#terry ryan

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts. You're on your feet before you even realize it, screaming yourself hoarse as Hitch raises his stick in the air, with that cocky grin, as he scored the winning goal. The Bulldogs swarm him, gloves flying as they pile on him in celebration.

But you're not watching the celebration anymore. You're already moving, pushing past the other fans in the stands, your heart hammering against your ribs. You know exactly where the players' exit is. You've done this enough times to have the route memorized down the stairs, through the corridor, past the bathrooms, and out to where the hallway opens up near the locker rooms. You're there before most of the team has even made it off the ice.

When Hitch finally appears, he's still in most of his gear, helmet tucked under one arm, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His face is flushed, eyes bright with the high of a victory, and when he spots you waiting, that grin gets even wider.

"Well, well," he says, "couldn't even wait for me to get cleaned up, could ya?"

"Nope," you say, and you're already grabbing his free hand, tugging him toward the exit. "We're leaving. Now."

He laughs, that deep rumble that you feel in your chest. "Jesus, b'y, I haven't even—"

"Don't care. Truck. Now."

"I'm fuckin' soaked through, love. I stink like—"

"I said I don't care." You shoot him a look over your shoulder, and whatever he sees in your face makes his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You scored the winning goal. We're celebrating. My way."

"Christ," he mutters, but he's following you, his gear bag slung over his shoulder; luckily, he managed to take off his skates and has his normal shoes on. "You're somethin' else, you know that?"

You don't answer. You're too busy pulling him through the parking lot, your fingers laced tight with his, your whole body thrumming with want. You can already smell him, that particular musk that clings to hockey players after a hard game. It makes your mouth water.

The truck is parked near the back, and you practically shove him toward the passenger side. "Get in."

He's still laughing as he climbs into the passenger seat, his gear clanking, taking up too much space. You're behind the wheel before he's even got his seatbelt on.

"Jesus fuck, slow down," Hitch says, but there's no real concern in his voice. He's watching you with this look—half amused, half something darker, hungrier. "What's got into you?"

"You," you say bluntly, and his laugh turns into something closer to a groan.

"Haven't even touched you yet, b'y."

"Doesn't matter." You take a turn faster than you should. "Been thinking about this since the second period."

"Have ya now?" His voice drops lower, and you can feel his eyes on you, tracking the way your hands grip the steering wheel, the way you're practically vibrating in your seat. "Fuck me," he breathes, and you watch his hand drop to his thigh, adjusting himself through his hockey pants. "You're gonna kill me before we even get home."

The streets blur past. It's a fifteen-minute drive from the arena to your place, but you're determined to make it in ten. Hitch has given up on pretending to be concerned about your driving. Instead, he's shifted in his seat, angled toward you, and his hand has found your thigh, fingers pressing in through your jeans.

"You're serious about this," he says, and it's not quite a question.

"Dead serious."

"I smell like a fuckin' gym bag, love."

"Good."

His fingers tighten on your thigh. "You're fuckin' feral, you know that?"

You grin, sharp and wild.

"Christ, look at you. Can barely keep the truck straight, you're so wound up."

"Your fault," you shoot back. "Scoring that goal, looking like that, being all..." You wave a hand vaguely in his direction. "You."

He laughs again, but it's breathless this time. "So this is my fault, is it?"

"Completely."

"Well then." His hand slides higher on your thigh, and you nearly run a red light. "Guess I'd better take responsibility. What're you gonna do to me?" He's teasing now, but there's a thread of genuine curiosity underneath it. "When we get home?"

You pull onto your street, tires squealing slightly. "I'm gonna drop to my knees the second we're through the door," you say, voice steady despite the way your heart is trying to punch through your ribcage. "And I'm gonna suck you off."

"Jesus fuck," Hitch groans, his head falling back against the headrest. "You can't just-fuck, we're not even home yet."

"Almost there." You whip into the driveway, throw the truck into park, and you're out of the driver's seat before the engine's even fully off.

Hitch is slower, hampered by his gear, but you're not waiting. You grab his hand again, hauling him toward the front door, fumbling with your keys.

"Easy, love," he murmurs, "Not goin' anywhere."

The door swings open and you're pulling him inside, kicking it shut behind you. His gear bag hits the floor with a heavy thud. You don't even make it three steps into the house before you're spinning around, dropping to your knees right there in the entryway.

"Whoa, hey." Hitch's hands come up, hovering near your shoulders. "Cmon, I didn't even shower yet. I'm fuckin' disgusting."

You look up at him, and you know your eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. "I don't care."

