He sucks me deep, thrusts another finger into me, then crooks it just so.

  “Ohfuckfuckfuck,” I shout.

  My vision turns neon, billboards flashing brightly in my mind. I can barely withstand the pleasure whipping through me. But I manage this much: “Now. Fuck me now,” I demand.

  My dick falls from his mouth. His lips are obscenely wet. He reaches for a condom on the nightstand, swiping his hand across the towel he left there.

  On his knees, he opens the wrapper carefully, then rolls the protection down his shaft. I want to be a part of every moment, so I push up on my elbows. “Let me lube you up.”

  “Do it,” he says, handing me the bottle.

  I coat my palm, then slick up his dick. He spears my fist for a few long strokes, then bats my hand away so he can dip his face to mine and plant the most devastating kiss on my mouth.

  “How do you want me?” Jason asks when he breaks the kiss.

  “Don’t make love to me. Fuck me,” I tell him, then spread my legs, and lift my knees.

  With one hand, he pushes the back of my right thigh up toward my chest. I’m so vulnerable right now, and I don’t care about anything but how I feel.

  Ready.

  He locks his gaze on mine. “You trust me, Cafferty?”

  How can he even ask? “You know I do, McKay,” I say plainly, baring my soul.

  “Then I’m gonna fuck you hard like you want.” He growls, and I’m so damn relieved that he’s not treating me like I’m precious. I don’t want him to go gentle with me.

  He notches the head of his cock against me and pushes in.

  I grit my teeth. And wow. Holy fuck. This hurts.

  “Tell me to stop and I will,” he rasps.

  “Not a chance in hell,” I mutter, then grab my left thigh and open myself more.

  His entire body shudders above me. It’s beautiful and sexy. “Beck,” he moans, then sinks into me.

  All. The. Way.

  The pressure is intense. The stretch is uncomfortable. But the sensation is almost good. The man I’ve fantasized about for two years sinks deep into my body, and I’m this close to pleasure. I’m even closer when he kisses me, a bruising kiss that overwhelms me. Then, with his lips barely on mine, he starts to move.

  I haul in a breath, shivering. He swivels his hips, eases out, pausing, and then plunging back in.

  There is no pain. Only pleasure.

  “You,” he moans.

  He can’t finish the sentence. I don’t think I can speak either. I can only grunt and groan as he fucks me in long, slow strokes. My skin buzzes with excitement. My bones rattle with lust as we find a rough and dirty rhythm. He doesn’t treat me like I’m a virgin. He pounds me like a man who wants to bury his cock in his lover.

  “Harder,” I urge.

  “Yeah?”

  “I can take it. I want it.” I’m a fucking pro athlete. I can handle whatever he can bring. I reach around, grab his ass, and jerk him deep.

  My body lights up with each jolt. It hurts in the best of ways. I’m being fucked within an inch of my life, and it’s everything I imagined.

  With each punishing thrust, Jason gives me the sex I’ve been craving. Deep, hard, passionate sex with him.

  Desperate to come, I slide a hand between us, gripping my length.

  “Let me do it,” he says, then rises to his knees and takes over for my hand, jerking and fucking me and setting my nerve endings on fire.

  I can’t take it. The wicked heat twists inside me and then bursts. I cry out, shooting all over my stomach and his hand. It feels like I’ll never stop coming. With one long guttural groan, he drives deep, stills, and shudders.

  Then he collapses onto me, his slick chest against mine, his face buried in my neck, his lips tenderly kissing my skin. “That was sooo . . .”

  “Incredible,” I say.

  “You are just . . .”

  “So are you,” I whisper.

  My body feels used in the best of ways. I am spent, and I am happy. Especially since I’m not going to wake up at five in the morning.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’ve taken my third shower of the day because sex is both awesome and messy. At least this one isn’t solo. Jason and I get out, dry off, and slide under fresh sheets.

  In the dark, he reaches for me. “How was it?”

