“It’s been happening to me every game for two months.” I pressed my palms against my eyes. “I told you I’d play better. Told you I could fix this. And I can’t. I can’t fix it, Marco.”
“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself?—”
“The trade rumors are real. Boston and Toronto are making offers. If I don’t turn this around, I’m gone.” I looked at him. “And trying to turn it around is making me play worse. So what do I do? Just accept I’m getting traded?”
“No. You—” He stopped, seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “You stop trying to force it. Stop thinking so much. Just play.”
“I can’t just play! Every shift matters. Every mistake could be the one that gets me traded.” My voice was rising. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I just—I don’t know what to do anymore. Determination isn’t working. Trying harder isn’t working. I don’t know how to fix this.”
I settled beside him on the couch.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“Us.” I kissed him, and the discipline I’d maintained all day shattered. My mouth crashed against his, desperate and hungry, trying to make up for every moment we’d had to pretend to be just friends. Slow and deep one second, then harder, more urgent, swallowing the gasp he made when I pulled him over my lap. His weight settled astride me, and I groaned into his mouth, my hands sliding up under his shirt to find bare skin, hot and smooth beneath my palms. I pulled back. “About getting home to you. About touching you like this.”
His fingers combed through my hair, tangling in it and gripping hard enough to sting. The small flash of pain made everything sharper, more real. He made a sound—half moan, half whimper—that went straight through me, settling low and insistent in my groin. His hips rocked against mine and I broke the kiss to breathe, to press my forehead against his and try to remember how to think.
“Bedroom,” he murmured against my mouth, his voice wrecked and breathless. His fingers tightened in my hair. “Now.”
The urgency differed from the night before. The previous night had been exploratory, thoughtful, learning. Tonight was desperate. Hungry. We’d crossed the threshold already—now we just wanted more.
Clothes came off fast. Hands roamed with purpose. I learned new things about him—how much pressure he liked, what made him grip my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
And then I moved lower, nuzzling a path through the curly hairs on his chest to his groin. I kissed the divot of his hipbone, nipped at the inside of his muscular thigh, and rubbed my cheek along the length of his cock. I tentativelylicked a stripe from base to tip, and his dick twitched in response.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” he asked.
I took his long, thick erection into my hand, worried he would be more than I could handle. “I’m sure I want to try.” I ran my nose along his silky yet hard length, inhaling his intoxicating, musky scent. The sensual overload made my cock throb.
When I finally tasted him, the sounds he made were worth every moment of nervousness, every second of uncertainty about whether I’d know what I was doing.
I didn’t, really. Had no experience with this, no reference point except instinct, knowing what I liked, and paying attention to his responses.
But his hands in my hair were gentle and guiding. His voice—rough with pleasure, saying my name like a prayer—told me I was doing something right.
For him. For Marco. For my best friend turned lover. My heart tripped over itself.
I found a rhythm I could maintain, slow and steady, taking him in as far as I comfortably could. I was making this up as I went, but my inexperience didn’t seem to matter—not with the way Marco’s hips lifted. His breathing turned harsh and uneven, and broken, desperate sounds fell from his lips.
“I’m about to come,” he warned, his voice ragged. “Pull off.”
But I didn’t want to pull away. I wanted to give him everything, to take him over the edge, to show him without words what he meant to me.
And when he finally came apart, flooding my mouth with the unfamiliar, salty taste of cum, I raised my gaze to his face and swallowed. I didn’t hold back. The vulnerability inhis expression—trust and release and something deeper—made my chest feel too tight.
I crawled back up his body, and he pulled me into a kiss that tasted like gratitude.
“Your turn,” he said, voice rough.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” He wrapped his hand around my cock, and I groaned. “Let me.”
He took his time, exploring until he discovered that sucking on my balls made my back arch off the bed, incoherent curses spilling from my lips. When he finally took me in his mouth, the sensation was so intense I almost couldn’t handle it. Different from anything I’d experienced before.
I came harder than I ever had, shouting his name.
