Chapter 3
What was the question again?
Derek blinks at him, probably looking—sweaty and stupid and cock-drunk.
"Yeah," he agrees.
"Of course you do, principessa,"Sandro says, pressing his lips to the right of Derek's belly button.
It's weirdly sweet, bordering on too gentle to be withstood.
It makes Derek tremble almost more than the fucking had.
Sandro pulls away fast though; he's got this uncanny knack of knowing when Derek's at his limit.
It's impressive, something else to be envious of.
Probably a skill Sandro learned from years worth of sleeping with random strangers.
Which is also something Derek really, really doesn't want to think about right now.
Or, like.
Preferably ever, if he could ever get his brain to cooperate.
Sandro rises back up onto his knees and bullies himself back between Derek's thighs.
The condom-covered head of his cock nudges against his hole, and Derek thinks he'd probably feel embarrassed about how eagerly his body responds to Sandro if he had the wherewithal to think about it at all at the moment.
But that's maybe his favorite thing, about fucking Vieri.
Everything else goes quiet. Just—just for a little bit.
Vieri's hands run down the outsides of Derek's thighs and then grip him tightly, beneath the knees, to pull him closer.
Derek lets himself be put, be tugged.
Because then, if he does, maybe Sandro will say—
"Good boy," Sandro whispers and Derek's heart rate triples like he's just won a fucking Finley award.
"Please, Sandro," he says, begs,and that must be what Vieri has been waiting for because a moment later he's being given his cock again, sliding back inside him as if it never left.
Derek moans, long and loud, and Vieri presses his smirk against the skin of his calf.
He can feel the line of it, the hint of teeth.
He just doesn't care, not when he feels like this.
Not when it's so good every time.
And it's been so long, too long.
His sounds are forced out of him in little uh 's as Sandro sets a hard, brutal pace.
It's exactly what Derek needs, the kind of fucking he's come to love, the kind that has him awake and worried at two in the morning in the middle of summer that he's been ruined for everyone else.
"Was thinking about this," Sandro pants, necklace jumping between his pecs from the force of his movements.
Derek moans out his agreement because, yes—him too.
He spends way too much time thinking about this, planning on ways to make it happen again and sooner.
Dangerous.
"Was not counting in penalty box," Vieri adds, shoving his hips against Derek's ass so hard—so good, it must hurt— "Was thinking about this."
Derek lets his head loll back against the pillow and then to the side.
He feels equal parts resplendent and scandalized.
"During the game?"Sandro doesn't respond, shifting instead and readjusting one of his legs.
Derek's knee gives a warning twinge, but he doesn't care enough to stop and course-correct.
He's so close, the edge of his orgasm just out of his reach.
Sandro's the same, he thinks, can recognize the way his face scrunches up and his breaths get more shallow as he gets close to coming.
Derek tries to spread his legs further apart.
Wants to be good for him.
Wants to feel him come inside him,
"All the time," Sandro says, corrects maybe.
The words sound like they've been ripped out of him.
"Sì, I think of this all the time."
There's something there that Derek should focus on, should hear, something that remains just out of his grasp because a moment later, Sandro strikes at his prostate dead on and Derek's eyes roll back in his head with the force of his orgasm.
He seizes up around Sandro's cock, hands clawing at his naked shoulders and almost definitely leaving red lines down his back.
A second later, Sandro's hips stutter and then stall against his ass as he bows his head and shakes over and around him.
Derek's hands loosen, relax around Sandro's shoulders.
Then they fall off completely as he pushes himself to enjoy the post-orgasm haze of soft pleasure that he only ever really gets to experience when it's Vieri in his bed.
Time passes in quick, successive flashes, understood mostly through sensation.
Vieri carefully stretches out his legs, pulling at the muscles to soothe over their soreness.
A warm, damp washcloth is wiped against his stomach, then down over the mess of come and sweat in his pubic hair.
Then—finally—Vieri is there, all of him, pressed against Derek's back and arms wrapped around his middle.
It used to take them ages to get comfortable like this, to figure out how their bodies fit together in ways that weren't explicitly fighting or fucking.
But now they have it down to a science.
