And the sentiment went both ways. I didn’t bend over for just any guy. It actually took a lot for me to relax enough to let somebody inside me, but over the past few weeks, Brock had had me in every imaginable way . . . and even a few beyond my imagination.
“Fuck me back, baby. I want to see you come.”
Brock grunted in reply.
I ran a hand up his back, beyond the cloud-shaped birthmark on his spine, over his well-defined deltoids until I reached those luscious locks. My fingers speared through the mess of blond curls and yanked. Hard.
I hadn’t made a secret of how obsessed I was with his hair, and more specifically how it wrapped around my fists. He had even started to wear it down more often during games, that was until I’d told him that it was a distraction. Plus, there was something sexy—romantic even—about knowing that I was the only one who got to see him this way—unbuttoned, mussed, and greedy for my cum.
That was about as romantic as it got in my book.
I sat up, taking Brock with me until we were both upright, back to chest. He threw his head back and a broken moan ripped from his lips. Fuck, I wasn’t going to last at this rate. Not when he was clenching on me tighter than a velvet-lined vice. The moans, the begging, the lionlike mane dragging across my chest with each demanding thrust—it was like something out of a fucking wet dream.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” I whispered, nuzzling his neck. “I’m going to make you come, and then you’re going to suck me off. Good?”
“God,yes.”
I reached around his body and fisted his cock, swollen and leaking precum. I twisted my wrist, and his hips began to rock in time with mine.
“And swallow every drop.”
This time, it wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
I continued jerking him off, my movements fast and rough. The sound of his breathing changed, his grunts more urgent. I kept my pace, knowing how close he was. His moans and the tightness of his body sent me hurtling toward the finish line, too. Holding off until he came was going to be torture.
Exquisite torture.
It only took a few more strokes before he came with a loud cry, spilling onto the blanket beneath him. Before I could finish making a mental note to tip the housekeeping staff an extra hundred bucks, he was on his knees again, this time eye level with my throbbing cock.
I nearly leapt off the bed when he wrapped a hand around me and stroked, base to tip.
“Fuck, Heller. Buy a guy breakfast first.”
“You just fucked my ass for an hour.” He carefully removed the condom and lathed his tongue around the swollen head. “I think we’re past casual pleasantries.”
And with that, he swallowed me whole. As it turned out, the only thing on the breakfast menu this morning was my dick.
Later, after we’d both cleaned up and I’d spent an embarrassingly long amount of time smelling his hair, we slipped back into our clothes.
“Remind me,” Brock said, pausing to button his beige shirt. The man had two modes—button-down or shirtless, nothing in between. “Who do you room with during road series?”
“Matty. Sometimes Bennett, but Sinclair usually snatches him up first.” All the guys—especially the single ones—fought over “custody” of Bennett. Our teammate was deaf, which meant he wouldn’t be disturbed by his roommates’ bedroom activities. “Anybody but Pink.”
Brock’s smile told me he knew exactly what I was talking about. The rookie pitcher might have been a star—so much so that Brock was currently writing an in-depth article about him—but he was also a fucking loudmouth. Not that I was judging; it took one to know one.
“Not Roman?”
“We already share an apartment,” I told him, slipping back into the T-shirt I had worn the night before. “The last thing we need is to spend more time in a room together.”
“Sounds like me and my sisters.”
My ears perked up. It wasn’t the first time that Brock had mentioned his family, but it was the first time he had brought them up without me prodding. Getting any kind of personal information out of the guy—you know, beyond what he wanted me to do to him and how hard he wanted me to do it—was harder than prying open a crab shell with my bare hands. And that was coming from a Maryland boy.
“Wait, you had to share a room with your sisters growing up?”
He nodded. “Until I was thirteen.”
