Miles paused in the doorway and, as though to make the point he had no intention of looking around and was visiting solely on business, pulled off his shirt. Such a simple act, one he’d done a hundred times in front of crowds and cameras, performed now only for me. It ought to have been easy to follow suit, but it had been over four years since I’d changed a shirt on court and the act felt oddly vulnerable in the wake of his ease.
I grabbed the hem, telling myself it was just another challenge I couldn’t fail, and pulled it off quick like ripping a Band-Aid. His gaze dipped to my scars because of course it did, but perhaps he’dexpected them for he showed no surprise, his response to up the ante by dropping both his shorts and boxers in a single movement. And there was Miles Callahan naked in front of me, his silver necklace and woven bracelets all that broke the expanse of his skin. He was utterly glorious, all lithe muscle and perfect proportions, broad shoulders and strong thighs, and without a towel in the way, I could now follow the fine trail of dark hair that led down from his navel.
“Dear god,” I breathed. “You are something else.”
“And you are holding out on me.”
My shorts and boxers followed his to the floor, and I watched his gaze track over my chest and down my legs. Watched him bite his lip in appreciation. “Definitely been holding out on me.”
I thought to slide my arm around his waist and pull him close, to kiss him and touch him and enjoy him, but Miles seemed intent on the destination and dropped onto my bed. There he pulled open the bedside drawer—the universal standard for easily accessible lube—and wasn’t disappointed.
“I like a man who’s always prepared,” he said, and tossed it onto the bedcovers. Then he shifted onto his hands and knees, presenting his amazing arse. It was a beautiful invitation, and a shiver of anticipation rippled across my skin.
Despite his impatience, I took my time preparing – not myself, but him. He deserved the indulgence of soft touches and teasing. Of a trail traced from the base of his spine to his entrance with slick fingertips. Of my fingers pressing gently inside as slowly as I could bear.
“Mat, I’m not a beginner,” he complained with a soft groan as I started stroking.
“I know. I’m just enjoying myself. Should I be gentle though? Since you have to play again day after tomorrow?”
“God no. If getting wrecked affected my game, I wouldn’t have so high a ranking.” He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded as I added another finger. “I’ve played some of my best matches after getting railed so hard I could still feel it every step.”
There was something desperately hot about knowing that Miles Callahan might play his next match with a lingering ache from my cock, and I sped the pace of my fingers, eliciting a small, frustrated moan.
“You’re a rotten tease, Russo.”
“This?” I said, enjoying the sound of his breath quickening. “Oh, this is nothing.”
“Please just fuck me. I have been thinking about your dick for days and I’m going to die if you don’t give it to me.”
Hard to imagine sweeter words coming from that mouth. I pressed the head of my cock against his leg. “That seems a little dramatic. Surely, only two days.”
“Forever, now comeon!”
As he pushed back against me, I slipped my hand out and my cock in, the exchange as smooth as I could make it. It caught him by surprise, and I relished the sound he made as I thrust in deep.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck!”
He lowered his head onto his arms, and I proceeded to grip his hips and absolutely not be gentle, every thrust sending muffled moans into my pillow. Being inside him felt even better than I had imagined and he must have agreed for he was soon hissing encouragement in the form of disconnected curses.
Yet with his head down and his face hidden, there was something routine about the moment, about his posture, this just an impersonal meeting of his needs in which it had ceased to matter who I was. Perhaps that was how he liked it, but no matter how good it felt, I wanted more. Because this wasn’t an impersonal pieceof arse. We might have found ourselves on my bed due to a mutual desire to get our rocks off, but this was Miles Fucking Callahan—this wasfuckingMiles Callahan—and I was going to damn well enjoy the sight of it.
I pulled out and rolled him onto his back, sending blond hair splaying over my pillow. A hint of shock flickered across his face, hastily hidden as I leaned in to kiss him.
“All that effort for a kiss?” he murmured as he slid his hands to my arse, encouraging me to keep going.
“I warned you I was a kisser.” I deepened the kiss, turning it slow and exploratory, softening the moment such that he melted into the bed. And while I went on kissing him, I slid slowly back in, earning a long, drawn-out groan. “You don’t seem to mind,” I said against his lips.
“Maybe I do, but since you’re clearly after a reaction, I have to pretend otherwise. Can’t let you win, after all.” He gripped a handful of my hair and kissed me back like a drowning man, and if this was not letting me win then I would lose to him any day.
Slowly, I regained my rhythm, before sitting back to start stroking his cock. His breath hitched in a flicker of surprise, and with a poor opinion of the men who had come before, I was doubly satisfied by how utterly he responded – his whole body soon quivering beneath me. It was beautiful—he was beautiful—his brow creased, his lips parted, his chin lifting as he arched toward conclusion. And though in that moment it felt like the hardest thing I had ever done, I forced myself to let go and pull out.
His eyes flew open, surprise turning to betrayal at the sight of me biting my lip to suppress both the desperate urge to keep going and a huge, stupid grin.
“Why did you stop?” he demanded, pressing his heels to my arse like he could force me on.
“Just a little payback,” I said. “For yesterday.”
“What? That was different!”
