“Thank you.” He scrunches his eyebrows in this ridiculously charming way. “I think.”
Something inside me smolders seeing his naked chest again. That soft brown hair, dusted across his pecs, leading right down to the treasure in his track pants.
“I wanna lick you up and down,” I say.
“Go for it, Harry. Lick away.”
A snort escapes my lips. He’s trying to be sexy, but he just comes off as silly—which is, ironically, more sexy.
I smash my mouth onto his, our tongues meeting in the middle. There’s no pretense as I straddle him. My hands take in the light fur on his chest before finding his nipples—pinching, getting them nice and hard for my mouth.
Before moving to his chin, I give his bottom lip a bite and a little tug until he winces.
“Now, be a good coach for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
My tongue runs down his neck, right between his pecs, before selecting the right one to start with. I take his nipple in my mouth, circling it, flicking, and taking tiny nibbles. After a few seconds, I switch to sucking then go back to using my tongue and teeth. By the noises coming out of his mouth, I’m fairly certain it’s driving Darius wild.
“Fuck, Harry. You’re making me so damn hard.”
Bingo.
I reach down between his legs, and sure enough, the firm bulge in his track pants confirms his statement.
“Good,” I say, pulling off his chest. “Hard is the goal.”
I glance up and give him a smirk, and he runs his index finger over my lips.
“Goal? Are you talking sports to turn me on?”
His cock throbs in my hand, and he returns my smile. I take his finger in my mouth, ready to bite it, but Darius swirls it inside, and instead I take a few long sucks, giving him a preview of what’s coming.
“Harry, you’re going to be the end of me.”
My eyebrows wiggle up, and I give his finger another swirl of my tongue before pulling off and returning to his torso. I’m on his stomach now, letting his treasure trail lead me right to the pot of gold waiting at the end of the Coach Hill rainbow. Wanting to tease him a bit, I don’t take his pants off yet. Instead, I run my mouth over his cock, the synthetic fabric—polyester would be my guess—smooth and sleek as I gnaw at the head of his dick.
“Harry, please. My cock, I’m . . .”
He’s shaking under me, my lips adding pressure as I glide down the shaft, then back up and nibble right under the head, in that super sensitive spot.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Lift.” I pat his ass.
Darius does as I ask, and I yank his pants down and off his ankles. Instead of his cock popping up, though, it’s still under fabric. The head, barely poking out from the waistband of his jockstrap, leaks precum. I toss his pants on top of the jacket next to the couch and lean over, sucking right at the tip.
“Sorry. I don’t really need to wear one to coach, but I’m just used to putting them on for anything athletic. It’s a habit from college.” He moves his hands to the waistband. “Let me take it off.”
I put my hands on his, stopping him. “Not yet.”
His eyes widen and a small laugh escapes his lips. “Oh? Does Mr. Peterson have a jockstrap fantasy?”
“Maybe.”
I’m not sure where the association comes from—jockstraps are sports-related, sure. But I remember a few guys wearing them in the locker room back in high school, andthe memory rushes back as I run my tongue along the top of the support pouch. When I get to his balls, he shifts, and says, “Harry, are you sure you don’t want me to take a shower? I can be real quick. I promise.”
“Coach.” I glide my thumb under the waistband, adding pressure to the head, and he squirms with delight. “I want you sweaty.”
“Oh. Okay, then.”
