Ryker rubbed his stomach as he shifted to find a comfortable position. The problem with eating after going most of the day without eating was that he often overate. He’d ordered not one but two desserts—bananas foster and bouillie cake. Delicious but definitely not the wisest choice. Timothée encouraging the gluttonous behavior didn’t help, either. Now Ryker was miserable—the way he felt every Thanksgiving after eating his grandmother’s dressing and vowing to never do it again. His left brain told him not to do it, but his prefrontal cortex was having no part in it.
“There’s a reason gluttony’s a sin,” he moaned.
“Stop whining.” Timothée adjusted the car seat heater. “When you make a choice, you stick with it. Wasting time regretting doesn’t undo the choice.”
“Is that hockey rationale?”
“Sure, if you want to call it that, but it’s common sense. On the ice, you have fractions of a second to make a decision while trying to read everyone else. It either works or it doesn’t, but the next play is still going to happen. Forty-five seconds is all you get, so everything counts. Regretting will get your ass handed to you. While you’re flipping through the mental Rolodex of would’ve, could’ve, and should’ve, some mofo will have kamikazed your ass face-first into the glass so hard that you’ll see tomorrow today. Then you can regret watching Tweety Birds flapping around your head as you’re being hauled off on a stretcher.”
Ryker nodded. “I see your point. Shifts don’t seem that short when you’re watching.”
“They don’t feel like it when you’re playing—at least, not if it’s a worthy opponent. Sometimes you just have to pray you make it to the bench.” He held up his index finger. “This one game, I was on the ice for three minutes without a whistle and worn slap out. My lungs felt like they’d been ripped out through my esophagus and crammed back sideways. When I finally got a break, it was for fifteen seconds before I was back in. We only had nine guys on the bench halfway through the third, and one of those was the backup goalie.”
“I saw that game. Players kept getting ejected.”
Timothée frowned and nestled into the seat. “That was no game. It was a massacre—fourteen to zilch.”
“It has to be the highest blowout in hockey history.”
“Not quite, but it sure wasn’t for a lack of trying. The other team just ran out of time.”
“You know.” Ryker dug through his computer bag and retrieved a folder. “That might be a good story to share at the event in two weeks.”
Timothée’s brows shot up. “What event?”
“A youth hockey banquet. You’re booked as the keynote speaker.”
“I’d never agree to that.”
“I know.”
“So you’re just going to sign me up for shit without telling me?”
“I’m telling you now. No need to wig out… again.” Ryker allowed the folder to fall onto the seat beside him and leaned back against the headrest. “It’s a small thing, won’t take much time, and will look good.” He groaned again, pulling at the waistband of his pants. “My circulation is being cut off.”
“Stop bellyaching… literally. Loosen your belt.”
“Ha-ha.” Ryker flashed Timothée a mock smile at the play on words but did as suggested. He sighed in relief as the leather gave, and he unbuttoned his pants. No, it wasn’t professional, but it probably was the least unprofessional thing he’d done today. However, when his zipper sprang down—up and over the wood, so to speak—on its own and stuck, that was a wardrobe malfunction that skyrocketed the situation to another zone.
“Shit,” Ryker muttered, straightening and tugging the zipper pull.
“Need some help?”
“Oh, you’re going to help?” Ryker snorted and cast Timothée the stink eye. He wasn’t sure the type of game Timothée had been playing with him, but Ryker disliked being teased. Sure, maybe Timothée hadn’t wigged out at Ryker admitting his attraction, but there was no need for the man to mock him for it. “You’re part of the reason for this,” he added, mumbling and thinking Timothée hadn’t heard.
Then he froze.
The tips of Timothée’s fingers skimmed the sliver of skin peeking from between the tail of Ryker’s button-up and the waistband of his black briefs. The touch was so light, it barely registered to Ryker. But he did feel it, and his eyes were momentarily mesmerized watching.
Do something. Say something. You can’t do this.
Slowly, Ryker’s eyes traveled from Timothée’s long, stroking fingers to the Rolex on his wrist, up his muscled arm and biceps to his face. There, Ryker recognized the intensity in Timothée’s eyes as lust. He didn’t even possess the decency to be ashamed about his own wantonness. His gaze bore down on Ryker with intensity.
“Uh….” Ryker’s mouth opened and then shut, and a flush crept up his cheeks. “This isn’t helping.” He struggled to control his breathing.
“No?” Timothée’s hand slid between Ryker’s thighs and squeezed his erection before curling around the shaft.
Sweet griddle cakes!
Ryker remained speechless as the deftness of Timothée’s fingers brought him to new heights, causing his cock to strain against the cotton. “You’re for real, aren’t you?” he finally managed. “I thought you were joking.”
“I’ve never been accused of having a sense of humor.” Timothée rubbed down the shaft and squeezed Ryker’s balls, causing him to squirm.
Ryker, he warned himself, think about this. Think about your career. He shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to suppress the outrageous desires coiling within him. He’d worked hard to get where he was.
“Timothée, we can’t. I’ll be fired.” After Lesley skins me alive.
“All this talk about me trusting you, and you don’t trust me.”
“It isn’t that.” Damn, he smells good. What’s he taste like?
“Then what is it?”
“It’s… uh… uh….” Speak, stupid. Brain, function.