  I know he wants an honest answer, but I love to have fun with him. “Not too bad,” I say drily.

  He bites my shoulder.

  “We can do it again if you want to try to improve your technique,” I add.

  “I can’t wait to critique your technique,” he says, laughing, then kisses my neck. “Mmm. Make me breakfast in the morning, ’kay?”

  I huff. “That’s why you wanted me to spend the night?”

  “Maybe,” he says. A minute later, he’s asleep, and I’m exactly where I want to be.

  Curled up with this man, sleepy and sated. The cat joins us, and I say goodnight to Taco too, because he’s definitely not a CockBlocker tonight.

  29

  God Bless Black Cars

  Jason

  * * *

  Sun streams through the window above the stove, brightening the entire kitchen. Hell, the whole house shimmers with light on this first Friday in November—including Beck.

  I’m learning he looks good in the morning. He wears a snug, gray T-shirt, tight jeans, unkempt hair, and just the right amount of morning stubble. He’s like a dream come true. “I had a fantasy like this the other week,” I say as I set two places at the kitchen counter, and Beck lowers the heat on the stove.

  The buff, muscular football player making me breakfast, turns to me, lifting a brow in a question. “You’re saying you want me to bend you over the kitchen counter when I’m done cooking?”

  I shake my head, grinning selfishly at the meal coming my way. “Nope. My fantasy was eggs and potatoes.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Walked right into that.”

  “You sure did,” I say, then fold cloth napkins as I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry I don’t have coffee. Or a coffee machine.”

  “I’ll live. But while we’re at it, tell me more about your food fantasy,” he says as he serves the scrambled eggs onto red and yellow Fiestaware plates and then scoops breakfast potatoes next to them.

  My stomach rumbles. This guy is such a good cook. I can’t wait to tuck in. He hands me a plate and then doles out his own food. “Last week, when I was leaving your house, I was thinking I wanted to take you to Lulu’s Diner,” I say, picking up a fork and diving into the meal.

  Beck joins me at the counter, completing my morning-after fantasy of us in the kitchen after the sun is up, talking and eating. What can I say? I’m a simple man, and when I like a dude, I want him with me after we bone down.

  “So, you fantasized about having a meal with me,” he says, inviting me to elaborate.

  Feeling the warm glow of the morning after, I go for it. “I did. I wanted to grab some food and get to know you more,” I admit as my heart thumps a little harder.

  He smiles like he can’t quite believe I told him that. “What did you want to ask about?”

  “I had a bunch—”

  The doorbell rings, and he sits up straight, alert. “Someone’s here?”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I know who’s at the door. I pat his thigh, then hop off the stool. “I got you something.”

  “You did?” He sounds enchanted.

  Feeling smug, I head to the door, swing it open, and thank the Ding and Dine driver for the coffee, adding a big tip.

  “Thanks, man,” he says with a grateful smile. “Go Hawks!”

  “Go Hawks,” I repeat as he bounds down the steps and out to his wheels. I shut the door and return to the kitchen, presenting the cup to Beck.

  He takes it and regards it with surprise. “You got me a coffee?” he asks, despite the evidence in his hands.

  “It’s from Doctor Insomnia’s. The way you like it,” I say, nerves tapping on my shoulder from his uncertain reaction.

  Beck goes strangely quiet.

  Shit. Did I go too far into the boyfriend zone? “Did I get your order wrong?” I ask, staying focused on the coffee.

  “No. I just . . .” He sets the cup down on the counter and clears his throat.

  My stomach sinks.

  When he raises his face, his eyes are sparkling. “It’s great, Jason,” Beck says, voice thick with emotion. Then he cups my cheek and presses a tender kiss to my lips.

  “It’s just coffee,” I murmur as we end the kiss, our lips still chasing each other.

  “And these are just eggs,” he says gently.

  There it is. We both have our simple fantasies. We both are living them. When I sit on the stool, Beck takes a sip of the drink and then taps his finger against it. “This is the good stuff.”