"I stink, b'y"

"No." You reach for the waistband of his hockey pants, fingers finding the fastening. "I want you exactly like this."

He stares down at you, and you watch something shift in his expression, surprise giving way to heat. "You're serious."

"I told you. Dead serious." You get the fastening undone and start working on getting the pants down over his hips. He's still wearing most of his padding, and it's awkward, but you don't care. You're determined. "I've been thinking about this all game. About you, sweaty and filthy."

"Christ," he breathes, and his hands drop to help you, stripping away the layers—hockey pants, compression shorts, until he's standing there in just his jock, his cock already half-hard and straining against the fabric. You lean forward, pressing your face against the front of his jock, breathing him in.

The smell is overwhelming, sweat something uniquely Hitch. It's raw and dirty, and it makes something in your brain short-circuit in the best possible way. You moan against him, open-mouthed, and feel his cock twitch in response.

"Fuck," Hitch groans above you, and one of his hands comes down to tangle in your hair. "You really-you actually like it."

"Love it," you correct, and you mouth at him through the fabric, feeling him harden further under your attention. "Love how you smell. Love how you taste. Love that you're still sweaty from the game."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he mutters, and his accent is getting thicker, the way it always does when he's turned on. "You're somethin' else entirely, you are."

You pull back just enough to hook your fingers in the waistband of his jock, looking up at him through your lashes. "Can I?"

"Can you—" He laughs, a little wild. "B'y, you're on your knees beggin' to suck my cock when I smell like I've been buried in a hockey bag for a week. You really think you gotta ask?"

"Manners," you say primly, and then you're pulling the jock down, freeing his cock.

He's fully hard now, flushed and thick, and there's already a bead of precome glistening at the tip. You lick your lips, and Hitch makes a sound that's halfway between a laugh and a groan.

"Look at you," he says, and his voice has gone soft, wondering. "Look at how bad you want it."

"Been wanting it all night," you admit, and you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of him, the weight. "Been thinking about nothing else."

"Yeah?" His hand tightens in your hair, not pulling, just holding. "Tell me. What were you thinkin'?"

"This," you say simply, and you lean forward, dragging your tongue up the length of him, base to tip.

The taste of him explodes across your tongue, salt and sweat. You moan around him, going back for more, licking him like he's your favorite flavor of ice cream.

"Fuck," Hitch gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Oh fuck, that's...your mouth is-"

You don't let him finish. You're too busy exploring, learning the taste and feel of him, the way his cock twitches when you drag your tongue along the underside, the way his breathing goes ragged when you swirl around the head. It's intoxicating.

"You taste so good," you murmur against him, and you feel him shudder. "So fucking good."

"I taste like a locker room," he counters, but his voice is strained, breathless.

"Exactly." You look up at him, making sure he's watching, and then you open your mouth wide and take him in.

The sound he makes is inhuman, a choked-off groan that echoes in the entryway. His hand spasms in your hair, and you feel his thighs tense under your free hand. You take him deeper, relaxing your jaw, letting him slide over your tongue until he hits the back of your throat.

"Holy fuck," Hitch gasps. "Holy...Jesus-fuck, your mouth..."

You pull back, just enough to breathe, and then you're sinking down again, setting a rhythm. Slow at first, savoring it, letting spit gather and drip down his length, making it messy, making it wet. Your hand works what your mouth can't reach, twisting on the upstroke, and Hitch is falling apart above you.

"Look at you," he's babbling now, words tumbling out in that thick accent. "Look at you, couldn't even wait, could ya? Had to have it right here, right in the fuckin' doorway. Christ, you're perfect. You're so fuckin' perfect."

You hum around him in response, and the vibration makes his hips buck. You take him deeper in response, pushing yourself, wanting to take all of him, wanting to feel him come apart because of you.

"Didn't even care that I stink," he continues, and there's wonder in his voice, awe mixed with arousal. "Didn't care that I'm covered in sweat. You just-fuck, you just wanted me anyway."

You pull off with an obscene pop, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a thin strand.

"Christ," he breathes, "You're fuckin' feral for it, aren't ya? For me, like this."

"Yes," you admit shamelessly, and you lean forward to drag your tongue along his length again, collecting the mix of spit and precome that's dripping down. "Love you like this. All sweaty and dirty and mine."

"Yours," he agrees roughly. "Fuck, I'm yours. All yours."

