Cal moaned, his head falling back against the glass.
I did it again, slower. I leaned in, teasing the head with my tongue, feeling the large, prominent vein run across the underside. Cal hissed, his fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tight.
He didn’t push. He guided.
I opened my mouth and took him in.
I went down, much further than I thought I could. My hand and mouth met to bridge the gap, engulfing him completely. The taste of him hit my tongue, and it drove me insane.
Cal set the pace. His hips moved in a slow, rhythmic thrust that matched the bob of my head.
“Jesus—Fuck—you’re so good at this,” Cal praised, his voice a wrecked growl above me.
I looked up, locking eyes with him. I kept going, picking up the rhythm. I swirled my tongue around the head, listening to the wet, sloppy sounds of my own mouth on him. I wanted him to hear it. I wanted him to know exactly how deep I was taking him.
Cal was losing it. His hips started to snap forward, harder, deeper.
“Fuck—Baby—”he groaned.
Baby.
The word hit me like a physical blow.
My own cock leaked, throbbing so painfully against the fabric confines that I couldn’t take it. I shoved my hand down my sweatpants, wrapping my fingers around myself.
I didn’t know why being called that sent me into overdrive, but it did. Cal’s eyes were on me, watching me take him, watching me jerk myself off. I could imagine the sight, me on my knees in his hoodie, tears in my eyes, spit running down my chin, stroking myself while I pleasured him.
“God—Si—I’m gonna cum,” Cal warned, his voice tight with panic. He tried to nudge my head back, to save me from the mess.
I didn’t let go.
I gripped his thighs. I went faster. I sucked harder, tightening my throat.
He shouted, a raw, wordless sound, and bucked hard.
I felt the warm, sticky spurts hit the back of my throat. I gagged for a split second, tears spilling over onto my cheeks, but I swallowed. I swallowed every drop, draining him dry.
I pulled back, gasping for air, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.
Cal stared down at me, chest heaving, looking completely destroyed.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathed.
Saturday was a blur of flashes and fake smiles.
Press. Photoshoots. Training. Gear checks. We didn’t have a single second to see our families, who had flown across the country to watch us.
We were in the middle of a photoshoot for the program guide. Creative wanted shots of us in our debut gear, the gear we’d be wearing Monday night onShowdown, assuming we could still walk after Sunday.
“Your family excited?” I asked him as we switched out of our street clothes. I was tugging at my new tights, long, white with gold accents. They were stiff, pristine.
“Yeah,” Cal said, lacing up his black boots. “My sisters are kind of starstruck, I think. They keep texting me about seeing celebrities in the lobby.”
We stood back-to-back for the photographer. The lights flashed, blinding and hot. Every time his shoulder brushed mine, my mind flashed back to the balcony. To the taste of him. To the wordBaby.
It was fucking me up. And judging by the way Cal’s hand lingered on my shoulder during the team pose, it was fucking him up too.
The alarm went off at six in the morning. It felt illegal.
