Brayden
four
Ten months later
“Yes, that’s it. Fuck me harder,” Mila moaned far too loudly. Her hands were curled around the metal shelving unit that held bottles of multicolored chemicals.
The storage closet was brightly lit but hot and stuffy.
The chemical smell was overwhelming, a sickly-sweet detergent scent from the floor cleaner and whatever other products the janitors had stored in there.
It wasn’t big enough for the three of us.
But here I was, on my knees, with my husband by my side.
He was squatting so he could slide his cock down my throat with each thrust of his hips.
The team owner’s daughter, Mila, was on her hands and knees in front of me, with her skirt bunched up around her waist and her lacy thong dangling from her ankle.
Her matching bra was shoved down so her breasts were free, and her zip-up hoodie was folded under her knees, cushioning them from the polished concrete floor of the storage closet.
I thrust forward and buried myself inside her. She moaned again, and I wanted to reach around and stuff that thong into her mouth to mute her. Mila was vocal.
Too vocal.
She let out a keening cry and shouted, “Yes. Fuck, yes,” as she arched her back. Her body shook as her pussy strangled me. My cock pulsed. My balls drew up against my body, and her orgasm milked mine from my balls.
I moaned, and Spencer tensed. His thrusts stuttered, and his cock hardened to steel, the vein on its underside throbbing against my tongue.
“Fuuuck,” he ground out, his voice sounding like he’d swallowed gravel.
As he withdrew, I sucked harder and was rewarded with a flood of precum. I moaned again as his musky flavor exploded on my tastebuds.
He was close. I reached for his sac, wanting to make him come on my tongue.
I rolled his balls in my palm, and he bit out a quiet curse.
He tightened his grip on my hair, holding me in the exact position he wanted me in, and pumped his cock deeper into my throat.
I swallowed around his thick head, another moan aching to break free.
My lungs burned, and my vision blurred from the tears rolling down my cheeks.
But I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted him buried inside me until he rewarded me with his cum.
Spencer pulled back, coating my tongue again in precum, and I sucked in a breath, inhaling the aroma of his bodywash and the unique scent that was all him.
He dragged his dick out of my mouth until his cockhead was at my lips and then thrust home once more. He flexed against my tongue, and his cum flooded my mouth. I swallowed it greedily, lapping up every pulse he let loose.
Panting, we pulled away from each other and collapsed against the shelving units lining the walls.
My knees were screaming at me, but I was high on Spencer.
I dragged oxygen into my lungs and reached blindly for my husband.
He interlaced our fingers and tugged me to him until my head was resting on his shaking thigh.
I shifted back up onto my knees and nuzzled his balls.
I loved being his little cock warmer, holding his dick or balls in my mouth while he was soft.
But here was neither the time nor the place.
I rose to my feet and slipped off the condom, then tied it before tossing it in the trashcan attached to the janitor’s cart. Mila managed to get dressed again while I adjusted my sweats back into place. Spencer was still half naked, the result of both mine and Mila’s wandering hands.
“Come on, cowboy,” I murmured to my husband. “Let’s get out of here.”
Spencer leaned in and kissed me in response. He swept his tongue into my mouth, tasting every corner and chasing his flavor. I groaned, wanting to stay here a little longer. But we couldn’t.
“Thanks,” Mila said. “That was fun.” She turned, opened the door before I even had a chance to suggest we check the coast was clear, and stepped out.
“Hi, Daddy. Hi, Coach,” she said brightly.
Daddy. Oh fuck. Spencer stiffened, and I moved, shielding him with my broader body.
There was no avoiding Coach. He was standing right in front of the door.
The man demanded excellence from all of us.
His fiery passion usually translated into shouting, but there was only stony silence on the other side of the door.
Y’all knew to shit your fucking pants if he went quiet.
I eased the door open and came face-to-face with him.
I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the obvious disappointment in the pursed lips of his frown and the slow shake of his head.
There was a mix of exasperation and frustration, too, in the way he closed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as he exhaled slowly.
Then I saw our team owner, Larry Klein. He was a study in contrasts to Coach.
His arms were crossed, and his jaw bulged.
I could hear his teeth grinding together as he glared at me.
