"Bed," I breathe against his lips.
We fall onto my narrow twin mattress, definitely not designed for two full-grown men, and immediately start negotiating limbs and space. Ace ends up half on top of me, one leg between mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
I run my hands over his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the solid muscle there. "How sore are you?" I ask as I squeeze his bicep.
"Not too bad." But there's a slight wince when he shifts his weight. "My thighs are a little tight."
An idea forms, and I grin. "I can help with that."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. I'm kind of a magician." I push at his shoulder gently. "Roll over."
He raises an eyebrow but complies, rolling onto his stomach and stretching out on the bed. The view is spectacular—all that muscle, the broad expanse of his back, the curve of his ass in those tight boxer-briefs.
I grab the bottle of lube from my desk—obviously, I prepared—and straddle his thighs, settling my weight carefully.
"What are you doing?" he asks, voice muffled by the pillow.
"Magic." I pour lube into my palm, warming it between my hands. "Just relax."
I start with his lower back, working my thumbs in slow circles, feeling the tension in his muscles. He lets out an appreciative hum that goes straight to my cock.
I work my way down, spending time on his lower back where I can feel knots of tension, the kind that come from hours of skating and training. My slick fingers press into the dimples just above his ass, those two perfect indentations, and he lets out a breath that sounds like relief and pleasure mixed together. The lube makes everything smooth, my palms gliding over his skin, and I take my time exploring every inch.
"You're really good at this," he says into the pillow, words slurred like he's half-asleep already.
I move lower, to his thighs. They're ridiculous. Thick and powerful, carved from years of skating, each muscle defined and hard under my touch. I start at his knees and work upward, my hands sliding over warm skin, fingers pressing into the solid muscle, working out the knots and tension.
Both of my hands are working in tandem, thumbs pressing deep into the meat of his thighs. His legs are slightly parted, and I can feel the heat radiating from between them. Every time I press into a particularly tight spot, he makes these small sounds of pleasure that are driving me insane.
My hands slide higher, to his inner thighs, and his legs part wider, unconsciously making room. The movement is subtle, his body responding even if his mind hasn't caught up yet.
"You're so tense here," I say, pressing my thumbs into the muscle, working circles into the tissue.
"Hockey stance. It's hard on the legs."
I continue the massage, working closer and closer to the apex of his thighs. My fingers brush against the edge of his boxers and he shifts slightly, pelvis pressing down into the mattress.
"I can make you even more relaxed," I say quietly, letting my fingers trail along the seam of his boxers where they meet his thigh. "If you want."
There's a pause, his breathing changing, becoming shallower. "How?"
Instead of answering, I let my slick hand drift higher, fingers brushing against his balls through the fabric.
Ace inhales sharply, his whole body going tense for a moment before relaxing again.
I do it again, this time with more intention, cupping him gently through the cotton, feeling the weight and heat of his balls in my palm. I massage him slowly, carefully, watching the way his thighs tremble slightly.
"Devon…" His voice is rough, strangled.
"Yeah?" I'm working him now, rolling his balls gently between my fingers, feeling them draw up slightly.
"That's—" He cuts himself off with a groan when I press more firmly. "Really good."
My hand slides up, over the fabric, tracing the line between his ass cheeks. When I press gently against where I know his hole is, even through the boxers, he makes a sound I've never heard from him before—high and needy and desperate, like I've found something he didn't know he wanted touched.
But then his hand shoots back, grabbing my wrist.
