“Quédate,” I order, voice gone rough and dark, before adding the command in English, “Stay.”
He does.
I don’t rush it.
I slick my fingers first, deliberate, grounding myself in the ritual of it, even as my pulse hammers out of control. I work him open slowly, methodically, making sure he’s ready—making sure heknowsI’m taking my time on purpose.
Luke trembles beneath my hands, breath stuttering, every muscle tight with anticipation. He presses back instinctively, needy, trusting, and that alone nearly undoes me.
A flash of reality cuts through the heat.
The door.
It isn’t locked.
Anyone could walk in. A trainer. A player who forgot something. Harris himself.
The risk sends a sharp thrill through my chest—dangerous, reckless—and instead of stopping me, it makes my grip tighten.
I crowd in close, chest to his back, mouth at his ear. “Stay quiet,” I murmur.
He nods, frantic, fingers clawing at the locker as I finallyline myself up behind him, taking one last breath like I might be able to pull back.
I can’t.
I press forward in one slow, relentless motion, stealing the air right out of his lungs. He cries out—broken, stunned—and I clamp my hand over his mouth to muffle the sound and bite down on his shoulder, hips locking tight as I settle fully against him.
I stay still for a beat—long enough for him to adjust, long enough for his breathing to go shallow and uneven beneath my palm. Long enough for the reality of it to slam into me.
I’m really doing this in the locker room with a player. Not just any player but the same one I’ve been fantasizing about all fucking week long.
I lower my mouth to his ear, voice barely more than breath. “Quiet,” I murmur. Not a command this time.
He nods frantically, fingers clawing at the locker, his whole body tightening around me in a way that makes my breath tear out of my chest.
I move again—slow, deliberate—the lingering slickness between us turning every motion into something unbearable. Perfect. Controlled. Ruinous.
When he tightens around me again, I lose the last of my restraint.
I drive into him harder, the lockers rattling with the force of it, metal echoing louder than either of us dare to be. The sound pushes me faster, sharper, chasing the edge with reckless intent.
“Silas,” he moans.
My hand slides to his hip, grip brutal. “You don’t get to say my name,” I warn, breath ragged at his ear. “Not unless I say you can. And I told you to be quiet.”
He tries. God, he tries.
But the sound he makes this time is helpless, broken, and it drags me toward my orgasm.
I grip his hips and piston in and out of him, my breath punching out of me with each movement. He feels like heaven. And it isn’t long before I’m releasing into him. Pulse after pulse fills him with my cum. I lean back and watch it slip out around me. It’s so erotic, I can’t stop pumping into him to watch it seep out with each thrust.
Finally, I pull out. He slumps forward, the locker holding his weight. And I can’t help but trail my fingers over his asshole, pushing some of my cum back inside. It makes a possessive urge fill me that has me stepping back, my walls snapping back into place.
The second I step back, it hits me.
What I’ve done. Where I am.Who he is.
The heat drains fast, replaced by something cold and sharp that slices straight through my chest. I straighten, forcing distance between us, every instinct screaming to pull away before I do something even worse than fucking him in the locker room with no protection.
