Chapter 2 Alex
After he spoke those words my cock throbbed—a pulse of heat so sharp I could feel myself leaking against his tongue—and then Liam's mouth was on me again and I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't do anything except feel.
The sensation was overwhelming—hot and wet and so good it bordered on painful. His hand wrapped around what he couldn't take, stroking in rhythm with his mouth, and my whole body was on fire.
I'd imagined this. God, I'd imagined this so many times. Late at night in this same bed, hand wrapped around myself, pretending it was him. Constructing the scenario with pathetic precision—what his mouth would feel like, what sounds he'd make, how his hands would grip my thighs.
But the reality obliterated every fantasy I'd ever built.
Because it was real. Liam was real. This was actually happening.
His shoulders flexed as he shifted between my legs—broad and tanned from hours on the water, muscles rolling under skin.
I could see the line of his spine, the way his back tapered to his waist, the way his body moved with the same unconscious rhythm he had on the water.
Like everything he did was physical. Instinctive.
His biceps tensed every time his hand stroked up my shaft, and the sight of those forearms—the ones I'd watched grip oars a thousand times—working me instead made something primal twist in my gut.
My hands were in his hair, trying not to grip too hard. My hips wanted to move—to thrust up into the heat of his mouth—but I forced myself to stay still. Let him set the pace. Let him figure it out.
Control. Even now. Even with his mouth on me, some part of my brain was calculating—don't push too hard, don't scare him off, don't be the one who ruined this by wanting too much.
He did something with his tongue—flattened it, pressed hard against the underside—and my back arched off the mattress before I could stop it. A sound came out of me that I didn't recognize. Raw. Desperate.
Liam pulled off just enough to speak, his lips brushing the head of my cock with every word. "You like that?"
"Don't stop." It came out like begging. I didn't care.
He grinned. That cocky, infuriating grin I'd seen a hundred times across the water—except now his lips were swollen and wet and inches from my cock.
"Wasn't planning on it," he said.
Then he took me deep again.
"Fuck," I breathed. "Liam—"
He looked up at me and the sight nearly destroyed me. His eyes were bright, pupils blown wide, lips stretched around me. A flush had spread across his cheeks and down his neck, disappearing into the hard planes of his chest.
This was Liam Moore. My "rival." The person I'd been trying not to want for over a year.
And he was between my legs, mouth on me, one hand wrapped around my cock and the other pressed flat against my stomach—fingers spread wide across my abs like he wanted to feel every muscle tense, every involuntary shudder his mouth pulled out of me.
I looked down at myself—his rough hand against my skin, the way my cock disappeared between his lips, at my own chest heaving with breaths I couldn't control. My body had never felt more visible. More wanted.
My balls tightened. My cock throbbed hard. Electric shot through my spine—I was going to come.
Soon. Too soon.
But something else was rising up inside me—something bigger than physical release. A need that went deeper than getting off. A want that terrified me because it had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with him.
I wanted to be close to him. Actually close. Face to face. Kissing him while this happened. Seeing his eyes. Feeling his body against mine with nothing between us.
The words came out rough. Desperate. Stripped of every qualifier I usually hid behind. "Liam, wait—"
He pulled back immediately, concern flashing across his face.
"Come here."
He came willingly. I grabbed his face and kissed him hard.
"What's wrong?" Liam asked between kisses.
"Nothing's wrong." I pulled him down on top of me, our bodies aligning. "I just—I want you here. Like this."
His weight pressed me into the mattress. His chest against mine. His cock hard against my hip. Everything aligned and connected and right.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I kissed him again. Deep and slow. His hands were in my hair now, angling my head to deepen it. My hands slid down his back—the muscles flexing under my palms, the dip of his spine, the raw strength in his body that I'd spent years studying from across the water and could finally, actually touch.
This was what I wanted. Not just the release. The intimacy of it—the way our bodies fit together, the way our breathing synced up, the way his heartbeat hammered against mine through the press of our chests.
The way it felt like rowing together. That same effortless synchronization—two bodies finding the same rhythm without thinking.
Liam broke the kiss to breathe. His forehead pressed against mine. "You feel so good."
"So do you."
His hips rocked against me and we both groaned. The friction was incredible but not enough. I needed more. Needed him closer. Needed—
"Touch me," I said. Not a question. A plea. And I didn't care how desperate it sounded because I was past the point where pride meant anything.
Liam's hand slid between us, wrapping around my cock. I gasped, hips jerking into his grip.
"Like this?" he asked.
"Yes." The word came out as a hiss through my teeth.
I reached down and wrapped my hand around him. Hard and hot in my palm, and the sound he made when I stroked him went straight through my chest and settled somewhere permanent.
We found a rhythm together. Slow at first, then faster. His hand on me, my hand on him, our mouths crashing together in desperate kisses that were more breath than contact.
"Alex—"
"I know. Me too."
The pressure was building. That sharp edge of pleasure coiling tighter in my gut. Liam was getting close too—his breathing ragged, his strokes losing coordination, his whole body tensing against mine.
