After a career-ending fight, ex-professional-hockey-player-turned-Zamboni-driver Chase Cassidy has never looked back at the sport. He's perfectly content cleaning the ice between periods and chatting with fellow staff members, and running a pub outs...
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Chase
Mid-morning light streams through the blinds in diagonal lines. They're bright, but warm against my face. I prop myself up on one elbow, careful not to disturb Spencer. Her face rests against my chest while one arm is thrown carelessly across my stomach. My arm is wrapped around her shoulders and I can feel her breath against my skin. She's a silent sleeper that breathes so softly I have to strain my ears to make sure she's breathing.
I skim my knuckles across her cheekbone, feeling lighter than I have in years. It feels good to get the burden of a secret off of my chest. But that doesn't reduce the level of fear I felt. Most people don't see addiction as a mental illness. They see it as a choice. A decision that's made within a matter of seconds and can easily be undone with enough will power. For some people, that's sometimes enough. But most people need support and education and outlets. I'm one of those people, and with all the counselling I've had, I know what my boundaries are. How I react to stressful situations and where I stand on telling my story.
A common factor is anxiety. Anxiety drives me to assume the worst of people. Take Spencer, for example. When we first met, I was riddled with fear about her wanting something with sustenance for a story. That concerned me more than anything until I got to know her. Then, when things shifted between us, the primary concern surrounded my parents. Bringing a woman home would signify trust, which would prompt my parents to assume she knows everything. But it's still no excuse for my behaviour. I regret my passive behaviour and won't let it happen again. Nor will I let myself assume the worst of her again. When I told her, I should've kept an open mind. But telling her about my past was terrifying. Plus, it wasn't the way I wanted to tell her. I had plans to sit down with Spencer and Lennon and tell them together in order to reduce the repetition of the story. But I don't regret telling her. Yesterday was an emotionally driven day, so I have to cut myself some slack. Telling Spencer also led to some...
My mind drifts to how everything played out last night.
I can still feel her body trembling beneath mine. Hear the buttons hitting the floor. Feel her tightening around my cock as she comes, crying out my name. Taste her on my tongue. And, on my back, I can feel the sting of her nails digging into my skin. I'm positive I have some good-looking marks running down my spine. Just like she has some red marks on her collarbone, shoulder, and neck. There may also be one on her inner thigh.
Maybe I went a little overboard, but Spencer enjoyed every second; she continued to urge me on. Besides, when I have sex, I want to make sure my partner experiences just as much pleasure as I do. It should be an unwritten rule.
Everything about last night was perfect. I run my thumb along her cheekbone again, wishing I could capture this moment. Although her features seem softer, more relaxed, Spencer looks the same. Her bottom lip is slightly larger than her upper lip, giving her a subtle pouty look. There's a very faint patterning of freckles across her nose. They're so faint, I have to squint to see them. But they're there, and they look like little constellations against her pale skin.
