Romans & histoires Hockey Smut Books

I was too ashamed to grab the lube I’d bought months ago hidden in the drawer like some guilty secret because every damn night I’d jerked off thinking about him, imagining sliding into him slow and deep, making him moan my name instead of trash-talking me at practice. I’d pictured it way more times than I’d ever admit, even to myself. More than hockey drills, more than team wins, more than anything. But right now? Using it felt like cheating or something stupid, like I was admitting how long I’d been gone for him. So I stuck my fingers in my mouth instead, got them sloppy wet with spit, pulled them out dripping. “This is all we got tonight. Don’t laugh.” He did laugh, short and breathy. “You

She stroked my throbbing cock with deliberate slowness, her soft palm gliding up and down the shaft while her thumb circled the swollen cap, smearing the thick beads of precum that leaked from the slit. I bit down on my lip to stifle a guttural groan, fuck her touch was worlds apart from Jenna's hesitant fumbling. This was pure expertise, decades of knowing exactly how to unravel a man with every twist and squeeze, her fingers curling just right to hit that sensitive spot under the ridge.

The video zoomed in close right as Brayden leaned down and pressed that slow, deliberate kiss against my flushed cheek. The caption across the bottom of the screen read: Star hockey captain drops the gloves on his own identical twin brother over a freshman. The drama is drama-ing at Berkeley. "The comments are absolutely brutal, by the way," the pink-haired girl whispered, her voice dripping with a mix of excitement and fake sympathy. "The campus gossip pages are already reposting it everywhere. Half the athletic boards are calling you a total homewrecker, and the hockey groupies are basically labeling you a puck-bunny who manipulated her way into the captain’s penthouse apartment."

He kept stroking through the orgasm, milking himself dry, body shaking as the fantasy lingered. Panting, dizzy, and still floating in post-nut haze, Julian grabbed his phone with cum-smeared fingers. The best shots were ready. He quickly selected the full explicit album—dozens of obscene nudes—and meant to send them to his mentor, Mr. Harlan. His thumb slipped. Sent to Damien Voss. The realization hit him like ice water two seconds later.

“Take my cock like a good little slut.” “Yes! I’m your slut, Daniel! Harder!” she screamed, pushing back against him. I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move. Betrayal burned through my veins like acid. My chest tightened painfully. This was the man I had been touching myself for every single night, imagining him coming home to me. And here he was, balls-deep in another woman.

Chapter 182: Third Person POV The man's fingers traced the glossy magazine cover slowly, deliberately, his touch almost reverent as it moved across the photograph displayed there, a hockey player mid-action, captured in perfect athletic form, his face focused and intense beneath the headline "Zane Mercer: The NHL's Most Elusive Star." The downtown Seattle penthouse where he sat was dark except for the ambient city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows that made the expensive modern furniture look almost sinister in the dim glow.

His chest pressed against my back, one hand gripping my hip, the other braced on the shelf above my head. He started moving. Hard, fast thrusts that rocked me against the books. The shelf creaked softly with every slam. I pushed back to meet him, needing more. The wet sound of our bodies filled the small space between the stacks. “Quiet, baby,” he reminded me, but his pace didn’t slow. “They might still be upstairs.” I nodded, moaning into my arm. Each thrust hit deep, sending sparks through me. His free hand slid around to rub my clit in rough circles. The double sensation made my knees weak.

It has floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. I scoot closer, plucking one of the books from the shelves and scanning through it. Apparently, it’s an erotic book, given the naughty image of two ladies on their knees as they simultaneously blow a man’s cock, their hands bound tightly at their backs. It’s titled ‘A Dom’s Way Of Spitroasting The Subs.” I turn the pages, and each chapter is transcribed into x-rated images. My pussy quivers when I see the image of the two sluts turned upside down on an inversion table while the Dom treats them with his cock.

My free hand moves to my lower region. I bite my lip as I slip a finger through my fold — just to get the feel of it. I almost scream. Damn. Good thing I’m biting that lip. I smirk secretly, thinking that Damion will make a fortune writing books like ‘Cockiness 101’ or ‘Getting Laid For Dummies’. No, wait, ‘The Smile That Drops Panties’. “Sorry, the what?” he chuckles softly, and I curse my freaking mouth for not using its filter again.

He looked older, more mature. And annoyingly attractive. When exactly had my stepbrother become that sexy? Before I could fully process how different Hans looked, Mitch stepped out of the storage room and my breath caught. He was wearing gloves and a dark coat, his hair slicked back like some mafia boss straight out of a movie. A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned against the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Years of hockey had clearly done him favors. He carried himself with the easy confidence of an athlete.