Chapter 4
The men’s room has a few stalls, dimly lit from above. Someone tried to dress it up with dark paint and a mirror that fills half the wall, but it’s still a dive bar bathroom. The air smells like piss and the cheap pine cleaner they use on the floors.
I catch my reflection in the glass and barely recognize myself. My face is flushed. My eyes are too bright. My hair’s a mess from running my hand through it. I look like I just finished a marathon, and the last stretch was all uphill.
There’s a guy at the urinal, his back to me, taking a leak.
The steady stream hitting the porcelain sounds loud in the small space and seems to go on forever.
When he finally finishes, he shakes off, zips up, and heads for the door without a second glance.
He doesn’t even wash his hands. Fucking gross.
The door swings shut behind him. Silence. Well, not complete silence. Music thumps through the walls. Voices. Laughter. But in here, it’s just me and my pounding heart.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, watching it drip from my chin into the sink. My reflection stares back at me, wet, flushed, confused.
What the fuck am I doing here? I should leave. Walk out, go back to work. This is a mistake. I’m not gay.
I reach for a paper towel when a stall door creaks open behind me. The last one in the row, furthest from the door.
Brock’s reflection appears in the mirror.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
His jacket’s off now, and the tight blue T-shirt underneath does little to hide the muscles in his arms and chest. Now I see his full frame, not just from the waist up, and fuck, he’s big.
A wall of solid muscle. I’d hate to line up across from him on the field.
“Figured you might show up,” he says with a small smile.
I turn to face him, my back pressing against the sink. I want to say something sarcastic, something that puts me back in control, but the words won’t come.
“Don’t get shy on me now, Calvin.”
“I’m not shy. Just deciding if this is worth the trouble.”
“I’ll make it worth the trouble. Trust me.” He tips his head toward the stall behind him. “Come on.”
How does he make it sound so simple? So casual? As if this is something guys do all the time. Maybe they do. What the fuck do I know?
I stay rooted to the spot, my feet heavy as concrete. There’s still time to back out. Make an excuse and leave. That’s the rational thing to do.
But the ache in my balls and the throb in my dick override all common sense. I take a step forward, then another, and before I know it, I’m at the stall Brock holds open for me.
My arm grazes his chest as I brush past him. Jesus. His pecs are solid as bricks through that thin shirt. The contact sends a jolt straight to my dick, pressing hard against my zipper. He follows me in, pulls the door shut, and flicks the lock.
The click echoes in the small space. The stall’s barely big enough for both of us. I can feel the heat coming off his body, smell that woodsy cologne again, stronger now that we’re boxed in.
“This is just about getting off, right? No strings.” I force a casual tone, like I’m negotiating a business deal and not a handjob in a dirty bathroom stall.
“Whatever you want it to be.” He leans back against the door, eyes locked on mine. “Your rules.”
I’ve never been this close to another guy before, our crotches inches apart.
Things I’d never noticed in a man come into sharp focus—the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow.
He’s handsome in a very different way than a woman is.
All hard lines and angles. Nothing soft about him.
My breath quickens. My chest feels tight. I’m aware of everything: the thumping bass vibrating through the floor, the slow drip of the faucet, the frantic pulse beating in my neck.
“What are you into?” Brock asks, his voice low and gravelly.
“I don’t know, man. Never done this before.”
“It’s not that different from messing around with a girl, except we both know how a dick works.” He reaches out and grabs my hips, pulling me flush against him. His bulge presses against mine.
I gasp, my body stiffening at the contact. The friction sends a rush of heat through me. That’s another guy’s cock, rubbing against mine.
“Damn, you’re really worked up, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
He’s not wrong. Weeks of denial have made me desperate. Desperate enough to be in this stall right now. And fuck, it feels good to have someone touching me like this. The pressure of his body against mine. The solid warmth of him.
“Mind if I?” He brings a hand to the front of my jeans, tracing the line of my hard-on with one finger. The light touch sends a shudder through me. I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He unbuckles my belt, the metal clinking in the small space. The button pops. The zipper slides down. He eases my jeans and boxers down just enough to free my aching cock. And there it is. Hard, pulsing, on display for another dude. A bead of precum glistens at the tip.
