His hoodie comes off, then his T-shirt, and I can’t get enough of touching him, running my hands over every line of him, memorizing the heat, the weight. He’s four inches taller, built to dominate the court, but here, under me, he lets me take the lead—and fuck if that doesn’t make my blood sing.
I trail kisses down his chest, my teeth grazing, my tongue following, and his breath hitches. His hand tangles in my hair, not guiding, just there, anchoring me.
“You’ve been running on fumes,” I murmur against his skin.
“So have you,” he says, voice rough.
He’s right. I’m hungover, underslept, stretched thin. But with him beneath me, flushed and panting, none of that matters. All I feel is this—us—electric and alive.
I shift lower, dragging my lips over the lines of his stomach, tasting salt and skin, teasing him until he lets out a curse that shudders through his whole body. He fists my hair after I peel away his clothes—not harsh, but insistent, like he can’t decide if he wants me to finish what I started or pull me back up where he needs me most.
He chooses the latter, tugging me up with a rough sound, his mouth catching mine before I can even breathe. The kiss is frantic, teeth scraping, tongues sliding, every part of him pressed hot against me. The rhythm builds between us without thought, hips grinding, the sensation sharp enough to rip the air out of my lungs.
He mutters my name against my lips, a sound so raw it makes my chest clench. My hands roam everywhere—over his chest, down his sides, into the curve of his hips, until they land on his dick and mine. He’s all heat and muscle, every line of him tensed like he’s trying to hold something back.
I don’t want him to hold back. I want the storm.
The heat coils tighter and tighter as I hold us together, my grip firm and almost frantic as I jack us off. Every nerve feels strung out, electric. His hand slides down my spine, anchoring me, keeping me pressed against him as we move together, faster, harder, chasing the edge. His breath is hot in my ear, harsh, ragged, and when I press my forehead to his, I see it there too—in his eyes, dark and blazing—that he’s right here with me.
The friction spikes, unbearable, and then it breaks.
Release tears through me, blinding, unstoppable, my whole body bowing into his as I somehow keep going, using my cumto ease the way. He groans, low and guttural, as he follows, shuddering against me, clutching me so tightly it almost hurts. Our names tumble out, half formed and desperate, gasped like they’re the only words we’ve got left.
I collapse onto him, chest heaving, forehead pressed against his shoulder, sweat slicking our skin. My pulse is still racing, but his hand finds the back of my neck. The touch is gentle as he strokes his thumb once, grounding me even in the wreckage.
We lie together, tangled and trembling, the air thick with heat and the sharp edge of coming our brains out. My heartbeat finally slows, syncing with his. He turns his head and presses a kiss into my damp hair, and for a second, I feel like I could stay in this exact place forever.
There’s no basketball, no music, no teammates, no bandmates. Just us, raw and wrecked and grinning into the silence of a Sunday morning.
“You,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“Me,” I answer, and kiss the corner of his mouth because I can’t not.
The room smells like sweat and sex and celebration, and the only thing buzzing louder than my head is my heart.
We don’t move for a while, sprawled across my sheets like two guys who’ve just run marathons in different arenas. Sweat and cum slicks between us, but I don’t give a shit. I press my face against his shoulder and breathe him in. Salt, fabric softener, the faint tang of eucalyptus from those wipes he always seems to have on hand. His chest rises and falls beneath me in heavy pulls, like he’s trying to steady himself after a game.
“Your roommates home?” he asks after a beat, his voice rasped down to something low and private.
“Couple of hours ago they were still passed out cold,” I say, lips brushing his skin. “Pretty sure Drew made out with a girl on the kitchen counter. Eli filmed it. Normal Saturday.”
That earns me a quiet huff of laughter. His hand stays at the back of my neck, like he’s forgotten how to let go. “You guys looked… big Friday night,” he says. “Like more than a college band. It seems like I’m not the only one to think so.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. He’s serious, not just tossing me a compliment. His eyes, still heavy-lidded, pin me in place. “You saw the videos?”
“Once or twice,” he admits, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Clips on YouTube. Somebody filmed the whole set.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to his chest. “The whole thing is wild.”
“It’s good,” he cuts in. “You—” He stops and seems to chew on the words. “You looked and sounded incredible… like you belonged there.”
The same thing he said a few minutes ago, but now it sinks deeper. I swallow, hard, my throat tight. Compliments don’t usually mess me up like this, but coming from him? Ollie, who’s got the whole damn world staring at him every time he steps onto the court? It feels like a medal I didn’t know I wanted.
“You looked like you belonged last night too,” I throw back, trying to balance the scale.
He snorts. “We won by twenty. That helps.”
“Watched the highlights at like 3:00 a.m.,” I admit, and that earns me another small smile, the kind that feels like he’s letting me in on something he doesn’t hand out often.
