Take It Back Door
Puck You, Book 6
by Elizabeth Jewell
Ebook ISBN: 07401-02387
[ Sports Erotica, MMM ]
When Láska suffers a serious injury on the ice, Chernyaev recruits Bessette to help aid his recovery with a little sexual healing.
The hit came so fast Bessette didn’t realize what had happened until he turned around, looking for the puck, and saw Láska curled on his side on the ice, his feet twitching in that uncontrolled way that spoke of intense pain. Whistles blew up and down the ice, and the game screeched to a sudden, horrified halt.
He didn’t know exactly what had happened. Wouldn’t know, in fact, until later that evening when he watched the replays on TV, over and over, from every angle. Only then would he get angry. Paralyzingly, infuriatingly angry.
Right now, though, he had a game to play.
He swallowed back his anxiety as the medical staff spilled onto the ice, quickly evaluating Láska’s condition. Bessette could tell it wasn’t good. He wasn’t entirely sure Láska was conscious. They strapped him to a board, transferred him to a gurney, and wheeled him away to a waiting ambulance.
The game resumed. Just before the end of the period, an announcer informed them Láska was at the hospital and conscious. The crowd applauded; Bessette tapped his stick on the ice with the rest of the players and focused on his game.
* * *
The hit had been hard enough to take Láska airborne. His head had bounced off the ice not once but twice. The twitching had been that horrible, frightening reaction of a body suddenly faced with an overload of signals from a brain that had been traumatized.
Nothing broken. No external injuries. But the concussion was going to keep Láska benched indefinitely.
Bessette knew exactly who had done it. The fucker was going to get a suspension — six games at least, the rumor mills said — but the next time Bessette saw him, he was going to pay. He wouldn’t even let that duty fall to the team enforcers. He’d deal with it himself.
In the meantime, though, all he could do was focus on his game. He wanted to see Láska, but he didn’t want to admit that to anyone. The rumor mill — mostly coming through the team doctors and trainers — indicated he was holed up in his house in the dark, not entirely aware of his surroundings, sleeping more than anything else. So Bessette stayed away. He adjusted to playing with someone else on his line.
Two weeks after the hit, Bessette was tucking into a steak when his phone buzzed with a text message.
“Fuck you,” it said, “For not visiting.”
* * *
“We should go. Cheer him…” Chernyaev broke off, obviously unsure how to finish the idiom. “Cheer him happy,” he decided.
“Cheer him up,” Bessette corrected off-handedly.
“Cheer him up,” Chernyaev repeated. Bessette had learned by now that the Russian goalie didn’t mind having his English corrected. Or his French, for that matter. In fact, he carried a little notebook with him where he wrote down all the odd vagaries of the non-native languages he almost knew.
Bessette looked up from his stick, which he was studiously taping in preparation for practice. “How do you propose we do that?” Bessette didn’t know much about what made Láska happy, aside from winning hockey games and engaging in sado-masochistic hate sex. With Láska, of course, on the “sado” side.
The glint in Chernyaev’s eye told Bessette the Russian was thinking along the lines of sex. Bessette restrained a sigh.
“I have idea,” Chernyaev said.
“I just bet you do,” Bessette muttered. He could tell Chernyaev he had no interest; he could say surely a box of chocolate or borscht or pierogies or whatever the fuck Slovaks liked would be more appropriate. It didn’t matter. Whatever Chernyaev suggested, Bessette knew, in the end, he would go along with it.
* * *
They didn’t have a game until the next day, so after practice, Bessette drove to Chernyaev’s condo. He was still renting, convinced if he bought a house he’d instantly be traded. Not that it was a bad condo, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was in an upscale part of town, and the square footage was more than most single-family homes in the area.
They drove together to Láska’s house. They’d been there before, under circumstances Bessette often tried to convince himself he’d rather forget. He was lying to himself, though. Láska had done things to Bessette that Bessette would never discuss with anyone. Not even Chernyaev, who’d been involved in some of them and was about to be involved in them again. Because there was no point even pretending they were going over to watch a funny movie with Láska to make him feel better. No. There would be sex involved. Sweating, nasty, uncomfortable sex that put all the power into Láska’s hands. Because that was what Láska liked.
Last time Láska had controlled the encounter even when he didn’t participate in it. He’d watched Bessette fuck Chernyaev, had supplied guidance and orders to both of them to satisfy his own off-kilter tastes. Láska liked to order people around. Liked to watch. Liked to control. Liked more than anything else to see Bessette humiliated. Bessette hated it. Which in no way explained why he kept coming back for more, or why, as he turned his car up Láska’s driveway his dick began to throb so hard he could feel the pulsing against the seam of his jeans.
He hated it. But he wanted it.
You are one sick fuck, he admonished himself, but, deep down, he didn’t seem to want to do anything about it.
He pulled up to Láska’s garage door and killed the engine.
“You look not happy, “Chernyaev noted. He reached over and patted Bessette’s elbow. “Not worry, Philippe. We make Jaroslav much happy.”
“Yeah, I just bet we will.”
* * *
Láska didn’t look good. The gray undertones to his complexion caught Bessette off guard. He said nothing, though, as the Slovak escorted his visitors into his home.
“We come make you cheer,” Chernyaev said brightly, tossing the big bag on the couch.
“Cheer you up,” Bessette corrected automatically, then regretted it. He was making a promise by saying that. He didn’t want to make promises to Láska. That wasn’t the way they worked.
Láska tweaked a blond eyebrow at Bessette, as if registering what Bessette had just thought.
Chernyaev had no idea what undercurrents had just started, though. He was too busy riding his own current of unbridled enthusiasm.
“We know you like… boss,” he said, leaving Bessette to blink a few times before he absorbed the meaning. The Russian was still talking. “So we cheer you up with this. You give orders, you tell Philippe what he does to me, and he does it.”
Bessette just stood there, on the verge of holding his breath. Chernyaev was willing to give himself over to Láska with no idea of what might be done to him, just to cheer the Slovak up a little? The Russian had no idea what he was opening himself up to.
But no, he actually did. This was more or less the same scenario they’d employed last time they’d gotten together — Chernyaev immobile and helpless, Láska providing orders as well as hands-on guidance while Bessette fucked the goalie. Bessette slowly let his breath out, careful not to let it hiss between his teeth.
Then he glanced at Láska and nearly choked. Those cat-slanted, ice-blue eyes had narrowed, taking him in. The look was calculating, predatory. Bessette held very, very still, as if immobility could make him invisible.
No such luck. A feral half-smile curved one side of Láska’s mouth. “No,” he said. “I will tell you what to do to him.”