A science and a strict schedule.
Ten minutes of post-sex cuddling, for the endorphins and shit, and then one of them gets dressed and leaves.
Tonight, that'll be Derek.
They're in Ashford after all, but they met at Sandro's hotel.
More convenient.
Closer to the arena.
Derek had a whole list of reasons and excuses ready, but Vieri hadn't asked at all.
Like maybe he doesn't care about Derek not letting him into his condo.
Like it's not a big deal to him, one way or another.
Like all he cares about is getting his dick wet somewhere private, and as long as that happens, nothing else matters.
The warmth in Derek's chest dims at the thought.
That means it's time to go.
If he's going to get weird about this, about Vieri and whatever it is they're doing that's made Derek's head and heart go to fucking war against each other, then he's definitely not going to start getting weird here.
"Still four more minutes," Vieri states, arms tightening around Derek's waist when he starts to pull away.
"Has only been six.
I thought you liked following rules, Whitfield.
Rules say I get four more minutes."
"Fuck off," Derek says, because it's the easiest thing in the world to say to Vieri.
Quick and natural and uncomplicated.
He can feel the beginnings of Vieri's smirk against the back of his neck, can practically hear him thinking up some sexual shitty joke, so he adds, fast before he has to hear it, "I gotta ice this knee or the coach will get on my ass tomorrow and then I really won't have any ice time."
Vieri's grip loosens, immediate.
Derek pushes himself away, slower than he thinks he should.
Leaving Vieri's bed after sex is like how he's always imagined getting out of quicksand feels.
No matter how much he wishes it could be as easy as ripping off a bandaid, Vieri always lingers in his head.
On his skin.
He tugs his underwear on and then the joggers he arrived in. When he glances back at Sandro, he's caught off guard to see him sitting up as well, arms crossed over his bare chest and glare affixed on his face.
He looks much angrier than he has all night, despite Derek's earlier attempts to wind him up.
It makes him pause, rerun the last few minutes.
Is Vieri really that upset about missing a few minutes of post-sex hugging?
"What is wrong with your knee?" Vieri demands, scowling down at Derek's leg like he can give it a visual examination from the bed and through Derek's clothes.
"You let me fuck you like that with bad knee?"
"Nothing's wrong with it," Derek says, which isn't even a lie, really.
"I just hurt it in practice a few weeks ago, no biggie.
It was fine.
The coaches are just being careful."
"Coaches only as careful as hockey players let them be," Vieri shoots back with a frown so severe that Derek sort of feels like he's been brought in front of his franchise's GM for a scolding.
It's not exactly a feeling he likes having with his asshole still loose and probably sticky with lube.
"I don't have to defend myself to you," he snaps at Vieri, bending down to pick up his shirt and yank it over his head.
The warm feeling from earlier is gone completely now.
The anger helps a little, but mostly he feels—cold.
Hollow in the face of Vieri's sneering disappointment.
"Leave off, alright?"
"Should never have put you like that," Vieri is saying, like he can't hear him.
He's running his hands through his hair, face dark, eyes furious.
"Riding dick is bad for bad knees—bad knees is bad for future hockey!""It's fine,"Derek insists, putting his hands on his hips and glaring back at Vieri.
"Look, I know my body, alright, I know what I can do, what I'm up for, and—"
And he hadn't cared.
In the moment.
With Vieri inside him, Vieri's hands running all over his body, Vieri's lips on his skin.
He hadn't been thinking about hockey, about the future, about how career-ending injuries can come out of nowhere like a puck to the face.
It doesn't matter if you're wearing a helmet or a mouth guard—sometimes you blink and you wind up with broken teeth anyway.
All he'd been thinking was how good it felt.
Vieri could have broken his arm while fucking him and he'd probably have still tried to lace their fingers together.
He remembers why now.
He stoops down and grabs the crumpled black sweatshirt from the floor, balling it into his hands just to have something to hold.
"And I'll see you in a few weeks," he finishes, a lame mutter that leaves his mouth already limping.
"We'll be in Cascade the night before the game.
If you...
I'll text you."
He turns to go.
Like a band-aid.
Like learning to ride a bike.