Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

“Don’t forget to practice,” I call after my last girl.

There were four today, each a half-hour, and I’m exhausted. It’s probably more of a combination of what I learned with Detective Barrister, being back in my wrecked apartment, and the reminder of the death that happened there more than dealing with sour brats who don’t really give a shit about singing.

Don’t get me wrong—some of them actually like it.

But others are only there because their parents are determined to find hobbies and hidden talents.

“Knock, knock,” one of the other voice coaches calls, tapping on my door. “Ready?”

Yeah, may as well.

I like singing. And I’m teaching kids the theory behind it, the proper techniques, the least I could do is help myself and do the same. So, for the last few weeks, Nora has been giving me lessons. Every Sunday and Tuesday after my last kid, without fail.

We go into her room, and I stop in front of the music stand. It’s still weird to have her sit behind the piano and facing me. Normally that’s me. Although I can’t play the piano to save my life—I know just enough to read the keys and the melodies, and that’s about it. For young kids, that’s fine. I get the beginners, anyway, and then they move up to Nora.

“Let’s pick up where we left off on Tuesday,” Nora says now.

She’s in her fifties, with only a few streaks of gray in her otherwise light-brown hair. I scan the music and nod to myself, and she gives me my starting note.

Singing and I have an interesting relationship. I’ve always liked to sing in the car, and along to the pop songs, but sometimes my parents got annoyed with it. She has a lovely voice, I overheard my mom tell one of her friends, but she doesn’t ever stop.

That was a silent hit to my ego.

Because if I really was good, then they wouldn’t want me to stop. Right?

Never mind that I’ve written a handful of songs on my own. They’re in a notebook that I kept stashed under my mattress.

My heart squeezes.

With all the craziness, and my sincere lack of caring about anything for the past month, that notebook has sat forgotten. But my mattress was overturned, shredded… surely I would’ve seen it?

I’ll go back after and get it. It would be nice to flip through it, maybe add to it. Now that I’m starting to process the ugly emotions that come with Knox and Miles.

Like how I can loathe one brother and feel intensely satisfied with the other.

The lesson passes in a blur, and Nora teaches me so much about my own voice. I’m singing louder, with more confidence, at the end of our thirty minutes.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“It was my pleasure,” she says. “We’ll do this again on Tuesday, yeah?”

“Absolutely.” I grin.

I return to my lesson room, and the door swings shut behind me. My skin prickles a second before I’m grabbed from behind.

I scream into a hand that grips my face.

“Shh, wild girl,” Miles breathes in my ear. He shifts, digging his erection into my ass cheek. “These walls aren’t as soundproof as you might think. We wouldn’t want anyone coming to see you squirming, would we?”

I exhale sharply, sagging against him.

His chuckle follows, and he releases me.

“On your knees, Willow.”

I face him. His expression is a dark mask that brooks no argument.

Not that I want to argue.

I drop down easily, my body just folding. I lick my lips and stare at his crotch, now even with my face. My fingers twitch on my thighs, but I keep my hands still.

“Take it out.”

Now I move. Pulling the elastic of his sweatpants down, catching his briefs in the hook of my fingers, too. I drag it down in the front and release it when his cock and balls are free. The material slides back up an inch, lifting his balls toward me.

I groan through my teeth.

He rakes his fingers through my hair, tipping my head back. My gaze flickers up, crashing into his stormy eyes.

“You should’ve told me about your job,” he bites out.

I start to shake my head, but his grip on my hair tightens.

“No, Willow. You should’ve told me this is where you come. That this is where you sing.”

Oh God. My cheeks flame, and it spreads to my whole face.

Am I ashamed of singing?

Maybe. It’s one of those quiet hobbies that I don’t like to talk about. My attention flicks back to his cock. There’s precum oozing out of the tip, dripping past the piercing.

That’s going to ravage my throat.

“Worried about your voice?” he murmurs, leaning over me. “I’ll steal your voice, wild girl. And then I’ll give it back to you.”

I open my mouth to protest, and he forces me forward. I automatically open wider for him, letting him in my mouth. His second piercing rubs my tongue, the metallic flavor sharp and foreign. All of him is foreign, and my chest tightens at that.

I don’t want him to be foreign.

My eyes close as he pushes farther in, until my throat closes around him and my whole body seems to rebel with the force of my gag reflex. He pulls out and jacks his hips forward again, pressing deeper.

“Relax,” he whispers. His grip turns into a caress of fingers against my scalp, but his palm on the back of my head doesn’t let me escape. He pushes in far enough to block my breathing.

I squeeze his thighs. My eyes open, and I stare up at him.

He controls the pace, my movements, my breath.

It’s okay that way.

When he withdraws, I suck in a noisy breath through my nose. My nostrils flare with the effort of being quick. And then he’s moving again, fucking my face with wild abandon. I might just topple over backward if he wasn’t holding on to me, and me to him.

But something shifts halfway through. I wrap my tongue around his tip when he withdraws, and suck at his shaft when he plunges forward. The piercings rub on my tongue, giving me a taste of metal with the taste of him. My mind goes all floaty, and it’s like I’m drunk again.

Not in a bad way, though. More like… in a way that I don’t need to control my every move, because he’s doing it for me. He’s got me.

“Good,” he growls. “Submission looks so sweet on your face, wild girl. Stay in it. That’s it. Fuck, I love when your throat squeezes me like that.”

My eyes roll back, and my jaw relaxes farther. He stills, the tip of his dick on my tongue, and he pulls my head back slightly. I close my lips around him and run my tongue along the underside of the head, and his cock jumps.

“God,” he groans.

He comes, flooding my mouth. I swallow around him, almost choking on the amount of it. His grip on my hair eases, and he pulls me off his dick. He drops to his knees in front of me, his finger lifting my chin.

“Show me your mouth,” he orders.

My lips part. He catches some of his cum on his fingers. Scooping it from my tongue. His other hand undoes my jeans enough for him to guide his cum-covered fingers down to my cunt. He thrusts inside me. The heel of his palm grinds on my clit. I rise, making a noise in the back of my throat.

“Swallow,” he whispers.

I just do it without thinking.

Does that make me a bad person?

His fingers are still inside me, pumping slowly. He manages to work me right up to the edge, when my orgasm seems like an apparition in the distance, and then withdraws.

He licks his fingers clean right in front of me, the corner of his lips tilting up.

“You’ve tasted me, I’ve tasted you.” He holds out his hands.

I put my palms against his, and he helps me rise. We stand together while my mind comes back to me.

“How…?” I shake my head.

How did he do that to me?

How did he know where to find me?

How has he always known where to find me?

“I like control,” he says simply. “And sometimes, I need it.”

Sometimes I need to not have it.

“Yes,” he agrees.

I didn’t mean to speak aloud. But now that it’s in the open, my shoulders relax. The tension seems to fade away. It doesn’t mean I won’t keep secrets, or rebel in my own way, or try to steal the control when I think he doesn’t have it.

But maybe that’s just because I want him to prove me wrong.

Like… like about him leaving me.

I stop and close my eyes, pulling free of Miles. I don’t want my thoughts to go in that direction, but it seems we’re careening down that path regardless.

As much as Miles might tell me not to go there, or not think about it—I have to. I have to deal with the fact that Knox was an asshole who didn’t give a shit about me.

There.

He didn’t give a shit.

And Miles…

Miles always has.