“You’re welcome,” I say, because what other words are there for when a stranger worships your ass?
Gerard would know, but right now, I really don’t want to be searching for my teammate.
Frat Guy drops to his knees as the muffled sounds of “Mr. Brightside” bleeds through the floorboards. He pulls my briefs down and buries his face against me. His hands continue kneading my glutes, spreading them. His breath is hot against my skin, and when his tongue makes contact, my forehead thunks against the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, my fingers clawing at my sides. Nearly a year of nothing but fantasy, and now there’s a tongue doing things to me that should require a license. He eats me out, alternating between broad, flat strokes and pointed, devastating flicks.
I lose track of time. Could be two minutes, could be twenty. All I know is that by the time he stands back up and turns me around, my cock is straining upward, flushed and leaking against my stomach.
“Bed. Now,” I say.
He pushes me down onto the mattress and unbuckles his belt. The jeans come off, the boxers, and?—
Okay. Let me paint you a picture. You know those novelty baseball bats they sell at stadium gift shops? The mini ones thatare thick and stubby? Imagine that but attached to a human being. This guy’s cock isdense.Girthy in a way that has my mouth watering and my hole clenching involuntarily. It juts out from a thatch of dark hair, heavy enough that it barely bobs.
“You good?” he asks, and to his credit, there’s genuine concern in his voice, not arrogance.
“Get a condom,” I say. I know if I stare at it too much longer, I’m going to lose my nerve. And Oliver Jacoby doesnotlose his nerve. I’ve stared down six-foot-four defensemen with murder in their eyes. I can take a dick.
He finds one in his wallet and rolls it on while I rummage through my nightstand for lube. I slick up his fingers and spread my legs wide, one arm thrown over my eyes, as he works me open.
The stretch is a burn that teeters on the edge of discomfort before tipping into bliss. He curls his finger just right, and my hips jerks off the mattress.
“There?” he asks.
“There,” I confirm.
The cotton sheet bunches between my white-knuckled grip. My spine curves like a drawn bow, the mattress barely touching the small of my back. Droplets of sweat track slow paths from my neck toward the hollow of my throat.
He takes his time, which I appreciate and resent in equal measure.
“I’m ready,” I pant.
“You sure? Because?—”
“If you don’t get inside me in the next ten seconds, I’m going to finish this myself, and you can watch.”
He laughs again, positioning himself between my legs. The blunt head of his cock presses against me, and for one delirious second, I think,This is how I die. They’ll find my body speared by the power of his penis, and the coroner’s report will be deeply embarrassing for all parties involved.
He pushes in, and the world disappears. I hear myself make a sound I’ve never made before—a groan/whimper.My hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into muscle. He pauses, buried halfway, his forehead pressed against mine.
“You okay?”
“Keep going.”
He sinks the rest of the way in with one smooth, controlled thrust, and I cry out, “Oh, fuck me!” in the most pornographic tone imaginable.
Frat Guy is gone.Part of me appreciates the “morning-after clean exit.”
No awkward post-coital conversation about whether this means something or if we’ll do it again. We both got our rocks off—threetimes, but who’s counting?
I sit up and groan for a completely different reason. I, Oliver Patrick Jacoby, have been thoroughly fucked. My hips sport fingerprint bruises, my back stings from scratch marks, and I know that walking is going to be a lesson in not biting off more than I can chew.
After getting dressed, I make my way downstairs. While the living room is a mess, the kitchen has been saved from total destruction.
I turn on the Keurig—a gift from Kyle’s mom, two Christmases ago. As the machine gurgles to life, I lean against the counter and preview the day ahead. My shift at The Brew is in three hours, a job that I thoroughly enjoy because there, I can be a barista, not a hockey player. The pay is decent, which helps matters. But fuck, my ass hurts.
I could call out. Say I partied too hard, which isn’t a lie. But last week, I told my manager I’d work extra shifts this summer. I’m not headed home because my parents are going on a European trip for most of it.