  See? I’d be an excellent boyfriend, even if it has to be behind closed doors, with secrets and a distinct lack of things being easy. But I refuse to let reality get me down.

  “How did you feel when you threw your first touchdown?” I ask as I spear a chunk of potato.

  “Psyched. I was seven or eight. My dad taught me,” he answers.

  “How long does it take you to play Wordle each day?”

  A smile spreads nice and slow across his lips as if he enjoys my random queries. “A couple of minutes. Do you play?”

  “Nope.”

  “You were playing a word game that first night I came over. What game was it?”

  I wave a hand dismissively. “Just some app. Like a word find. Nothing fancy like you play.”

  “You think I’m a smarty-pants,” he says with a smirk, then takes another drink of his coffee, sighing contentedly.

  “Kind of.”

  “You like that?”

  “You know I do,” I say, then take another bite of the eggs. “What do you listen to when you work out?”

  “Beethoven, alt-rock, Bob Ross, or heavy metal,” he says.

  This guy is so unpredictable, and I like it. “Those are the Beck Cafferty four basic food groups when it comes to music? Also, Bob Ross? That’s so you.”

  He lifts his chin defiantly. “And what do you listen to? Wait let me guess. ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen? ‘Time of Your Life’ by Green Day?”

  I scoff. “Thank you for mocking my musical taste. For that, you’re going to need to suck my dick to see my playlist.”

  He wiggles a brow. “I’m in.”

  I laugh, then toss one question his way. A question that has me on the edge of my seat, hoping we can pull it off, hoping he’ll want to try. “Do you want to go to Hazel’s book signing next week?” He tenses immediately, and I quickly finish the request. “We can go as friends.”

  His shoulders relax. “Like a date. But not really.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  He smiles, his tension gone now. “It’s something,” he says, and he sure likes that something.

  Me too.

  When we’re done eating, he stands, moves behind me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and rubs. I might purr. It feels so good. “I need to tell you something, Jason,” he rumbles near my ear.

  “That sounds intense,” I say, but I’m not worried. Not yet, at least. Not as he massages my neck.

  “You know my BMW?”

  “I do,” I say as he moves to kiss me, sliding his mouth over to my ear.

  “I got it for this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He’s cautious, taking his time as he answers. But hopeful too. “After the first time I was here, I wanted to come over again. I was hoping we’d do this. See each other again that is. I didn’t get a red Porsche for many reasons, but this was the main one. I got a generic black car with tinted windows, that looks like every other car, so I could come over, spend the night, and leave unseen. Maybe that’s presumptuous.”

  My stomach flips in a good way.

  I spin and curl my hands onto his hips. “No. I love that,” I say, ready to cozy up to him again when I glimpse the clock on the wall. I wish I could stop time, but my dream morning is over.

  “Come over Sunday night when you return. You play Los Angeles in the afternoon.”

  “You know my schedule,” he teases.

  I roll my eyes. “And you got a car, so we can fuck.” I slide a hand into the waistband of his jeans.

  “You got me coffee,” he retorts.

  “And you got a car so we can fuck,” I repeat.

  “You win.”

  We both win when I get down on my knees and give him a taste of what I’ll be thinking about in bed the next few nights.

  30

  Dirty Little Liar

  Jason

  * * *

  A New York lineman lasers in on me. He’s snarling, hellbent on knocking me to my knees.

  No way.

  I am not losing my first game after fucking Beck.

  I’m just not.

  We’re down by three, and time is running out. Less than three minutes left.

  I scramble, hunting for an open receiver. C’mon, Nate. Where the fuck are you, Orlando?

  But then, Devon darts past a Leopard cornerback, arms up, hands beautifully ready. I gun the ball to him in a gorgeous spiral, and the rookie hauls it into his arms, right as the defensive lineman barrels toward me.

  Andre, my left tackle, swings around and catches the lineman’s thighs, and we all go down in a pile.

  My head rings. My teeth rattle.

