Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)
Shameless Puckboy: Chapter 8

I CAN’T TELL, but I swear Lane’s face is flushed. His cheeks are practically glowing in the low light. His chest rises and falls faster than normal, but I wouldn’t say he’s panting. I could say it looks like he’s trying to cover up that he’s out of breath. I have my suspicions about why—okay, maybe it’s more a hopeful wish—but I haven’t decided how to play this yet.

“Are you okay? You look … hot.”

“You just got off, and now you’re hitting on me again? Do you have an off switch?”

I laugh. “I was actually worried about your welfare. And mine. Do you have a fever? Are you sick?” I approach and go to touch his forehead with the back of my hand, but he swats it away.

And when his eyes meet mine, it’s a fight not to let my amusement show.

He totally jerked off.

“How did you like my show?” I taunt.

“Like I said, I’m doing whatever it takes to protect the team’s image. If that means listening to you make god-awful noises that are so fake and over-the-top, then I will have to endure it.”

“Mm. Endure it. Sure.”

Yet, the next night when we arrive in Pittsburgh and I repeat some self-love in the bathroom under the watchful eye of Lane, I say his name even louder when I come and don’t even catch my breath before I open the door, trying to catch him in the act.

The fucker has noise-canceling headphones on.

He points to them. “Picked these up at the airport today. Smart, huh?”

“Why are you the ruiner of fun?”

Lane lifts one headphone away from his ear. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I mutter.

“Do you think you’re loose enough for the game tomorrow now?”

I hope it’s enough. “Only one way to replace out.”

I have to admit that while not the best release I’ve had, I do feel more relaxed compared to when I was only using my hand to get me off. It’s not my fault I have a high sex drive—I was born that way. And it’s not like a sex addiction or anything like that—despite what the tabloids say about me.

I like sex, and I like a lot of it. That’s all there is. There’s no story here.

But if I can’t turn around my game tomorrow, I’m not sure I’ll be able to convince Lane of that, and then I’ll have him on my ass—but not in my ass because noooo, that’s not allowed for some stupid reason—for a lot longer than he needs to be.

I’m starting to get desperate. I’m even willing to forgo public sex if it means I can have actual sex with a person again. I have my kinks, my likes and dislikes, but I don’t need to have them all to get off with someone. What I do need is the high from having someone worship me and make it feel like we could be more than physical. It never is, but in that brief moment where I have hands or a mouth or a dick on me, in me, against me, I let myself believe it’s possible.

“Good luck for tomorrow, then,” Lane says. “I’m going to go to sleep.”

I should get some sleep too, but as I strip down to my underwear and get into bed, all I can think about is reaching between my legs and fingering my still-slick hole but being as quiet as possible for once. Would Lane know what I was doing? He’s put his headphones back on, so he wouldn’t be able to hear it. Would he be able to see it?

My orgasm might have given me small relief, but the more I think about getting off again, my mind drifts to what would happen if Lane caught me. Would he be tempted to join me, or would he storm out of here and tell team management that I’m some lost cause and a sex deviant?

It’s not worth the risk. I need to turn around the public’s image of me—and Lane’s image of me—and I need to prove that sex isn’t all I think about. So instead of doing the naughty thing I really want to be doing, I whine instead.

“I can’t sleep.”

Lane doesn’t stir.

I throw my legs off the side of the bed and stand over him. He can’t be asleep already. I flick his nose.

His eyes fly open, and he sits up, headbutting my abs in the process. Even though it feels like he’s punched me, my cock still gets excited.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he says and takes his headphones off.

“I was trying to get your attention, but you couldn’t hear me.”

He glances around the room. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep.”

Lane lies back and rubs a hand over his scruffy jaw. Right where I want to rub my cheek and neck all over him like a cat. I love beard rash. Weird, maybe, because most people hate the sting and then the red skin it leaves, but for me, it’s part of the whole exhibitionist kink. Knowing people look at me and can guess what I’ve been doing is hot.

“You’ve been trying for five minutes. Just close your eyes.” Now his hand runs over his dark hair. “Fucking hell, it sounds like I’m talking to a three-year-old.”

“Maybe listening to you drone on and on and on will help me.” I sit on the side of my bed. “Ooh, I have an idea. I’ll ask you a question, and you can answer it in that lecturing tone of yours. You know the one that’s really easy to tune out? It’ll be like going to sleep with my very own white-noise app.”

“Oskar,” he warns. He sounds exhausted, but he wouldn’t be the first person to get tired of me.

“Ooh, no Mr. Voyjik this time? Are we friends now?”

“Well, you did call out my name while you got yourself off last night—”

“And tonight, but you couldn’t hear it because you decided to be rude. Do you go to a play or musical and then sit there with noise-canceling headphones on? It’s disrespectful to the performer.”

“First, I didn’t buy tickets to your show. Secondly—”

“No, you funded the whole damn thing by buying me my … props.”

Frustrated Lane is so cute. “I’m going to regret buying that thing.”

“I’m more interested in why you felt you had to drown out my sex noises. Why is that? Too sexually frustrated? When was the last time you got laid?”

“That’s none of—”

“Wait, I’m not tucked in yet.” I climb back under the covers. “Now, tell me a bedtime story. A sexy one about the last time you came. How hard you were, how much cum—”

“No.”

“Can I get myself off again, then? Maybe that will relax me enough to sleep.”

“Go for it. Bathroom is right there.”

