Secretly Sleeping With My Hockey Rival

Burning(smut)

MARC

The door slams against my back—no, wait, I'm the one doing the slamming. Jamie's spine hits the wood with a thud that reverberates through my palm, and somewhere in the rational part of my brain that's still functioning, I register that someone might hear, might come check and might see—

His mouth crashes into mine and every thought evaporates. I've kissed people before, plenty of people. Quick f***s after games, celebratory hookups, and stress relief during playoffs but this isn't that. This is—f**k, his tongue slides against mine and my knees actually weaken. The whiskey taste mixing with something darker, something that makes my head spin worse than the alcohol ever could.

Wrong… this is wrong… he's Jamie Hartford. I should be shoving him away, not fisting his shirt in my hand and dragging him closer like I'm trying to absorb him through his designer clothes.

"Marc—" he whimpers. He called my name, my actual f*****g l name, ot Kovač, not number forty-seven, not "that reckless bastard from the Titans." The sound of my name in his voice, breathy and desperate, shoots straight down my spine and settles hot and urgent below my belt.

I bite his lip hard in response. Harder than I should, until I taste copper and he makes this sound—half gasp, half moan, all surrender—that makes something feral wake up in my chest.

His neck is right there, exposed when his head tips back, and I attack it like a starving man. My teeth scrape over his pulse point—racing, hammering, proof he wants this as badly as I do and I bite down, suck and mark him where his collar won't quite hide it tomorrow.

‘Mine.’ The thought blazes through me unbidden. He's going to look in the mirror tomorrow and see what I did to him.

"f**k," he breathes, and his hands are everywhere suddenly, yanking at my jacket, shoving at my shoulders—

White-hot pain explodes through my right side. The kind that makes black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The kind that reminds me exactly how badly I'm broken but I don't care.

I help him rip the jacket off, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, using my left arm to do most of the work while my right screams in protest. The jacket hits the floor with a muffled thump and then I'm on him again, walking him backwards into the room, my hands already working on his belt.

This is insane.

Four years of hatred, four years of cheap shots and verbal warfare and pure competitive loathing and now my fingers are shaking—actually trembling—as I try to get his f*****g belt undone.

He helps me, his hands cover mine and together we get the leather through the buckle, get the button popped, and the zipper down. When I shove my hand into his boxer briefs and wrap my fingers around his c**k, he's already hard. Hot, thick and leaking against my palm.

"Jesus," he chokes out, and his forehead drops to my shoulder and I can feel him shaking.

I need this, I need to be the one in control. I need to take something instead of having everything taken from me—my health, my career, my future, all of it slipping through my fingers like water while I stand helpless and watch it go but this… this I can have.

I drop to my knees, the carpet is rough even through my pants. The room spins slightly—whiskey or adrenaline or the pain radiating from my shoulder, I don't know and I don't care. I yank his slacks and underwear down in one rough motion and suddenly he's right there in front of me, flushed, hard and already leaking.

"Marc, you don't have to—"

I swallow his c**k down before he can finish.

"f**k!" The word rips out of him, raw and shocked, and his hand flies to my hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, grip tight enough to make my scalp burn, and the pain grounds me, it makes everything sharper and more real.

I take him deeper. I relax my throat the way I learned years ago and swallow until my nose is pressed against the neat hair at his base. He's thick enough to make my jaw ache, long enough to make my eyes water, and I f*****g love it.

I love the way his thighs tremble on either side of my head. I love the desperate, breathy sounds he can't seem to control. I love that Mr. Perfect, with his Ivy League education and his old money breeding and his spotless reputation, is falling apart because of me.

I pull back slowly, hollowing my cheeks, and sucking hard. My tongue traces the thick vein along the underside of his shaft, flicks over the sensitive spot just below the head. When I glance up through my lashes, Jamie's staring down at me with pupils blown so wide his eyes look black.

His lips are parted, red and swollen from my teeth. His carefully styled hair is a mess where I grabbed it earlier and his face…God… his face is completely unguarded, raw and vulnerable in a way I've never seen him.

Beautiful… no…. Not beautiful. I'm not doing that. This is just physical, just need and just s*x, nothing more.