You reward him by taking him deep again, faster this time, working him with your mouth and hand in tandem. The sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy, the kind of sounds that should probably embarrass you but only make you wetter. Spit is dripping down your chin, and you don't care. You're too focused on the way Hitch is trembling, the way his breathing has gone ragged and desperate.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, and both his hands are in your hair now, not controlling your movements but holding on like you're the only thing keeping him upright. "You're gonna make me..."

You double your efforts, taking him as deep as you can, swallowing around him, and the sound he makes is broken and beautiful.

"Wait, wait," He tries to pull back, but you follow him, refusing to let him go. "I'm gonna—if you don't stop, I'm gonna—"

You look up at him, making sure he can see the determination in your eyes, and you take him even deeper.

"Oh fuck," Hitch groans, and you feel him pulse in your mouth. "Fuck, I'm—I'm gonna come, I'm—fuck—"

You want it. You want to taste him, want to feel him come apart in your mouth, want to swallow every drop. You suck harder, your hand working faster, and Hitch breaks.

"Fuck!" His whole body goes rigid, and then he's coming, hot and thick on your tongue. You swallow it down, working him through it, milking every last drop while he shakes and gasps above you.

When he's finally spent, you pull off slowly, placing a gentle kiss to the tip of his softening cock. You sit back on your heels, looking up at him, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip.

He looks wrecked. His hair is even more disheveled than it was after the game, his face flushed, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. But more than that, he looks amazed. Like he can't quite believe what just happened.

"Jesus Christ," he finally manages, voice hoarse. "You just we didn't even make it past the fuckin' door."

You grin up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Told you I couldn't wait."

"Yeah, you fuckin' did." He reaches down, helping you to your feet, and immediately pulls you into a kiss. It's deep and filthy, and you know he can taste himself on your tongue, but he doesn't seem to care. When he finally pulls back, he's grinning. "You're absolutely mental, you know that?"

"You love it," you say, echoing his earlier words.

"I really fuckin' do," he agrees, and he kisses you again, softer this time then he's scooping you up, making you yelp in surprise. "Now then. I think it's my turn to return the favor. And unlike you, I'm gonna at least make it to the bedroom."

"You don't have to—"

"Oh, I absolutely fuckin' do," he says, already carrying you down the hallway. "You just sucked my soul out through my cock. You think I'm not gonna worship you properly for that?"

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "When you put it that way..."

"Exactly." He kicks the bedroom door open, laying you on the bed with surprising gentleness. "Now, let's see if I can make you as desperate as you made me."

Looking up at him—still sweaty, still disheveled, still yours you grin. "Challenge accepted."

And as he crawls over you, that cocky smile back in full force.

He settles his weight over you, bracing himself on his forearms, and kisses you again slow and deep and thorough, like he's got all the time in the world now. You can still taste yourself on your own lips, the salt of him mixed with your spit, and it makes you squirm beneath him.

"Easy now," he murmurs against your mouth, that accent wrapping around the words like honey. "We got time now, b'y. Gonna do this proper."

"Proper," you repeat, a little breathless. "That's a new one for us."

He grins against your lips. "Well, proper for us anyway. Which means I'm gonna make you come so hard you forget how to speak."

"Big talk from a guy who just came in under two minutes."

"Oi!" He pulls back, mock-offended. "That's because you were like a woman possessed down there. Couldn't even let me get clean first, could ya? Just had to have me right there in the doorway like some kind of—" He pauses, searching for the word. “little minx,' but sure, we'll go with yours." His hands are already working at your clothes, pulling your shirt over your head, making quick work of your bra. "Christ, look at you. All worked up and I haven't even touched you yet."

"You were touching me in the truck," you point out, and he laughs.

"That don't count. That was just me tryin' not to lose my mind while you drove like a bat outta hell." His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into the touch.

He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth, and you gasp at the wet heat of it. He works you over with his tongue, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm, while his hand tends to the other breast. The contrast of sensations makes your head spin gentle and rough, soft and sharp, all of it perfectly calculated to drive you insane.

"Hitch," you breathe, and your hands find his hair, still damp with sweat, holding him to you.

"Yeah, love?" He switches sides, giving your other breast the same treatment. "What d'ya need?"

"More," you manage. "Need more."

"Greedy little thing, aren't ya?" But there's no judgment in his voice, only affection and heat. "Just like how you couldn't wait to get your mouth on me. Had to have it right away, didn't ya?"

"Yes," you admit, because there's no point in denying it. Not when you're already squirming beneath him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck, that's hot." He kisses his way down your sternum, your belly, pausing to work at the button of your jeans. "You know how hot that is? How fuckin' amazing you are?"