Timothée rolled Ryker’s balls in his hands like kombolói, and precum pearled at the crown. All thoughts drifted from Ryker’s mind as he writhed under Timothée’s grasp. His pulse fluttered at the base of his throat.
Omigod, I’m going to lose it. “The driver.”
“What about him? He can’t hear or see us through the partition window. And what would he care anyway? I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen a little action transpiring in the back seat. Drivers are like bartenders in that way—they keep the most secrets.”
“Is that your way of saying you do this often?”
“You talk too much.”
This isn’t smart. Don’t do it.
Oh, shut up and stop pretending you’re not about to fuck this man.
Clutching the nape of Timothée’s neck, Ryker hoisted him forward, angled his head to suit his pleasure, and kissed him hard. Although Timothée put up no resistance, his weight pushed Ryker into the seat with effortless strength, trapping Ryker’s left arm between them. With his free hand, Ryker forked his fingers through Timothée’s thick mane and cradled his scalp. He pushed his tongue into Timothée’s mouth, and he released a savage moan.
“You’re needy,” Timothée mewled into his mouth.
“It’s been a while.”
“How long?”
“Over a year. Sixteen months. I probably won’t last long.”
Stroking the pulse throbbing in Ryker’s neck with his other hand, Timothée said, “Then let’s make sure it’s been worth the wait.”
Ryker’s mouth traveled from Timothée’s lips to his chin and then nibbled a path to his earlobe. His hand rounded from the rear of Timothée’s neck to the opening of his collar. He fumbled to unbutton the shirt, kissing and lapping at each inch of skin he exposed. Drinking in more of Timothée’s intoxicating scent, Ryker surrendered the remainder of his willpower—not that he had much choice. His body had already betrayed him. He moaned again as Timothée’s fingers snaked under the band of his underwear and grazed the smooth skin. Ryker’s hips raised instinctively at the touch, urging more.
“I like that you’re shaved,” Timothée whispered in Ryker’s ear.
Ryker’s breath hitched in response. All his words were lying on the tip of his tongue, entrapped behind his teeth. I can’t even make a sentence. I’m doomed.
He wriggled to free his arm but slipped so that his head rested on the wedge between the window and seat. The position wasn’t the most comfortable—not to mention being less than dignified—but he’d make no complaints. His hips jerking brought the realization that his pants and briefs were being yanked to his knees. His thick cock bounced out tall and proud. Before he could protest—not that it would have been in earnest—Timothée’s tongue flattened across Ryker’s crown and licked away the salty emission before teasing the sensitive flesh of the underside. Praise the Lord. Ryker’s fingers dug into the seat and Timothée’s shoulder as he struggled not to lose it. More precum seeped out, glistening the head with anticipation.
“Delicious,” Timothée said with a smile and then blew a steady stream of cool air across Ryker’s fevered cockhead. “Salty and sweet. I could suck on this all day.”
“Then do it. Don’t keep me waiting.” With his hand now free, he pushed at Timothée’s shirt. It slid to his elbows.
“Patience is a virtue.” He trailed his tongue up Ryker’s thigh and along the dorsal vein.
“Fuck patience,” Ryker uttered in ragged breaths while grinding upward, his pupils dilated.
A feral chuckle rumbled from Timothée. He wrapped his mouth around the smoothness of rigid flesh, hollowed out his cheeks to create a tight suction, and sucked slowly but firmly. His beard scraped against Ryker’s skin, producing a delectable friction.
Too far gone in lust, Ryker uttered a string of incoherent sounds and attempted to thrust. However, Timothée held him still and took him deeper with each pull from base to tip, never hesitating when it hit the back of his throat. Using lips, tongue, and teeth, he teased Ryker to the edge and back again. Ryker’s body trembled with need. Flares of heat streaked throughout him. Any doubts he had of Timothée’s sexual competence with men evaporated. The man definitely knew how to treat Ryker’s body. His raging hard-on was one of the hardest he’d ever experienced, and Timothée had done that. With every tongue flick, Ryker’s body sizzled with pleasure.
“Timothée,” he panted, watching Timothée’s head bobbing on him. “Pull off.” He was close—too close. A roll of sweat trickled down his backbone, and his sack lifted and tightened. He pushed at Timothée’s broad shoulders, but he’d have better luck moving Mauna Kea. “Please don’t make me come yet.”
“I’m going to milk you,” Timothée muttered around Ryker’s dick.
“Oh God!” A shock of blinding white light exploded behind his eyes followed by a rainbow of color as he released into Timothée’s mouth. Tidal wave after tidal wave pummeled through him as long streams of his seed jetted out. For several minutes, Ryker wasn’t sure if he was swaying or having an out-of-body experience. Every pore tingled. When his vision cleared, he found Timothée grinning at him, his lips glistening with the remnants of Ryker’s load. “Well, now I’m embarrassed.”
“Why? Watching and feeling you come was so sexy.”
“I have much better staying power than that. I should be allowed to redeem myself.”
“You’ll have it.”
A warmth spread through Ryker’s chest at the possibility that being with Timothée may not be a onetime deal. “How about I take care of you now?”
“But I’m not done with you.”
The declaration both excited and terrified Ryker. Shameless. And the way Timothée’s fingers inched toward his ass, he knew he was in for a treat. However, in the shower, he’d seen Timothée was gifted with a monster. But who knew his girth size when fully erect? As much as Ryker wanted Timothée inside him, it wasn’t without a twinge of fear.