Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Any Time, Any Place
Spencer
It’s been two months since I caught Ryan in that hotel suite, ass in the air, waiting to be ruined.
Two months since I broke every one of my own rules and let him have me—let myself have him.
And if anyone had told me a year ago I’d be here now, fucking Ryan Buterbaugh on the regular, I would’ve laughed in their face.
But here I am, and who can blame me? The man has an ass that probably causes accidents on the freeway due to his billboard.
Whoever decided to put that photo of Ryan—shot from the back—on a billboard, clearly has no concern for public safety.
Hell, I never even watched football before, but now that the season’s started, I’m glued to the screen every week, tracking number nineteen as he prowls the field, those pants molded to his body like a second skin.
It’s become a filthy little ritual. Sometimes I even wander down to the sports bar a few blocks over from my condo, order a scotch, and settle in for the show.
When bar patrons start talking about “the caked-up quarterback,” I just watch, barely containing my smirk.
Because that ass? Right now, it’s mine. Mine to play with, squeeze, bite, and fuck whenever I want.
And for the past two months, “whenever I want” is often.
We’ve done it everywhere. Public bathrooms, the shower, the kitchen, the elevator.
I can’t keep my hands off him. Off that ass.
At least, I tell myself, I haven’t broken my rules.
No kissing. No sleepovers. No feelings. Keep it physical, keep it simple.
He still drives me nuts—but now there’s benefits.
A loud bang snaps me out of my thoughts just in time to see Jen barreling into my office, the door slamming against the wall behind her. She really has a problem with doors.
Waving a huge legal-sized envelope in the air, she announces, “It’s time for us to sign with the boys!” she announces, eyes wild and triumphant.
I suppress a smirk. “I’ll meet you down there,” I say, already shuffling papers on my desk, buying myself a second.
She grins and is gone before my sentence finishes, boots echoing down the corridor.
Anthony and Chance’s offices are on the first floor of the new agency building, along with legal and the space where the youth center will exist when we obtain all the appropriate licenses.
It didn’t take me long to decide to make the move with Jen.
Everything checked out when I performed due diligence, and the opportunity to make a difference was too great to pass up.
Besides, if things didn’t work out, I know the partners at BSF would welcome me back.
In fact, that’s exactly what they told Jen and I when we notified them of our departure.
We moved in a couple weeks ago. Dita and Parker came with us, splitting their talents between the agency and the foundation.
They’re both eager to learn about sports talent management and equally passionate about providing resources for queer youth.
Tyler is coming out of his skin to get started as well.
It will soon be two years since he came into my life, and he’s come so far.
I’m glad all three of them will get the opportunity to see how it feels to give back.
It’s a chore, however, keeping Parker on a leash around all the athletes, Anthony and especially Chance, who has taken an active role as chief operating officer.
He’s heavily involved in almost every aspect of the entire operation.
He still paints, but he’s found a real passion for running the day-to-day, which allows Anthony and Meg to focus on the athletes.
Speaking of athletes. Ryan will want to be here.
Me: Are you downtown? The boys are going to sign now.
Dimples: Oh shit! On my way!
Me: K
Dimples: It’s been 3 days, Perfect. I expect some dicktonight.
I shake my head, cock twitching. Great, now I have to walk down the hall with a semi.
When I reach Anthony’s executive suite, Jen is already outside his office door. I breeze past her and go inside. His office is completely decked out. Chance’s art is on the walls alongside a couple framed records, and signed sports memorabilia from his clients over the years fill the shelves.
Lexi arrives, then Chance, who crouches down for a final check-in with Anthony before they take this step. The surrogacy paperwork is a small mountain, but the energy in the room is buzzing, contagious. Jen tears open the envelope theatrically and distributes pens.
Just as Anthony and Chance are about to sign their copies of the surrogacy paperwork, Ryan comes sliding into the office, a little breathless, hair askew, cheeks flushed from the rush.
And fuck me, he’s wearing painted on jeans, an equally tight black tee, and no surprise… a backward ballcap. Jesus.
Why does this man have to be so infuriatingly hot.
“Did I miss it?” he pants.
I roll my eyes and he throws me a wink.
Anthony, Chance, Jen, and Lexi get back to signing so I can do my part—notarizing. When my last signature is done, the group falls silent for half a second.
Anthony just holds onto Chance’s hand like he might float away. “We’re going to need a bigger boat,” Anthony whispers, voice cracking.
Chance leans in, kissing the corner of Anthony’s mouth. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.”
“Aww, bros.” Ryan says, “You guys are goals. I want all—” he waves a hand vaguely at them “that.”
My chest spasms and I panic, eyes watching Ryan, wondering if he’s asking me for something I don’t know how to give. His gaze locks stubbornly on mine.
“Okay, well,” I say, voice choked, “I’m gonna go put these in my office—”
“No,” Ryan cuts me off, grabbing my arm firmly as I’m moving to escape.
I freeze. “Let go of me, Ryan,” I grit out, teeth clenched.
Instead of letting go, he breaks into a grin. “We all need to go for a drink to celebrate.”
I just stare at him. His grip gets tighter and he drops his voice and firmly says, “And you’re coming with us.”
Half turned on by his forcefulness, half resigned to the fact he won’t give in, I surrender. “Fine.” Then I remember I’m in a room full of colleagues. “I mean, yes. I would love to.”
Ryan’s green eyes twinkle and he subtly rubs his thumb over my bicep before dropping his grip.
