Halfway.Jesus Christ.He feels endless.
“Keep going,” I rasp out. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
He keeps pressing forward, and I breathe through it, my body finally surrendering, until I feel the coarse hair at the base of his cock against my ass. He’s all the way in. Buried to the hilt.
We stay like that for a long moment, just breathing, my forehead pressed against the sticky wood, him draped over my back. I can feel his heart hammering against my spine, feel the tremble in the muscles of his thighs against mine. We’re both shaking.
“Damn, Calvin,” he breathes. “You feel… fuck, you feel good.”
“So do you,” I say. “I feel so full.”
“You are. Full of cock.”
“Poetic.”
“Hey, I’m a football player, not a poet. I’ve got other talents.” He rolls his hips, a slow grind that hits something deep inside, and my knees nearly buckle.
“Do that again.”
“This?” He does it again, pulling back just a little before grinding in deep. And there it is. That spark. That bright, shocking jolt of pleasure that shoots up my spine. My cock jumps, trapped between my body and the bar.
“Yeah. That. Fuck”
“You’re getting the hang of it.” He pulls back farther this time, then drives back in harder. The drag of his bare cock against my insides is unreal. Every ridge, every vein. I can feel all of it. My rim stretches tight around his shaft with each thrust, the friction making me shake. He’s hitting that spot inside me over and over now, and I’m pushing back to meet him, spreading my legs wider, arching my back.
And just like that, I’m getting fucked.
Actually fucked. Bent over my own bar with Brock’s dick buried in my ass, and it’s goddamn incredible. My whole body is alight, every nerve ending firing, a current running from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. I can’t get enough. I want more.
“Listen to that,” Brock groans, slamming into me. “Your greedy little hole is sucking me in.”
“Yeah,” I pant. It’s obscene, actually. The squelch of lube and precum. The wet slap of his balls against my ass. The needy, desperate sounds I’m making. I’ve never been the noisy one with girls. But I can’t help it now. My cries echo through the empty bar.
“So loud.” He punctuates the words with a deep thrust. “So responsive. I knew you’d be like this. All that swagger, just waiting for someone to bend you over and fuck it out of you.”
I can’t even argue. He’s right. Every thrust is wiping me clean. Stripping away the layers. Calvin the Player. Calvin the Bartender. Calvin the Straight Guy. All gone. All that’s left is a nerve-wracked body pinned to a bar, begging for more.
“Harder,” I gasp. “Fuck me harder.”
“You got it.”
He grabs my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, and really lets loose. Glasses rattle on the bar top with each brutal thrust. The barstool behind us scrapes across the floor. The neon beer sign above us swings on its chain, casting shifting blue light across our sweating skin. He’s not holding back anything anymore. He’s using my body the way I’ve used so many others before. Pounding into me the way I’ve pounded into them. And I’m taking it. I’m taking all of it—every hard, punishing inch.
My cock is a steel rod, leaking steadily onto the floor. Each thrust grinds it against the edge of the bar, the friction sending sparks through me. I’m sure if he keeps hitting that spot inside me, I could come like this. Untouched. Don’t even need my hands.
But I don’t want to come. Not yet. Because coming means this ends, and I don’t want it to. I want to stay right here, suspended in this moment where nothing exists but him inside me and the relentless, driving beat of his hips.
I catch our reflection in the dark mirror behind the bar. Brock’s eyebrows pulled together in concentration, muscles gleaming with sweat as he drives into me. Me, bent over beneath him, flushed and trembling. My blond hair, usually gelled to perfection, is mussed, my cheek pressed against the bar, mouth open and panting.
It doesn’t look like two strangers fucking. It looks like his body knows exactly what mine needs. Like his hands were made to grip my hips, his cock designed to stretch me open, his chest the perfect wall to brace myself against.
It looks so fucking good.
He must see the same thing because his eyes lock on mine in the glass, and we just stare at each other, both panting, as he keeps fucking me. Watching each other in the mirror as our bodies move together.
“You see it too, don’t you?” I breathe.