His brows were furrowed and his lips pressed in a severe line, his skin turning a mottled red as the seconds ticked by.
The moment we locked eyes—his as cold as flint—I grinned.
I was in deep shit, but what else was new?
It was inevitable at this point. I couldn’t help pouring gasoline on the fire.
“Y’all enjoy the show, sirs? Usually, porn is better when you watch it, not just listen.”
Coach groaned, and if we were in a cartoon, steam would have hissed from Klein’s ears.
Klein was a New Yorker hardened by years at the top of whatever money pile he lived on, and he wasn’t known for his patience—but he was absolutely famous for being the world’s most over-the-top protective father.
He wielded his power and money like a sword, cutting down any men who dared even look at his beautiful daughters.
I couldn’t help but laugh. This was going to be a complete clusterfuck, but I couldn’t deny loving the reaction I got from him when I poked the bear.
“You could have joined us.” I wiggled my brows, and the single brain cell I had dedicated to self-preservation threw its hands up in defeat.
“Ew,” Mila exclaimed.
Klein’s eyes flashed and he turned his attention to his daughter.
She wilted under his scrutiny, her shoulders drooping, and she immediately tugged down her miniskirt and zipped her hoodie up until the clasp was pressed against the dip in her throat.
Klein growled, and she scurried away, all confidence from a moment ago disappearing as she dashed down the corridor.
I hated that he had that effect on her. I ground my teeth together.
We were all adults. Sure, we’d fucked on team property, which wasn’t ideal, but we weren’t exactly indecent in public.
Klein was treating Mila like she needed daddy’s permission to suck dick.
“What the fuck, Miller?” Coach hissed quietly while Klein’s attention was on his daughter’s retreat.
My superpower was pissing people off. Everyone expected it from me. I was the cocky SOB who constantly fucked up. Looks like I’d done it again.
Coach threw his hands in the air and paced. He was always in motion. His unparalleled skill at extracting the best from his players made him as respected as he was feared. For a split second, the intensity of his disappointment, this quiet, terrifying side of him, prompted me to try to explain.
“Coach, it’s not—”
“What?” Klein growled, his eyes firmly on me now.
His hands were fisted by his sides, his knuckles white as he barely held back his temper.
“It’s not what it looks like? I’m not buying that for a second, Miller, and—” He held his hand up in a stopping motion when I opened my mouth again—“I don't want an explanation.” He shook his head, something that looked a lot like disgust curling his lip.
Well, fuck that. If he wasn’t even going to let me explain—not that there was much to explain; it was exactly what it looked like—then why would I even bother trying?
Coach looked up at the tiled ceiling, and as if he were speaking to himself, muttered, “Why did I choose hockey players? Why not a sport where they had more than bricks for brains?”
“Oversight on your part?” I sassed, my voice heavy with sarcasm.
He narrowed his eyes at me, silently ordering me in no uncertain terms to keep my mouth shut. Fine, if they didn’t want me to speak, I wouldn’t.
Klein still looked like he was struggling to maintain his composure. I huffed out a laugh at his obvious displeasure and leaned against the doorjamb. Then I slid my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and crossed my feet at the ankles, waiting for his comeback.
“You're in no position to be mouthing off, Miller,” Coach warned. “Never mind who you chose to do it with, we just caught you cheating on your husband. Are you insane?”
Ah, there it was. The classic assumption that I’d fucked up again.
It had started with my dad when I messed up in peewee football.
He threw coaches at me and sent me off to training camps at every chance.
It was impossible for my game not to have improved.
But my father hadn’t given me a single ounce of praise.
I was five years old, and he was exercising tough love—pointing out every mistake so I could fix each shortcoming and become a better football player.
“Y’all need to be tough like a man should be to play in the NFL. ”
I’d grown to despise the game and him. I finally got brave enough to throw in the towel at ten.
I was a decent enough player, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do.
To be. Football was his dream, not mine.
My talent might have taken me to college—high school scouts were sniffing around to recruit me—but that would have been it.
I would have peaked early and become a has-been quickly after that.
I didn’t have the drive or the passion for football to make it beyond being an average, at best, college player.