"Tell me," you say, lifting your hips to help him peel your jeans and underwear down your legs.

"You really wanna know?" He tosses your clothes aside, settling between your thighs, and the look on his face is everything. "You wanna know what it does to me, knowin' you wanted me that bad?"

"Yes."

"Alright then." His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and you can feel his breath against your skin. "It makes me feel like the luckiest bastard alive.”

His fingers trace patterns on your inner thighs, maddeningly close to where you need him but not quite touching. You try to shift closer, but his hands hold you in place.

"That you don't care I stink like a hockey bag," he continues, and his voice has gone rough and wondering. "That you liked it. That it turned you on. Christ, when you pressed your face against me and moaned—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "Thought I was gonna come right then and there."

"Hitch," you plead, and you're not above begging at this point. "Please."

"Please what, love?" He's teasing now, the bastard, pressing kisses to your inner thighs, so close but not close enough. "Use your words."

"Please touch me. Please—oh fuck—"

He doesn't wait for you to finish. His mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and your back arches off the bed. He licks into you like a man starving, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, and the sounds he's making are obscene wet, hungry groans that vibrate against your most sensitive parts.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word muffled and desperate. "Oh fuck, b'y, you taste so fuckin' good. So sweet and wet and Christ…” He licks into you again, broad and flat with his tongue, and you can hear how wet you are, the obscene sounds filling the room. "Listen to that. Listen to how fuckin' soaked you are for me."

Your hands fist in the sheets, your hips trying to rock against his face, but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open and spread for him.

"Been thinkin' about this, have ya?" His voice is rough, accent thick as molasses. "Been sittin' in those stands with this pretty pussy all wet and achin', watchin' me skate around?" He drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, and you whimper. "Answer me, love. Wanna hear you say it."

"Yes," you gasp out. "Yes, been thinking about it—about you—"

"Fuck, that's what I thought." He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, just once, hard enough to make you cry out. "Could see it in your eyes when you grabbed me. That desperate, hungry look. Like you were gonna die if you didn't get your mouth on me right fuckin' then."

He's licking into you again, his tongue pushing inside, fucking you with it, and the sounds are getting wetter, sloppier. You can feel yourself dripping, can feel it running down between your ass cheeks, soaking the sheets beneath you.

"Jesus Christ, you're drippin' for me," he says, and there's awe in his voice, wonder mixed with pure filthy heat. "Look at you, so fuckin' wet I could drown in it. And you taste—fuck, b'y—you taste like heaven. Could eat this sweet cunt for hours. Could live right here between your thighs and die a happy man."

"Hitch," you moan, and one of your hands finds his hair, tangling in the still-damp strands. "Oh god, Hitch—"

"That's it, love. Say my name. Let the whole fuckin' neighborhood know who's makin' you feel this good." His tongue circles your clit, teasing, and you buck against him. "You're so fuckin' perfect. So responsive. Every time I lick you, you make these little sounds these desperate, needy sounds that make me wanna fuck you senseless."

He slides two fingers into you, and the stretch makes you gasp. "And you're so tight. So hot and tight and wet. Fuck, you're squeezin' my fingers already. You gonna come for me, b'y? Gonna come all over my face?"

"Yes," you pant. "Yes, please, I need…"

"I know what you need." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "You need me to make you come. Need me to lick this perfect pussy until you're screamin'. And I'm gonna do it, love. Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own fuckin' name."

His mouth is back on your clit, sucking and licking while his fingers work inside you, and the combination is devastating. You're making sounds you've never made before, high and desperate and completely uncontrolled.

"That's it, that's fuckin' it," he encourages, his words vibrating against you. "Listen to you. So desperate and needy. You were like this in the truck, weren't ya? Squeezin' your thighs together, tryin' not to squirm. Bet you were soaked even then. Bet you've been wet since I scored that goal."

"Earlier," you admit breathlessly. "Since the third period—"

"Fuck." The word comes out as a growl, and he doubles his efforts, his tongue working your clit in tight circles while his fingers pump faster. "You been sittin' there for a whole period, watchin' me play, gettin' wetter and wetter. That's so fuckin' hot, b'y. That's the hottest thing I've ever heard."

The wet sounds are obscene now, filling the room, the slick slide of his fingers, the messy work of his mouth, your gasping breaths and his hungry groans. It's filthy and perfect.

"You're makin' such a mess," he says, and there's satisfaction in his voice, pride. "Drippin' all over my hand, all over my face. Gonna be tastin' you for days. Gonna smell you on my skin tomorrow at practice and get hard thinkin' about this. About how desperate you were for me. About how you couldn't even wait for me to shower before you were on your knees."