“Nice cock,” he murmurs, wrapping his fingers around my shaft.
“Yeah,” I manage, because what the fuck else do I say to that?
His grip is so much firmer than any girl’s, rough with calluses. He smears the precum over the head with his thumb, and my breath catches. My hips jerk involuntarily, pushing into his hand.
“Sensitive, huh?” he grins.
Of course I am. Three weeks without sex, and I’m ready to blow at the slightest stimulation. But I can’t deny that Brock’s touch feels really fucking good.
He strokes me with his big hand, long, slow pulls that make my toes curl in my sneakers. He knows exactly what he’s doing, adding a twist on every upstroke that has me gritting my teeth. It messes with my head how much I like it.
“That feel good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I rasp, because it does. It really fucking does.
“Good.” He moves his other hand to my ass, squeezing. “Tight as fuck. You work out?”
“Yeah. Gym a few times a week.”
“I can tell.” He slides a finger along my crack, and I flinch.
“Hey.”
“Sorry.” He pulls his hand back. “Didn’t mean to overstep. You’ve got a great ass.”
“Stay on the front,” I warn.
“Got it. Front only.” He picks up the pace, stroking faster, smearing precum all over my shaft. For a minute, there’s just the wet slide of skin on skin, and my ragged breathing.
“What does that tattoo on your arm mean?”
It takes a second for my brain to process the question. We’re in a dirty bathroom stall, his hand on my dick, and he’s making small talk about my tattoo? Maybe that’s his way of keeping it casual. Or maybe he’s genuinely curious. I don’t know. But I guess it beats awkward silence.
“Uh, it’s a snake wrapped around a dagger,” I manage. “Got it freshman year. No real story behind it. Just thought it looked cool.”
“Suits you.” His thumb swipes over my slit, and I brace a hand against the stall wall to keep from buckling. “A little reckless.”
“Yeah? You think I’m reckless?”
“You’re here, aren’t you? With a guy you met twenty minutes ago, while your coworker’s out there busting her ass.” He speeds up, and I bite down on my lip to keep from moaning. “Pretty reckless to me.”
“Fair enough.” I gasp as his other hand cups my balls, rolling them in his palm. “Fuck, man. You’re good at this.”
“I know.”
“To be honest, I didn’t expect you to be, uh—” I pant, struggling for words as he works me faster, “you know.”
“Gay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not.” His breath puffs against my ear. “I like what I like. And right now, I like you. Labels don’t matter much to me.”
“Oh.” My brain is too foggy to process anything, so I just close my eyes and give in. My forehead drops to his shoulder. “Fuuuck.”
The scent of his sweat shouldn’t affect me, but it makes my dick throb even harder. What the hell is happening to me? Since when does my body react to another guy’s sweaty armpits?
Then his thumb brushes a spot on the underside of my shaft, right below the head, and every thought disappears. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Every nerve ending lights up at once. All I can do is feel.
The bulge in Brock’s jeans presses against my hip, and I realize this isn’t one-sided.
He’s hard as fuck. Should I…? My free hand hovers over his fly for a second before I pull it back.
That feels like a line I’m not ready to cross.
Letting a dude jerk me off is one thing.
Touching another guy’s dick is something else.
Instead, my fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, my knuckles turning white.
Right then, the men’s room door swings open and someone walks in, whistling off-key. My whole body tenses. Brock doesn’t stop. He keeps stroking, keeps working my balls, his lips brushing my ear.
“Better stay quiet,” he whispers, squeezing hard at the base. “Before we get caught.”
A moan rises in my throat, and I slap a hand over my mouth to keep it in. The guy at the urinal starts talking to someone else who just came in.
“—that ref was completely blind—”
“—should’ve been a flag—”
Brock’s teammates. My stomach drops. If they knew what was happening three feet away from them right now, they’d lose their fucking minds.
I look up at Brock, spooked, but he’s completely focused. Dark eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide, a small smile on his lips. He’s enjoying this. The thrill. The risk.