He hits the back of my throat again and I hum, just slightly. The vibration makes him jerk, makes his grip in my hair turn almost painful, and I do it again and again. Taking him apart with my mouth, with my tongue, and with every trick I've ever learned.

"Marc, I'm—I can't—I'm gonna—"

I pull off completely, releasing him with an obscene wet sound that echoes in the quiet room. Spit connects my lips to the head of his c**k for a moment before breaking, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

We stare at each other, both breathing like we've just finished a triple-overtime game. His c**k is still hard, flushed almost purple, glistening with my spit. He looks absolutely wrecked and I did that.

I stand, my shoulder screaming, my knees protesting, everything hurting but I don't let it show. I can't let it show.

"Bed," Jamie manages, his voice absolutely destroyed. "Now."

We crash together again before we make it three steps. His mouth finds mine and he kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air. His hands shake as they work the buttons of my shirt, fumbling, desperate. When he finally gets it open and pushes it off my shoulders, he freezes.

I know what he sees. The bruising has spread since this morning, mottled purple, black and a sickly yellow-green at the edges, spreading from my shoulder down across my ribs. The swelling that makes my shoulder sit wrong, and the muscle visibly damaged even through my skin.

His fingers hover over it, not quite touching, and his eyes—

"Don't," I bite out. "We're not doing that."

"Doing what?" He asked, his voice quiet.

"Caring. This is hate s*x. Scratching an itch. It doesn't mean anything."

Something flashes across his face, was it hurt or disappointment? but it's gone before I can identify it. He just nods once, sharp, and turns to the nightstand.

The drawer slides open, he pulls out lube and condoms, a whole strip, like he was expecting this, like he keeps supplies ready just in case and the thought makes something ugly twist in my gut.

How many people has he brought back here? How many… no, I don't get to care about that, this is just s*x and nothing more.

"Do you want me to—" He holds up the lube, and there's uncertainty in his voice like he's not sure what I want. What this is.

I'm not sure either, all I know is that I need to take something. I need to be the one with power for once.

"No." The word comes out rough, almost mean. "I'm f*****g you."

His breath catches, a shiver runs through him and I see it, watch goosebumps rise on his skin and his pupils dilate even further.

"Okay," he whispers.

That easy surrender makes heat flood through my veins. I push him toward the bed, not hard, but firmly, letting him feel my intent and he goes. Lies back on the expensive hotel sheets and looks up at me with those blue eyes gone dark with want.

Jamie Hartford, star defenseman, captain and the golden boy everyone loves, spread out and waiting for me.

I grab the lube with my left hand, pop it one-handed, a skill learned from necessity these past few weeks and slick my fingers. My hands are shaking slightly either from pain or anticipation, I don't know.

"Spread your legs." I command and he does immediately and without hesitation. His thighs fall open and suddenly he's completely exposed, vulnerable, and trusting me with this even though we're supposed to be enemies.

I kneel between his legs and press my first finger against his hole. Just circling, not pushing in yet, and watching his face. His breath stutters, his hips shift, trying to get more pressure, and I have to suppress a smile.

"Impatient," I murmur, but I push inside anyway.

He's tight, impossibly tight and hot, and the sound he makes, this broken little gasp that catches in his throat makes my c**k throb where it's still trapped in my pants.

I work him open slowly. One finger, crooking and exploring, finding what makes him gasp, what makes his back arch off the bed. Add a second, scissoring them, stretching him. His hands fist in the sheets and his head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat with my mark still darkening on it.

When I find his prostate, he nearly comes off the bed.

"There," he sobs, and his hand shoots down to grab my wrist. Not to stop me, to hold me there, to make sure I don't move away from that spot. "Right there, f**k, Marc—"

I press against it again, and again while watching him unravel, watching perfect Jamie Hartford fall completely apart. His c**k leaks steadily against his stomach, his chest heaves. Small, desperate sounds escape his throat with every thrust of my fingers.

I add a third finger and he's babbling now, incoherent pleas and curses and my name, over and over—"Marc, Marc, please Marc"—until it's the only word he seems to remember.