He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and you cry out at the fullness. "That's it, take it. Take everything I give you. You're doin' so good, love. So fuckin' good. Takin' my fingers so well, makin' such pretty sounds for me."

Your thighs are trembling now, your whole body wound tight. You're close, so close, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way you're clenching around his fingers, in the way your breathing has gone ragged and desperate.

"You're close, aren't ya?" His voice is rough, almost reverent. "Can feel you gettin' tighter, squeezin' my fingers like you don't wanna let go. You gonna come for me, b'y? Gonna come all over my face like the perfect, desperate girl you are?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, I'm gonna—I'm so close—"

"Then come." He seals his lips around your clit and sucks hard, his fingers curling against that spot inside you, and his other hand slides up to press down on your lower belly. "Come for me right now. Wanna feel you fall apart. Wanna taste it. Come on, love, give it to me. Show me how good I make you feel."

The pressure, the suction, the relentless curl of his fingers—it's too much. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, and you're screaming his name, your back arching off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head. He doesn't let up, working you through it, his tongue and fingers drawing it out until you're shaking, until you're pushing at his head because it's too much, too intense.

"Fuck, yes, that's it," he's saying, his voice muffled against you. "That's so fuckin' beautiful. You're so beautiful when you come. Could watch you do that every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it."

He's gentling now, soft kisses pressed to your oversensitive skin, his fingers sliding out slowly. You can hear him licking them clean, groaning at the taste, and the sound makes you shiver.

"So fuckin' perfect," he murmurs, pressing kisses up your inner thigh. "So responsive and eager, my perfect girl who tastes like fuckin' heaven and comes so pretty I could cry."

You're boneless, wrung out, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. When you finally manage to open your eyes, he's hovering over you, his face glistening with your wetness, his eyes dark and satisfied and full of love.

"Holy fuck," you manage, and your voice is wrecked. "Holy fuck, Hitch."

He crawls back up your body, grinning like the cat that got the cream. His face is wet with you, and he doesn't bother wiping it off before he kisses you. You taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with the lingering taste of him from earlier, and it's filthy and perfect.

"Good?" he asks, even though he clearly knows the answer.

"Understatement," you manage, still trying to catch your breath. "That was—you're—"

"Yeah, I know." He's still grinning, cocky as hell.You pull him down for another kiss.

"No regrets," you say firmly, and you feel his chest rumble with laughter.

"Can't argue with that." His hand strokes down your back, gentle and soothing. "You really didn't mind? That I was all gross and sweaty?"

You prop yourself up on your elbow so you can look at him properly. "Hitch. I was into it. Like, genuinely turned on by it. You being all sweaty and fresh off the ice? That's—" You pause, trying to find the words. "That's you at your most you. Strong and capable. Why wouldn't I want that?"

He stares at you for a long moment, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "You're somethin' else, you know that?"

"So you keep saying."

"'Cause it's true." He pulls you back down against his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Most girls would've made me shower first. Hell, most girls would've waited until we got home proper, not jumped me in the doorway."

"I'm not most girls."

"No," he agrees softly. "No, you're definitely not."

"I love you," he says, and it's not the first time he's said it tonight, but it still makes your heart skip. "I really fuckin' love you, b'y."

"I love you too," you say, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Even though you're a cocky bastard who brags about his oral skills."

"Hey, if you got it, flaunt it."

"You're ridiculous."

You lie there in comfortable silence for a while, just breathing together, hearts gradually slowing to normal rhythms. His hand traces lazy patterns on your back, and you can feel the tension draining out of both of you, the post-game adrenaline and post-sex endorphins leaving you both pleasantly wrung out.

"We should probably actually shower at some point," Hitch says eventually. "I mean, I'm all for the whole 'sweaty and gross' thing apparently turnin' you on, but I'm startin' to feel it now."

"Together?" you suggest, and you feel him grin.

"Oh, absolutely. Gotta make sure you get properly clean, don't I?"

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"That's exactly what we're callin' it." He sits up, pulling you with him. "Come on then. Let's get cleaned up, and then I'm gonna order us the greasiest pizza known to man, and we're gonna celebrate this win proper."

"Sounds perfect," you say, letting him pull you to your feet.

As you follow him to the bathroom, his hand warm in yours, you think about the game, the winning goal, the celebration, the desperate drive home. But mostly you think about this: the quiet moments after, the gentle touches, the easy laughter. The way he looks at you is like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.