This guy is even more reckless than I am.
Then, to my complete shock, he sinks to his knees. Right there on the grimy floor. My jeans are tangled around my thighs, and this massive football player is looking up at me, tongue out, slowly licking the precum beading at my tip.
I should shove him away. Zip up and walk out. Pretend this never happened. But the problem is, I don’t want to. I want to push forward, slide into that wet heat, and fuck that smug look right off his face. And that scares the shit out of me.
His teammates are still at the urinals, deep voices bouncing off the walls, slightly slurred. So close. I can’t wrap my head around how I ended up here, in this dirty stall, with my dick out and a guy on his knees in front of me. But my body stopped listening to my brain about ten minutes ago.
Whatever’s left of my resistance lasts about two seconds before my hips push forward.
Brock takes me into his warm, wet mouth, and my brain goes offline completely. Nothing else exists. Not the bar. Not the guys on the other side of the door. Not the bet with Roxy. Just the mind-numbing pleasure of Brock’s lips wrapped around my cock.
He’s good. He’s really, really good. Better than any girl has ever been.
He knows exactly where to put pressure, where to use his tongue, how to take me deep without gagging.
He looks up at me while he does it, and the sight of him on his knees, my cock in his mouth, my hands tangled in his dark hair, messes with my head in a way I can’t explain.
Hot as fuck and confusing as hell all at once.
The voices move toward the sinks. Running water. Paper towels. The door swinging open and shut.
Then silence.
The moan that’s been stuck in my throat for the last minute tears out of me.
Brock responds by gripping my ass with both hands and taking me deeper, until the head of my cock hits the back of his throat.
I stop holding back. My hips take over, fucking his mouth, not caring about anything anymore except coming. Hard.
I brace a hand against the wall, knees going weak. My balls tighten. Heat floods through me. I’m right there, right on the—
“Fuuuuck,” I groan as my hips snap forward, burying myself in his mouth.
I try to pull back, to warn him, but his hands grip my ass tighter, pulling me deeper as I shoot down his throat.
I come so hard my vision whites out, and my knees nearly give.
Rope after rope, my whole body jerking with each pulse.
Three weeks of pent-up frustration, all of it unloading in one explosive rush.
It goes on longer than it should, longer than anything I can remember, my whole body locked up and shuddering until I’m slumped against the wall, barely able to stand, as Brock milks the last drops from me.
When he finally pulls off, he drags his tongue along the underside of my shaft, wringing one last grunt out of me. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a string of spit and cum breaking between his lip and my cock.
“Told you it’d be worth it,” he says, that smug grin back on his face. He stands, towering over me in the cramped space, and adjusts himself through his jeans. His bulge looks even bigger now, straining hard against the denim.
“Do you, uh…” My words come out thick, my throat dry. “Do you want me to…?” I gesture vaguely at his crotch.
He shrugs. “I’m good. Watching you lose it like that was enough for me.”
When I tuck myself back in and zip up, he unlocks the stall door, peeks out to make sure the coast is clear, and steps out. I follow on shaky legs. He washes his hands at the sink, catches my eye in the mirror, and winks.
“Should be easier to focus with that out of your system,” he says, drying his hands and tossing the paper towel.
“Yeah. Thanks, man. That was, uh… yeah.”
“My pleasure.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “See you around, Calvin.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The door swings shut behind him.
I grip the edges of the sink, knuckles white. My reflection stares back, wide-eyed and dazed. What the fuck did I just do?
I’m not confused about whether I liked it. I did. That much is obvious. My body’s still humming from it. But I didn’t expect to be that into it. Into him. The sight of him on his knees, looking up at me like that, is going to be burned into my brain for a long, long time.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to clear my head.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I have to get back to work.
Roxy’s probably losing her mind. But how am I supposed to walk out there and act normal?
I thought this was a simple transaction, a loophole in our bet.
Instead, I feel like the ground just shifted under my feet.
I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath.
Christ, Calvin. You really can’t help yourself, can you?
One last look at my reflection, then I push the door open and head back into the noise.