The bar next door is buzzing, tables packed, music low but present.
Our group commandeers two tables, pushing them together, ordering pitchers and a parade of appetizers.
Conversation is a chaotic din—Beau and Lexi arguing over houses they’re looking at, Jen monologuing about her never-ending obsession with ‘90s female-led rock bands, Anthony and Ryan discussing Arizona’s chances for a ring this year.
I’m halfway through a scotch when I feel a hand gliding up my thigh under the table—slow, steady, and maddeningly casual. I throw a glance sideways. Ryan is animatedly debating the Texas team’s weaknesses to Anthony, but there’s a twitch at the corner of that sinful mouth. Fucker.
I try to focus on Jen’s impassioned rant about the lasting influence of Garbage, Hole, and The Cranberries.
I nod, I murmur “Totally,” but my mind is down the back of Ryan’s tight jeans as his hand keeps exploring.
I appreciate ‘90s rock as much as the next guy, but right now I’m thinking about a different kind of hole entirely.
I turn my head to glare at him, but my eyes drop, making it worse.
The way he’s leaned forward, the back waist of his jeans and boxers have pulled down, and there’s two perfect mound tops staring at me.
Right underneath those fucking dimples. I’m going to kill him.
Ryan’s palm presses higher, cups my dick, and starts working me with practiced, infuriating subtlety. My cock fills out rapidly, straining against my slacks. I clamp my hand down over his wrist, shooting him a look that could melt steel.
He grins, slow and wicked, and then—just to make me insane—dips his finger into his chin dimple. Bastard uses that against me on a regular basis now that he knows what it does to me.
I glare, but he just releases me, stands, and stretches. “Gonna hit the head,” he announces to no one in particular, and strolls off, working his hips with each step so that athletic ass pops with every stride.
I wait a beat, try to compose myself, then grab the nearest empty pitcher and mumble something about needing a refill. The hard-on I’m packing is very noticeable, but the pitcher is just big enough to offer cover as I slip away from the table.
Making my escape, I set the pitcher on the bar top, and beeline for the back of the bar. There’s a hallway leading to the bathrooms, a dim little corridor with a door out to the alley. Ryan’s there, leaning against the cinderblock wall, trying to look innocent and failing.
He grins, all teeth and trouble, and I hate that he can bend me to his will so easily—but, Christ, that ass.
I grab him by the wrist and haul him out the back, through the exit and around the corner, out of sight, into the dusk of sunset. It’s been overcast and humid all day, which provides a stunning arrays of purples and oranges as the sun dips, but all I can focus on is the man in front of me.
I pin him, face-first, against the brick.
Then I reach around and undo his jeans. I take a step back and yank his jeans and boxer briefs down in one rough motion.
His ass is bare, round and perfect, and I hear him inhale sharply as my hand makes contact with his skin.
There’s no time to linger, so I grab both his wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand, and spit into my other palm, fingers slicking his hole.
He shudders, pushes back, greedy for it.
I spit again, working my own cock slick, then press my forehead between his shoulder blades and line up. Every muscle in my body tenses as I pop the head into him—tight, hot, and so fucking perfect.
Ryan throws his head back, huffing, “God, yes. Fuck me hard, Spence. Don’t go easy.”
I rumble low in my throat just as a roar of thunder rolls through the air.
Shit. We need to hurry. Moving my hand from his wrists, I wrap them gently but firmly around his neck, and drive forward at the same moment a bolt of lightning races across the sky.
Ryan groans too loud, so I slap my palm over his mouth, muffling the noise.
The scent of sex, sweat, and impending rain swirls in the air, gritty and raw.
With one hand over his mouth and one gripping his neck, I fuck him rough, hard, relentless, loving the way his cheeks bounce with every thrust. He’s so tight and hot I almost lose it in under five plunges, but I clamp down, slowing just enough to savor it.
After a minute, I slide my hand from his throat down to his cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts. I lean in close and whisper, “I’m going to make this big dick of yours come, pretty boy, and then I’m going to flood your guts.”
Ryan nods frantically, moaning against my hand. It doesn’t take long—just a couple hard pulls and he’s shooting against the brick, his body clenching down on me so hard I see stars. The way his ass clamps around my cock nearly undoes me.
I can’t hold back. The pleasure rips through me, raw and electric, and I slam home, coming deep inside him, flooding him just like I promised.
We sag against the wall, breathless, my forehead pressed to his spine.
Not a second later, the first drop of rain hits the back of my neck, cooling my overheated skin.
After a moment, he turns around, still half-hard, sweat-slicked and grinning like the devil. “Damn, I needed that. I guess seeing my bros happy made me horny.”
I see that look in his eyes—the same one he had watching Anthony and Chance, all soft edges and longing. My chest aches, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
“Ryan, I—” I start, but he cuts me off with a wry smile.
“I know, I know. What we’re doing is a no feelings situation.” He sighs, tucking himself away and zipping his jeans. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.”
My throat bobs as I run a shaky hand through my hair. “I don’t know what to say, Ryan.”
He shrugs, gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “There’s nothing to say. Let’s just, um, get back in there before someone comes out here and wonders what’s going on. And by someone, I mean Jen.”
I bark out a laugh and gesture to the back door. “After you.”
He winks. “You just like to see me going.”
Yeah, I think to myself, watching those globes flex as he walks ahead. I’m not so sure about that anymore.
That thought lingers, sharp and dangerous, as the sky opens up, speckling my Dior shirt in rain while I follow him back inside.