The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

7. My Quarterback Crush

7

MY QUARTERBACK CRUSH

Beck

He’s silky to the touch and all steel underneath. My mouth waters. My chest tingles.

I want to play with his dick all night. To stroke and tease. To lick and suck.

But the clock is ticking, curfew is coming, and I don’t want to stop this make-out train.

Don’t think he does either. A few seconds later, he undoes my shorts and shoves his hand into my boxer briefs to grasp my dick.

I hiss in a breath. We’ve got our hands on each other, and it’s bone-meltingly good.

I groan at the twin sensations—the high-voltage charge from him touching me, and the heady thrill of me touching him. The man I’ve crushed on for the last year. The man I’ve fantasized about too many times to count.

Now it’s real, and I’m acutely aware that it’s go time. I don’t want to fuck this up. Don’t want to ruin this sexy moment with the wrong move.

But I’m pretty sure I’m making the right ones. Jason’s moaning and his cock is dripping. I try to toss all my worries aside. We’ve got seven minutes, tops, before I turn into a pumpkin. Dirty Cinderella, indeed.

Gripping him tight, I slide my fist along his hot length, spreading my thumb over his crown, lubing him up as best I can.

“Yes,” he grunts. “I like it rough.”

And I like it crystal clear. A little direction goes a long way. I let go for a second, spit in my palm, then return to his dick and give a nice, tight jerk.

Jason shudders, pumping into my fist and showing off his multitasking skills, too, as he strokes my dick, using my pre-come to ease the way.

Lust shoots down my spine in fast, pulsing waves of pure pleasure. I grit my teeth from the sweet agony of his hand shuttling up and down my length. My dick is leaking, but even as he spreads the liquid arousal on my shaft, that hardly feels like enough glide.

This tandem hand job would be a little easier with help. I glance around. Maybe there’s lotion nearby? Trouble is, I don’t want to stop to go hunt down lube. And I don’t want to sound high-maintenance either.

I’m not ready to ask for a blow job. Maybe my own arousal is enough to get the job done. I focus on how good it feels, jerking him as he jerks me.

I lift my hand to coat my palm again for him, and Jason grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“What?” I ask, nerves skittering down my spine, hoping I didn’t mess up.

But in two seconds, he’s down on his knees, hauling my dick into his mouth, and holy fuck, yes.

My hands rope through his hair as he sucks me to the root, cupping my balls and playing with them. His mouth, dear God, his mouth.

And this view—it’s almost too much, the way his lips stretch and his eyes twinkle.

Before I know it, I’m moaning and groaning and fucking his face. But Jason surprises me once more, dropping me from his lips with a long, lingering suck, leaving a trail of saliva behind on my dick. Then he pops up, grips me again. “Just helping matters along,” he says, all sexy and flirty and reading my needs completely.

That. Is. Hot.

And I am this close to losing it.

As he jerks me, I reach for his dick, play with him loosely. It’s hard to fully concentrate on his pleasure when I’m this close to the edge with his hand. I squeeze my eyes shut and give in to the lust charging down my body. His hand flies faster on my dick, then faster still.

My balls tighten, my vision blurs, and I unload in his hand, shuddering as I release. Holy fuck. That felt... out of this world, and it was just a hand job.

When I open my eyes, my orgasm is dripping over his knuckles. With a smirk, Jason lets go of my cock and grabs his dick, giving a long, lingering stroke with the hand that jerked me.

My eyes pop. I shudder out a breath. No fucking way. He’s coating his dick with my orgasm, and I could nearly come again from the sight. He gestures to his dick with his free hand, all casual and sexy. “Finish me off, Cafferty,” he says.

I grip him, the evidence of my climax paving the way. In seconds, he’s grunting, pumping his hips, and fucking my fist hard and fast.

I remember his direction. He likes it rough. I tighten my grip, then tug on his balls with my other hand.

His lips part. He shudders out a breath, tenses, then comes in my hand.

My entire body is alive—lit up.

I am electrified. All my senses are working in overdrive as I memorize this deliciously sexy moment. The sight of our orgasms. The sounds of our pleasure. The smell of our sweat.

It’s everything I’ve wanted.

And I want it again. But I glance at the time. “I should clean up.”

“Ditto.”

We both make quick work of straightening up. The ticking clock rules out those awkward after-sex moments, like cuddling and talking—shit I don’t know how to deal with.

But I know this much—as tough as the last few months have been for me, tonight was a welcome break from the hard stuff.

This feels like it was necessary for my sanity. For my mental health. Somehow, this hookup eased the pain of the rougher days.

My mind is lighter, and I want more of this good feeling.

After I order a Lyft, which will be here in two minutes, I draw a soldiering breath. “Can I ask you one more question?”

Jason laughs, shaking his head. “You and your questions.”

I’m glad I can make him laugh. That’s a good start. “Yeah, I have a lot of questions, including this one. Was tonight a date?”

Jason’s smile is so warm and genuine, and it doesn’t seem like bullshit when he says, “I think so. Did it feel that way to you?”

So much that I want another. “It did. And our flight back to Los Angeles is at eight tomorrow, so there’s time after the game. A couple of hours.”

His smile grows. “You asking me on a post-game date, Cafferty? After I destroy the Mercenaries, that is.”

Holy shit. I am. And it feels so right. “Yeah. But it’ll be the other way around. We’ll annihilate you.”

He scoffs. “Don’t bet on it.”

That gives me a wicked idea. “I’ll bet you a blow job. When I win, you finish what you started when you were sucking me off.”

He cracks up. “We’re betting for blow jobs?”

“We are.”

Jason sticks out a hand. “Fair enough. Winner gets a blow job.” He glances around. “Back here at my place. Tomorrow. Five-ish. We should have time for a blow job and a bite to eat.”

That sounds like a perfect date. “It’s on.”

My phone beeps, telling me that my Lyft is here. No time for anything more. “See you tomorrow.”

I’m tempted to plant a kiss on his lips. But I don’t want to presume he’d like that, so I leave without kissing him goodbye.

I don’t really know how to play this game. But I’ll have to learn because it seems I have a second date with my quarterback crush.

And, I suppose, for the first time, I want to figure it out.

In the morning, my stomach is twisted into knots before I even leave the hotel, and it loops into even tighter ones in the locker room as kickoff nears.

Soon, I’ll take to the field in my first professional game as a starter. This is big.

My stomach jumps again. I’m not made of iron, but I’ve had a lifetime of practice dealing with my pre-game anxiety. I’ve learned how to handle my nerves. I have my rituals, and they help. Mostly.

But this game is different for so many reasons. It would be easy to dwell on those reasons, but... nope.

Can’t go there.

Need to stay in the moment.

Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the present, not the past.

When game time rolls around, I leave the locker room and trot to the field after kickoff.

Then, I narrow my focus until it’s entirely on the field and shut off everything else.