“I don’t want to move for it though. I want to do it right here.”

“No.”

“Can we do anything fun?”

“Yes. Sleep.”

I grunt. “This sucks.”

“You’re like a needy child,” he grumbles. “Though, at least children don’t fucking ask about other people’s sex lives.”

“If you want to get technical, they do ask where babies come from.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Lane asks.

“Hate? You think I hate you? Why would I be doing all this to get your attention if I hated you? Can you seriously not sense flirting when it’s happening?”

“Except you weren’t really flirting. You were taunting. There’s a difference.”

“There is?”

Lane sits upright and stares at me with his sexy lips parted. “This is genuine flirting for you? Is this like a daddy issues thing where you don’t care what kind of attention you get, so long as you get it? Negative reinforcement and all that?”

I sit up too. “Wait, are you saying there are forms of positive reinforcement? What’s that like?”

His gaze narrows. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

I try to keep a straight face as long as I can, but I break. “I’m not. Well, not really. And I don’t have any daddy issues, thanks. My dad is awesome.”

“Yet, he somehow managed to raise you to be … you.”

“You say that like it’s an insult. I’m awesome too. So is my mom, actually. We’re the picture-perfect image of an all-American family. Dad was military. Mom was a stay-at-home parent. We moved around a lot, but for a military guy, Dad didn’t even blink an eye when I told him I was gay. All he did was tell me not to join the army. Still too homophobic for his liking.”

“So you went into sports instead because that’s such a better industry?”

I grin. “I don’t like being told what to do. It’s just lucky for Pops that I love hockey more than guns, or I would’ve followed in his footsteps to prove I could do it.”

“No daddy issues my ass,” Lane mumbles. “There has to be more to you than a penchant for trouble and great hockey skills.”

“I’m also a smart-ass and full of shit. I’m, like, the perfect package.”

“Who hurt you?”

I frown. “Huh?”

“If it’s not a terrible upbringing that makes you wear that mask of arrogance, then what is it? Someone hurt you? First love broke your heart?”

I can’t speak. Not because he hit the nail on the head, which he didn’t, but because it’s more like the complete opposite. There hasn’t been anyone willing to look past the surface long enough for me to get hurt. Or fall in love. No one has cared to be deep with me, and after a while, it’s easy to become shallow and go with the flow.

It wasn’t someone who hurt me; it was everyone.

I try to continue to wear that attitude, but it’s like in a horror movie when the protagonist removes the killer’s mask and sees the real person behind it all. It takes away their power, and I’ve never had anyone do that with me before. No one has ever cared to look deeper. I both like and despise it in equal measure.

“Ah. I’ve worked out how to make you silent.” Lane smiles. “There’s some ammunition I can use later. Poor Oskar Voyjik and his crushed heart. What happened? He cheat on you, so you decide to fuck everyone else? Bad breakup?”

I fist my hand in the sheet because I don’t want to let him see how much he’s getting to me, even though he has it all wrong. “No broken heart here. I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Sure as hell haven’t been in love.”

“Then what does your attitude protect you from?” Lane’s tone has lost the teasing edge and has been replaced with something softer. Serious. Too serious.

“Yeah, we’re not doing this.” I lie back down, determined to get my body to listen and go to sleep, but now I’m too keyed up and … icky. That same gross feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had all through high school swarms my gut. Every new school, every new face … I was always the shiny new toy. People obsessed over my looks, which made it hard to make friends because guys were generally jealous and girls wanted more than friendship. And when the novelty of someone new wore off and they all realized I was a boring guy who loved hockey and video games more than socializing and being the center of attention, they’d all drift away, and then I’d be alone. Until we moved and it started all over again. Eventually, I learned that if I acted out, people stayed interested.

“Struck a nerve?”

“Nope. Ignoring it. Getting into emotional baggage with other people isn’t worth it.”

“Why’s that?”

Because it all sounds so petty. I don’t say that though.

I hear Lane shuffle around, and when I glance over at him, he’s on the edge of his bed, leaning toward me. “Oskar, if there’s something that can help your situation, you should tell me.”

“Telling you won’t help. At all. In fact, telling you the real reason I don’t get close to people will just make you laugh your ass off because it’s ridiculous and shallow, and you’ll think, ‘Oh, no. Poor beautiful person is too beautiful.’”

As expected, Lane rolls his eyes. “And you’re back to being a douche. That split second of vulnerability I saw gave me false hope.”

“See? I’m never taken seriously, so why should I make the effort to be when it’s easier to be a fuckboy and get away with it?”

Lane’s face falls. “Wait, are you being serious?”

I sit up again and scoot to the edge of my bed until our knees are touching. “I completely understand that what I’m about to say will come across as a first-world problem, but believe me when I tell you, when people judge you on the way you look, it’s hard to live up to their first impression. When everyone wants you for your looks but you still end up alone, guess what that means? Your personality is the problem.”

“So you act out because you think it makes you more likable?”

No, I act out because if people want to hate me for being someone I’m not, they don’t really hate me, do they?

I can’t say that though. So I go for the easy target. “My dick is one of the things you like, isn’t it?”

“Nope. Not going to let you turn this into a joke.”

“It is a joke. Believe me. I can hear it in my own words. Wah, wah, wah, people hate me because I’m gorgeous, woe is me. But do you know how long it has taken for someone to ask me who I truly am deep down? From the moment I joined the juniors to exactly this moment. Right here. With you.”