DANGEROUS ICE: MY HOCKEY NEMESIS IS MY SINFUL OBSESSION

HANDJOB

The party was a blur of noise and heat that I couldn't breathe in anymore. Michael’s hand was still a heavy, branding iron between my thighs, and his "Try me" kept ringing in my ears like a challenge I wasn't prepared to lose.

Standing up abruptly, my knees nearly buckled under the sudden weight, and I choked out, "I need air," without waiting for him to follow.

Pushing through the suffocating crowd, I stumbled into the dark hallway leading toward the back of the house until I found a door, a laundry room, or a pantry; it hardly mattered. Ducking inside, I leaned my hot forehead against the cool, vibrating surface of a washing machine while the door clicked shut behind me.

There was no need to look to know it was him, as the air in the cramped space shifted instantly, growing heavy with his distinct scent of winter chill and hot, predatory intent.

"Running away, Golden Boy?" His voice was a low, jagged rasp right against the shell of my ear. I felt his heat before I felt his touch, a heavy predatory presence that made the air in my lungs feel like lead.

"I’m not… this isn't real," I managed to choke out, spinning around.

But Michael was already there as he slammed his palms against the machine on either side of my waist, pinning me.

The loud clatter of metal echoed in the small space, vibrating through my spine. "Feels real enough to me," he murmured. His dark eyes searched mine, mocking the panic he found there.

"You’ve been begging for this all night. Every time you looked at me, every time you brushed past me... you were screaming for it."

He didn’t wait for a rebuttal. His hand dropped, his knuckles grazing the heavy c**k in my jeans. I let out a sharp, involuntary hitched breath as he flicked the button. The hiss of my zipper was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.

"Michael, wait…"

"Shh," he hissed, leaning in until his nose brushed mine. "Don't lie now, Axel. Not when you’re this honest to me."

He reached inside, his large, calloused hand sliding beneath the elastic of my boxers. When his palm finally made contact with my bare skin, closing firmly around my c**k, my knees actually gave way.

He caught me, his other hand flying to my throat, his thumb pressing into the dip of my collarbone to keep me upright.

"Oh god," I whimpered, my head hitting the wall behind me with a dull thud.

"Yeah, look at that," Michael whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy, intimate crawl. He began a slow, agonizingly deliberate stroke, his hand dry and rough in a way that set my nerves on fire. "So hard for someone you claim to loathe. Does it hurt? Being this pathetic for your enemy?"

He didn't give me time to answer. He used his thumb to catch the bead of pre-c*m at the slit, smearing it slowly, mockingly, over the sensitive head of my c**k before resuming the rhythm. The friction was intense, a searing slide of skin on skin that made my vision tilt.

"Look at me, Axel. Don't you dare close your eyes."

I forced them open. His face was a mask of dark, focused intensity. He began to speed up, his grip tightening until it was almost too much, then loosening just enough to make me whine for the pressure.

"You like being handled like this, don't you?" he taunted, his breath hot against my jaw. "You like that I don't ask. You like that I just take."

I couldn't help it; a loud, broken moan tore from my throat, echoing off the tiled walls. I was a mess of contradictions, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure hate while my hips instinctively bucked into his hand, chasing the friction.

"Mmm, listen to you," Michael chuckled, the sound dark and vibratory against my skin. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over my earlobe before he bit it, hard enough to make me hiss. "Such a good little slut. Are you going to be loud when you break? Are you going to let the whole party hear how much you want me?"

He started a relentless, rhythmic pace, his hand becoming a blur of heat. Every downward stroke sent a jolt of electricity straight to my gut. He focused on the frenulum, his thumb rhythmically crushing against the most sensitive nerves until I was sobbing into the crook of his neck.

"Please," I gasped, my hands fumbling for his shoulders, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. "Michael, please, I can't.."

"You can. You’ll take every bit of it," he growled. He shifted his grip, his palm catching the underside of my balls briefly before returning to the base of my cocm, pulling upward with a firm, milking motion that had me seeing stars. "Tell me you're mine. Say it, Axel. Tell me you’re coming for me."

"I... I'm yours," I sobbed, the lie and the truth blurring into one. "I'm coming, Mike….!"

"Then do it. Ruin yourself for me."

He didn't slow down. If anything, he got more ruthless, his hand a punishing, slick vice. I hit the peak with a violent, full-body shudder.

My back arched so hard it felt like it might snap, and a raw, guttural scream was swallowed by Michael’s mouth as he suddenly crashed his lips against mine.

It wasn't just a kiss, it was a collision. It was hot, wet and rough. As I peaked, thick, searing bursts of c*m surged from me, coating his fingers and splashing hot against my own stomach. My muscles went rigid, my heart exploding in my chest as the pleasure turned into a sharp, white-hot ache.

Michael held me through it, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth, claiming the broken sounds I was making.

He didn't stop the movement of his hand until the very last twitch of my c**k subsided, keeping me suspended in that agonizingly high state of sensitivity.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips wet and swollen. He looked down at his hand, which was glistening, heavy, and white with my spent mess.

"Look at that," he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips. "You really didn't hold back, did you?"

He brought his hand up to my face, the scent of the encounter hitting me all at once, musky, sharp, and undeniable. He pressed two fingers, drenched in my own c*m, against my bottom lip.

"Clean it up, Golden Boy," he commanded, his eyes flashing with a feral sort of triumph. "Every drop. I want you to taste exactly what you just gave me."

“No…noo” I whimpered through my haziness.

“Be a good boy and clean up” he grunted against my lips.

My pride was gone, incinerated in the heat of the last five minutes. With a trembling breath and eyes filled with tears of shame, I parted my lips. I took his fingers into my mouth, swirling my tongue around them, cleaning the salt and the heat of myself off his skin.

He watched me with a terrifyingly satisfied expression, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw one last time before he pulled away and wiped his hand casually on his jeans.

"There," he said, his voice returning to that effortless, arrogant drawl. "Now we’ve got a real secret."

And just like that, the spell broke.

Staring at him, the crushing reality of the situation came down on me like a ton of bricks as I looked at my open fly, felt the cooling stickiness on my skin, and registered the lingering taste of myself still on my tongue.

"No," I whispered frantically. "No, no, no."

"Axel…"

"Get away from me!"

Shoving him backward with all the adrenaline-fueled strength I had left, I fumbled desperately with my zipper, my hands shaking so violently I nearly broke the track.

Without waiting for him to utter another word, I bolted out of the laundry room, tore through the kitchen, and spilled out the back door into the freezing night, never stopping my sprint until I reached the safety of my car.

Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, my chest heaved while the frigid air stung my lungs.

I'm not gay, I told myself, the words repeating as a frantic mantra in the dark, trying to convince myself that it was just stress, or adrenaline, or spite that it didn't actually mean anything.

But as I finally threw the car into drive and sped away, the phantom ghost of Michael’s hand still burned against my skin, accompanied by the terrifying truth that for those few minutes, thoughts of Chloe or Liam hadn't crossed my mind once.