bedroom. Verreault was spread across the mattress, body loose and inviting, muscles recovering, his handsome face relaxed. Nico’s chest twinged, like the tip of a dagger, painful and sharp, pricked his sternum.
Swallowing, he moved closer and wiped Bennett’s belly and chest with a businesslike attention to detail, quick and thorough. Perfunctory. Done and moving on to more important matters.
“You don’t need to do that,” Verreault said sleepily. Nico must’ve been lingering more than he realized, so he threw the washcloth into the laundry hamper in the corner.
His stupidity made him grouchy, turned him mean, so he didn’t kiss Verreault good-bye like he wanted. Instead, he pulled the covers up over the muscled, athletic frame and ordered Verreault to sleep.
As Nico dressed, Verreault murmured, “What time are you coming tomorrow night?”
