Or maybe it was exactly as filthy as it should be, given their current positions.
“I’ll be better once you move,” Sandro murmured, his fingers digging into Bennett’s ass cheeks. “Now, B.”
Not one to ignore a command from a bossy bottom, Bennett moved, pumping his hips. Slowly at first, savoring the sensation of Sandro beneath him, but when Sandro tipped his head back into the pillow with a rough, “Fuck, B. Harder. I need . . .”
Yeah, Bennett knew what he needed. Curving one arm underneath him, Bennett tilted Sandro’s hips up, changing the angle of his penetration, grinning when he was rewarded with a gasped, “Oh, Jesus fuck, B. Yes. Fuck me, damn it.”
So Bennett did, letting loose in a way he never had except with Sandro. Burying his head in Sandro’s neck, he breathed through his pleasure, his groans mixing with Sandro’s in the stillness of the early morning. Sandro was sweaty and breathless beneath him, the sun filtered in through the blinds to provide an ethereal glow to the room, and the sound of their bodies slapping together was almost hotter than Sandro’s, “B. Fuck, yes. I’m coming.”
Almost.
Bennett came right after him with a soft curse, his entire body eclipsing into a million pieces until it was brought back together again with a lazy kiss from Sandro.
“Fuck,” Sandro said with a laugh that did funny things to Bennett’s stomach. “I’d come back tonight to do that again if I wasn’t driving home right after the game.”
Bennett kissed his chin. “You could skip your brother’s birthday.”
Sandro grunted and gave Bennett’s butt a love tap. “Don’t start that again.”
“Fine.” Bennett pulled out gently and rolled off him. He tossed the condom into the trash can beside the bed, then rolled onto his side to face Sandro. “Just . . . make sure you pull over if you start to get tired, okay? Find a hotel to stay the night in if you need to.”
Sandro grabbed Bennett’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist so tenderly that Bennett’s breath caught. “I’ll be fine.” Sandro stretched lazily, arms over his head, his gorgeous body tempting Bennett to do things they didn’t have time for right now. Grunting, Sandro rolled toward him and trailed a series of kisses up Bennett’s biceps to his shoulder before he plopped down, his head pillowed on Bennett’s arm. “I’m due at the arena soon.”
“Me too.”
Sandro turned his face into Bennett’s arm. His hair was a mess, pointing in every direction, and Bennett couldn’t help but kiss him right there behind his ear. His own hair was no doubt a riot of knots.
“Roman wants to meet about the stupid wellness initiative over lunch.”
Bennett took in the slack lines of his muscles and almost didn’t ask, especially since Sandro had more or less blown him off last time, but he still wanted an honest answer. “Why don’t you want to lead this initiative? And don’t give me that bullshit about not knowing what you’re doing. What’s the real reason?”
Sighing, Sandro dug his forehead into Bennett’s arm. “Accepting that responsibility,” he said quietly, turning his head and meeting Bennett’s gaze, “is like accepting that I won’t be playing next season. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t know who I am outside of this sport.”
“Okay. But that’s something you’ll have to figure out at some point anyway, whether it’s at the end of this season or the next or the one after that.”
Sandro flopped onto his back with a puff of laughter. “That’s an annoyingly logical way to look at things.”
“You’re welcome.”
Heaving himself up, Sandro draped himself over him and kissed him once, twice, a third time. “We’re even for that hundred bucks now, right?”
“Hundred bucks plus interest.”
“Asshole,” Sandro said, laughing. Another kiss, then he was up and off the bed, the morning sun highlighting his body as he stretched his arms up over his head again. “Come on, B. I want that shower you promised me. Let’s go.”
Bennett would never say no to that.
chapter twelve
It was possible Sandro was going to miss his game.
Not only that, but he’d slept like shit while staying at his parents’ place for his brother’s birthday. He was exhausted, frustrated, running on empty, and as the tow truck driver followed his directions to the players’ entrance minutes before the pre-game warm-up, he cursed himself for the thousandth time for not checking the weather forecast before he’d set out for Tobermory two nights ago.
Rookie mistake.
He’d been keeping Coach Madolora updated via text for the past hour, and although it was difficult to judge someone’s mood via text, Sandro had a feeling Coach was pissed at him. Coach’s What have I told you about returning home when we have games less than three days apart? hadn’t been subtle.
His entire body was tense and his knee bounced angrily as the tow truck driver, a woman with chin-length salt-and-pepper hair who’d introduced herself as Dolly, navigated the tow truck with Sandro’s SUV hooked to the back toward the players’ entrance.