"Please," he finally gasps, and I've never heard him beg for anything. Jamie Hartford doesn't beg but he's begging now. "Please, Marc, I need—I need you inside me, I need you to f**k me please—"

I withdraw my fingers and he actually whimpers at the loss. My hands fumble with the condom packet, I tear it open with my teeth because my right hand is useless and my left is slippery with lube and roll it on. I applied more lube and my hands won't stop shaking.

I line up, the head of my c**k pressing against him, and pause. Just for a moment, just long enough to meet his eyes. He's looking up at me like I'm something precious, like this means something but it doesn't and it can't.mean anything.

I push inside in one long, slow thrust.

Oh. Oh.

Heat, pressure, tight, perfect and so overwhelming I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except feel. He's gripping me like a vice, his body pulling me deeper, and for a moment the world narrows to just this, just us, joined together, both of us frozen and trembling.

"Move," Jamie gasps, his hands come up to my back, fingers digging into muscle, carefully avoiding my injured shoulder even now. "Please, Marc, I need—move—"

I do.

I pull back and thrust in hard, and the sound he makes is obscene. I do it again and again. Finding a rhythm that's more desperation than finesse, chasing something I can't name.

My good hand grips his hip hard enough to bruise, I can see my fingers leaving white marks that'll turn purple tomorrow while my right arm braces beside his head, taking weight it shouldn't, sending fresh waves of agony through my shoulder butI don't stop, I can't stop.

Every thrust drives the thoughts away, the scan results, the doctor's careful words, the knowledge that my career is over. Every moan from Jamie's lips drowns out the voice in my head that says I'm broken, worthless, and done. Every time I angle my hips and hit his prostate and he cries out, I feel powerful instead of helpless.

"There," he sobs, back arching, nails raking down my back. "There, don't stop, don't—f**k, Marc, right there—"

I f**k him exactly there. Hard, deep and relentless, hitting that spot with every thrust, watching him shatter beneath me. Sweat drips down my spine. My shoulder is screaming but I don't care.

"Touch yourself," I order, voice rough and barely recognizable. His hand flies to his c**k immediately, wrapping around it and stroking fast and desperate in time with my thrusts. His other hand stays on my back, fingers digging in, holding me close like he's afraid I'll disappear.

I'm close, the pleasure is building at the base of my spine, white-hot and inevitable, but I need—I need him to c*m first. I need to see him fall apart completely.

I shift angles slightly, thrust harder, and—

"Marc!"

He cums with my name tearing from his throat, his whole body going rigid, back bowing off the bed. His ass clenches around me rhythmically, pulsing, and I can feel him cumming, feel the hot spill between us.

I follow him over the edge with a groan that sounds like it's being ripped from somewhere deep in my chest. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, whiting out everything else, the pain, the fear, and the reality waiting outside this room. For a few perfect seconds, there's nothing but this.

My arm gives out, I collapse beside him before I crush him, both of us slick with sweat, c*m and struggling to breathe.

The silence that follows feels louder than the sounds we were making..Reality creeps back in. The hotel room comes into focus—generic art on the walls, city lights beyond the window, our clothes scattered across the floor like evidence.

What the f**k did I just do?

I just f****d Jamie Hartford. My rival, my enemy and the person I'm supposed to hate more than anyone and it was the best s*x of my life.

No….no, it was just s*x. Physical release, it doesn't mean anything.

"This can't happen again," I say to the ceiling, because I can't look at him right now. I can't see whatever expression is on his face.

"Right, obviously it can't." His voice sounds strange and strained. "It was just... adrenaline. Heat of the moment."

We're both lying and we both know we're lying.

I'm so f*****g tired, tired of pain, tired of pretending, tired of fighting everyone and everything, including apparently myself.

So I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of every point where our bodies are almost touching. His breathing gradually slows beside me. His hand rests on the sheet between us, inches from mine.

I could reach out, I could close that small distance butI don't neither does he.

Outside the window, Boston glitters indifferently in the darkness, completely unaware that something fundamental just shifted. That two enemies just became something else.

Something neither of us is ready to name and something that terrifies me more than any injury ever could.