Chapter 2
It'd been too long—really, really too long this time–-and Derek can't remember a single one of his reasons for putting this off, for letting months stretch between him and this, getting this.
Vieri's hands tighten around his hips, shunting his cock further up into him with a grunt.
Derek throws his head back at the feeling, the stretch, the fullness.
Fuck, the fullness of it.
It's been too long, way too long.
He's missed this, needed this, craved it.
Dangerous.
But even that word doesn't hold the weight it should, not when Vieri's hand moves from his hip to ghost along the straining muscle of his thigh and then back up to wrap around his cock.
"Oh fuck yeah," Derek pants out.
The touch is this side of too much.
He feels too sensitive for it.
He's too close already, could come at any moment if Vieri touches him just right.
But he wants it.
Wants whatever Sandro will give him.
Will gladly take it.
Fuck, it's been ages.
He could probably come twice.
But Vieri doesn't do anything else, doesn't tighten his grip, doesn't move his hand.
"San, c'mon," he says, a second away from begging.
He stills his own frantic movements on Sandro's lap and bends forward, pushing himself closer, rubbing his cock against Sandro's loose grip as if that'll give him the friction he needs.
All it actually gets him is a light slap to his ass.
"I do not say stop," Sandro points out, thumb running over the slit of Derek's cock.
His other hand dances along the area of skin he's just hit, a warning.
Like he can't help himself, Vieri's grip turns firm, unrelenting as he squeezes one of his ass cheeks.
The touch is possessive, proprietary.
So fucking good that Derek's mind is almost too foggy with pleasure to parse what he says next.
"You are tired out after riding dick for two minutes, Whitfield?
Bad for your stamina stats, tesoro."
It's not fair that Vieri can still be such an asshole even as he fucks him.
It's either like the world's shittiest superpower or the best case of multi-tasking Derek's ever seen.
"I'm tired from," he gets out, starting to ride him before Vieri can smack his ass again.
Which Derek wouldn't enjoy.
(Right?
Definitely.
Right?)
The words disintegrate in his mind as pleasure scorches up his spine like lightning.
How is it so good, every time?
How is it fair?
Vieri smirks up at him, cocky and smug and such an asshole that Derek remembers exactly what he was going to say.
"I'm tired from winning a hockey game tonight.
Sorry you can't relate."
He moans out embarrassingly loudly when Sandro's cock bumps against his prostate, shutting his eyes and letting his head fall forward at the sensation.
Infuriatingly, Sandro's still smirking when he looks back at him.
"The score was 2-1," he says.
"We made you work for it."
"Not during the powerplay in the second period, you didn't," Derek retorts, automatic and only slightly breathless.
Hockey's not something he has to think about.
It's engraved in his bones.
And—there.
Sandro's jaw bunches and his eyes flash.
His lips tighten the same time that his hands do.
Annoyed.
Derek likes him a little bit annoyed.
Likes him fast and rough and a touch mean.
"You barely have ice time tonight, I counted," Vieri says, nails digging into his ass in a way that's making it really hard for Derek to focus on the chirping.
His cock is still moving languidly in and out of him, Vieri putting in most of the effort while Derek bounces mindlessly on his lap.
"Counted?""Yes, counted," Vieri's smirk is back.
"Very easy, not high number.
Like I said.
No ice time."
Now it's Derek's turn to scowl.
That's always the dangerous part about bickering with Vieri: he usually bites back.
It's not like he's wrong, which is shit in a way that Derek doesn't want to think about right now.
It's the beginning of the season, the Storm are fresh off losing in the final round of the playoffs, the team and staff went through a restructuring over the summer that's left the locker room feeling strange and unfamiliar, and Derek's knee went on the frisk two weeks ago during practice and out of an abundance of caution from coaches who don't know him , they've been putting him on the ice as little as possible until they can be convinced that he's fine, it's fine, everything's fine.
