“Yeah,” he breathes, “but you like it.”
God help me, I do.
I press my hips forward, letting him feel how much,grinding slow and mean against the curve of his ass.
He whimpers, soft and wrecked, and I feel it like gasoline on fire.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Iknowbetter. But knowing better hasn’t done a damn thing to stop the want clawing its way out of me.
I grip his chin and turn his head just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and fury and need. He groans against my lips, reaching back to grab at me, pull me closer, deepen it.
And Ilet him.
Because he’s mine right now.
His kiss is slick, desperate, like he’s been starving for this—for me. And maybe he has. Maybe we both have.
I spin him, pinning his back to the locker, and he goes easily, willingly, head tilted just enough for me to devour him all over again. My hand skates down his chest, past the waistband of that fucking lace, palming him through it.
He moans—needy, shameless.
I kiss down the side of his neck, biting the place where his shoulder meets his throat, just hard enough to leave something behind. A mark. A warning. A goddamn brand.
He bucks into my hand and pants, “F-fuck, Coach?—”
The word punches straight through my spine, a white-hot bolt of something I haven’t let myself feel in years. I glance down, trying to breathe, trying to pull it back—and that’s when I see it.
A bottle of massage oil, half-tucked into the open flap of his duffel, like an invitation. Like a fucking dare.
I reach for it without thinking, snapping the cap and coating my palm in one slick motion. The scent is faint—something minty, almost medicinal—but the texture isperfect. Warm, smooth, decadent. And I waste no time. I shove his panties to the side and free his straining length, then wrap my hand around him. Tight and slick, stroking him hard enough to make his knees wobble.
Luke gasps, grabbing at the metal behind him for balance, his body already bowing into the touch. “Oh my God?—”
“Not even close,” I growl.
My other hand braces him at the throat, not squeezing, just holding him there as I work his cock with practiced, punishing strokes. The oil makes every motion obscene—wet and fast and unforgiving—and Luke is falling apart in my hands.
“You’ve been teasing me for a week,” I grit out. “Strutting around as if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Say it. Admit it.”
His hips buck. “I—I knew.”
“Say it again, Maddox.”
“I knew,” he moans, breath catching, “fuck, I knew what I was doing?—”
“Yeah?” I bite the edge of his jaw, dragging my lips down to the shell of his ear. “Then you knew this is what you’d get. So you’re going to be good and take it.”
He whimpers, needy and ruined, and that’s all it takes. His whole body seizes as he comes hard into my hand, lube and heat and sweat painting both of us. His voice breaks on my name, and I hold him through it, mouth pressed to his throat.
I don’t give him time to recover.
The sight of him—flushed, trembling, wrecked in my arms—snaps the last restraint clean in half.
I shove my joggers down just enough to free myself,breath coming heavy now, my own need throbbing and urgent. I slick myself quickly with what’s left of the oil, hands shaking with it, the scent sharp in the air.
No thinking.
I grab Luke by the hips and spin him, pressing him back into the lockers so hard they rattle. He gasps, palms flattening against cold metal, spine bowing instinctively as I line myself up behind him.