  For several horrible seconds, the ground feels like my new forever home.

  But Andre took the brunt of the hit. He’s made of concrete, so he’s pushing up, offering me a hand.

  I grab it and pop to my feet, exhaling hard as my body resets.

  “You okay, McKay?” Andre asks.

  I nod, then blink. “Thanks, man. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  That’s football.

  You get knocked to the ground. You get back up. You go into the huddle then you run the next play.

  And when my short pass lands in Nate’s big hands, my buddy carries it all the way into the end zone.

  Sweet!

  As I trot to the sidelines, Xavier’s the first one to greet me. “You all good, bro?” he asks, draping an arm around my shoulder. “That looked bad.”

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  He smacks my shoulder. “We’re gonna keep that lead you gave us,” he says, his tone fierce. And I believe him.

  After our kicker nails the extra point, Xavier leads the defense onto the field, and the man keeps his promise.

  The line doesn’t even allow a first down, and when we get possession, we let the clock wind down till the W flashes on the scoreboard.

  We leave the field, smacking palms with the Leopards. When I pass Luke, who didn’t get an ounce of playing time, I drag him in for a hug. “See you soon, buddy. Glad you lost.”

  “Fuck you,” he mutters.

  “Love you too.”

  “Fuck you again,” he says.

  “Fly safe.”

  Then he waves. “Catch up with you on the flip side.”

  In the locker room, the mood is fiery. The guys are amped up. We’ve got a six and two record and a Coach who isn’t ripping us to pieces.

  As I toss my sweaty, muddy jersey into the laundry bin, Xavier calls out to the crew. “Spotted Zebra? You men in the mood?”

  Orlando shouts a yes.

  Elroy gives a salute and says, “I’m there. Because defense shows up.”

  Johnson smacks his palm. “We fucking do.”

  I toss a knowing glance at Nate. He smiles back. It’s good to see these two getting their mojo back.

  Xavier points at Nate, then me. “Team captains better be there.”

  Nate shakes his head. “Can’t. Sorry guys.”

  He sounds like he has shit to deal with. I need to check-in and see what happened with him and Oliver. For now, I jump on the “no” train, too, yawning. “I need a long, hot shower and to hit the sack. Next time,” I say.

  Xavier arches a brow.

  Elroy boos and Johnson scoffs.

  Nate and I take off, and as we’re walking down the corridor, he shakes his head, smirking.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Taking a shower?” He sketches air quotes. “They believed you, you dirty little liar.”

  “It’s true,” I insist.

  He calls bullshit with a long nod. “Right.” Then he nudges my arm. “Have fun in the shower.”

  I do my best to ignore the kernel of guilt that wedges into my chest. “How’s everything with Oliver?”

  “On a scale of one to not good, it’s a negative fifty,” he says as we reach the stairwell to the stands.

  I pat his shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

  Then I put the game and my dirty little lies behind me. I head to find Dad.

  I don’t offer him an arm today. He stands on his own—no cast, no crutches, no walking boot, just a proud grin. “Look at your old man,” he says.

  “You’re such a show-off. You did this when I came over to watch Privilege two nights ago.”

  “And I will continue to remind you I’m capable.”

  I laugh. “I know you’re capable, Dad.”

  “And I listen too. You’ll be glad to know I only answered a few emails during halftime,” he says as we head up the concrete steps.

  I cough under my breath. “Translation—inbox zero.”

  He laughs. “You throw masterful touchdowns. I run a tight cookie business,” he says, then squeezes my shoulder when we reach the concourse. “Great game. This whole season is looking so good—”

  “Don’t jinx me, Dad.”

  He rolls his eyes. “As if you believe in that.”

  “But I do. If I start thinking I’m having a killer season, then I might get cocky. I might rest on my laurels. We’re on a helluva streak, and I don’t want to blow it.”

  He mimes zipping his lips, but when we get into my car a few minutes later, he unzips them. “Want to get a late dinner tonight?”