But Derek doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to try to explain it, even if maybe Sandro would understand better than almost everyone in the entire world.
No. Tonight, they'd had a victory on home ice, against Cascade, and right now Derek's speared on the Cascade captain's cock and still so close to coming that it's almost ridiculous.
He wants the record to state that hockey talk does not get him going.
It just, apparently, doesn't really sober him up either.
He's definitely regretting bringing up the game, especially when Sandro lets go of his cock completely to lay back and put his hands behind his head.
Arrogance is such a fucking good look on him that it's not fair.
The new position has Sandro's biceps on full display, and a not-inconsequential part of Derek wants to bend his head down to lick at the visible vein running beneath his skin.
But he's also competitive enough to want to win this conversation, even though he's sensible enough to realize that's not really a thing.
"Guess you had to do something while you were in the penalty box," he says, wrapping his own hand around his length.
He doesn't stroke it yet though.
He just—he wants Sandro to tell him to.
Sandro's looking at him like he knows it.
His eyes are their own sort of weight on Derek's body, expression suddenly unreadable as he considers him.
Whatever he sees or whatever he decides has him moving, pushing up from the mattress until he can wrap his arms around Derek and tug him into his chest with one hand.
The other hand stays on the bed, arm flexing and straining as he renews his pace, thigh muscles straining beneath him as he fucks into Derek's trembling body.
It's unexpected enough to make him gasp, make his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling and try not to shatter under the onslaught of Alessandro Vieri's attention.
"No," Vieri bites out, half growl.
Fingers tangle at the ends of Derek's hair, forces his head back to him.
"I am not on ceiling."
The words are so nonsensical that Derek blinks back at him.
Maybe there's some Valdorian phrase Sandro is using that doesn't translate well into Anglian?
"You look at me," Sandro states, and then his hands are back on Derek's hips except this time he's tugging him off, slipping out of him like it's easy, like it doesn't leave Derek aching and empty and unsatisfied.
It punches a hurt little noise out of Derek, losing his cock.
He grabs for Vieri, any part he can reach that could keep him close.
His fingers tangle in the necklace chain for a moment before abandoning it to run through his curls instead.
"No, wait," he mutters, wondering if he should apologize.
Wondering if he should beg.
San hushes him, rolling them over until he's flat on his back with Sandro kneeling between his legs.
The only thing in Derek's vision is Sandro: his strong jaw, his flushed face, his messy curls, his smug grin.
"Do not worry, Whitfield," he murmurs.
"My cock is not going too far."
"Get on with it then," Derek replies.
Demands, really.
He spreads his legs further apart, raises them into the air the way he knows Sandro likes him.
"Fuck me." But he feels embarrassed, spread out and pinned down and vulnerable with it.
Sandro's eyes are so heavy, it's like the weight of his stare could crush him.
He wants desperately to turn his head away, press his burning face into the sheets and whatever reprieve they can offer him.
Instead he makes himself raise his chin and harden his voice the way he does on the ice during practice when the rookies aren't paying attention.
"Or I'll get back on top and do it myself."
"No, no," Sandro says.
He bends, closer.
He kisses him briefly, greedy like he can't help it.
But when Derek kisses back, Sandro pulls away.
Fucking contrary asshole.
"You are tired from winning big hockey game," Sandro says.
His accent is stronger now than when he'd met Derek at his hotel door.
It always gets like this when he's turned on, which makes Derek even more horny.
He loves his accent.
He's scared to death about what Sandro could do with that information should he ever find out.
"Win one game, want princess treatment, yes?" Sandro is murmuring as he moves down his chest, pressing harsh, biting kisses against Derek's nipples.
The pain makes him cry out, makes him push up into Sandro's mouth, desperate for more, for again, even in the midst of it.
"Yes?" Sandro asks again, resting his chin on Derek's stomach and peering up at him.
His lips curl into a smirk that Derek knows the taste of.
He's so fucking—beautiful.
It's unreal.