"I'm gonna—" he started.
"Come with me," I said.
Liam's eyes locked on mine. Dark and intense and so beautiful it made my chest ache.
A few more strokes and I was gone. The orgasm hit like a wave—intense and overwhelming and perfect. I came hard, spilling over both our hands and onto my stomach, Liam's name torn from my throat in a sound I'd never made before.
I kept jerking him, I wanted his hot cum all over me.
Liam followed a second later. His whole body went rigid, his hand tightening around me as he came with a groan ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
We lay there. Breathing hard. Bodies still pressed together. The mess between us warm and sticky and neither of us moving to deal with it. Not when Liam was still on top of me, his weight grounding me, his face buried in my neck. His breath hot against my skin.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yeah."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the aftermath—hearts racing, lungs catching up, the quiet settling back over the room like water filling a space.
Then Liam shifted. "We should probably clean up."
"Yeah. Hold on."
I reached over to my nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and grabbed the small towel I kept there. Started wiping myself off.
Liam watched me, eyebrows raised. "Is that... what you always use?"
"Yeah." I handed it to him. "Why?"
He took it, expression somewhere between amused and disgusted. "That's kind of gross."
I laughed—actually laughed, and the sound surprised me. "I've seen your dorm room. That was gross."
"It isn't that bad—"
"There was a protein shaker growing mold on your desk."
"No way."
"And rowing socks everywhere."
"They need to air out."
We were both laughing now, the tension dissolving into something easier. Something that felt almost normal. Almost like we were two people who could do this—lie in bed together and laugh about nothing—without the weight of everything we were hiding.
Liam finished cleaning up and tossed the towel back. I dropped it on the floor—I'd deal with it later—and we both just lay there. Naked. Side by side on my bed.
The silence that settled over us was comfortable. Warm. His arm pressed against mine. Our breathing still syncing up.
I let myself have it. Just for a moment. Let myself pretend this was something I could keep.
"Monday," I said finally. Quiet. "Joint practices."
"Yeah."
"I don't know what to do about it." The admission came out raw. Honest. More honest than I'd intended—but that seemed to be the pattern with Liam. He made me say things I hadn't planned to say. "About being around you. I don't think I can control myself."
Liam turned his head to look at me. "You're the king of control."
"Not with this." I met his eyes. "Not with you." I paused. Corrected myself, because the truth deserved more than deflection: "I don't want to be anymore."
Something flickered across his face. Fear. "Alex—"
"I know. I know we have to be careful."
Liam was quiet for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. I could see him thinking—could almost watch the walls rebuilding behind his eyes, brick by brick.
I wanted to ask. Can we do this again? The question sat right there, pressing against the back of my teeth. Four words. Simple. Terrifying.
I didn't say them.
Because if he said no, I'd have to live with it. And if he said yes—if he actually said yes—I'd have to live with everything that came after. The hiding. The lying. The constant performance of indifference in front of everyone we knew.
So I swallowed the question and let the silence hold it instead.
We lay there for another moment, just looking at each other. His eyes were softer now. Less guarded. And I could see the exhaustion creeping in around the edges—the weight of everything we were carrying.
I wanted to tell him something. That this mattered. That he mattered. That I'd been waiting for this—for him—since Brackett Lake, and having it was both everything I'd hoped and more terrifying than I'd imagined.
But the words stuck. They always stuck. I'd spent so long performing composure that the real things—the raw, vulnerable, honest things—had no pathway out.
Then his phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the quiet like a gunshot.
Liam's expression shifted immediately. Tensed. "Shit. Where's my—"
He rolled off the bed, grabbed his jeans from the floor. Pulled his phone out of the pocket.
The light from my desk lamp caught him as he stood there—naked, phone in hand, not thinking about being seen.
His body was all hard lines and lean muscle.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The cut of his hips.
The way his quads flexed when he shifted his weight.
A fading bruise on his ribs from practice, yellowish at the edges.
The trail of dark hair running down from his navel.
He was beautiful and he had no idea. That was the thing about Liam—he moved through the world like his body was a tool, something built for work and water and survival.
He didn't see what I saw. Didn't know what it did to me, watching him stand in my room like he belonged there, unselfconscious and bare and already pulling away.
I watched his face as he looked at the screen.
And I saw the exact moment everything changed.
His jaw went tight. His eyes went distant. The softness that had been there a second ago vanished, replaced by something harder. Colder. Guilty.
My stomach dropped.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
Emily.
Liam stared at his phone for a long moment. Not responding. Just staring. His thumb hovering over the screen like he was deciding between two versions of himself.
"Liam?"
He didn't answer. Didn't look at me. Just kept staring at that screen with an expression that closed him off as effectively as any door.
And the warmth from earlier—the closeness, the laughter, the ease that had felt so natural, so possible—receded like a tide pulling away from shore.
I lay there. Naked in my own bed. Watching the person I wanted most in the world choose, in real time, who mattered more.
And the worst part—the part that sat in my chest like a stone—was that I already knew the answer.
I'd always known.