Chapter 29 Miguel
TWENTY-NINE
MIGUEL
Caleb is quiet the entire walk back to the team hotel. Not withdrawn—just full. Brimming. Holding too many things behind those eyes that go shiny when he feels too much and thinks too hard.
The winter air is cold enough that his breath fogs. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his puffy team jacket, head down, backpack slung over one shoulder, curls still damp from his shower. He looks young and exhausted and stupidly beautiful in the dull yellow light of the parking lot.
I want to kiss him right here.
I want to take his face in both hands and tell him he did everything right.
I want to drag him up against the nearest wall and make him forget every second of that dinner.
But I wait.
I wait until we’re in the elevator where it’s just us. No teammates. No parents.
No one.
He blows out a breath the second the doors close.
“That was…”
I don’t let him finish, because I crowd him back against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other cupping his jaw, my thumb brushing the soft edge of his bottom lip.
He inhales sharply.
I rest my forehead against his, eyes closed. “You were incredible today.”
“On the court or—”
“All of it,” I growl. “The game, the dinner, the way you talked to him, the way you told the truth without apologizing for it. I’ve never been prouder of you. Ever.”
The elevator dings on the sixth floor.
Caleb barely has time to breathe before I lace our fingers together and pull him down the hall, swift and purposeful.
By the time he gets the keycard out, he’s trembling.
The door clicks open.
I kick it shut behind us.
Then everything breaks. I kiss him the second the lock slides into place.
Not careful. Not slow.
Starved.
Caleb makes a noise into my mouth, half relief and half want—and fists his hands in my hoodie, dragging me closer.
“Baby,” I murmur, lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, and his mouth again. “Come here—”
He’s already climbing me.
Literally climbing me.
I grab him under the thighs on instinct, hauling him up against my waist. His legs wrap around me tight, his breath stuttering as I press him back against the door.
“You okay?” I whisper against the corner of his mouth.
He shakes his head. “No. Yes. Fuck, I don’t—I just—Miggy, please.”
Oh.
Right.
He’s not okay.
I kiss him again, softer for half a second.
“I’ve got you.”
Then I kiss him harder.
He gasps, fingers threading in my hair, tugging, guiding, needing. And I give him everything he’s asking for. I slot our mouths together, licking into him, swallowing every shaky breath he exhales. His hips grind down against mine, lazy and instinctive, knocking the breath clean out of me.
“Caleb,” I groan, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” he whispers. “Take me with you.”
I squeeze his ass in both hands and lift, his gasp breaking against my mouth.
He’s trembling.
I carry him to the bed and drop him onto the mattress, not hard, but with enough force that he bounces, wide-eyed, pupils blown.
He looks wrecked and needy.
“Shirt off,” I say.
Caleb scrambles to get it over his head. I don’t wait, I’m already pulling my hoodie off, yanking my T-shirt with it, and tossing both aside. He sits there, chest heaving, eyes running over me.
“You’re staring,” I murmur, crawling onto the bed. “Need me to take a picture for you?”
“You’re so fucking hot,” he fires back, voice soft but certain. “And more like a video of you.”
I climb over him, straddling his hips, leaning down until our noses brush. “You’re mine.”
His breath catches. “Yeah. I am.”
“And I’m yours,” I add, low and possessive. “Say it.”
His fingers curl in the waistband of my jeans. “You’re mine,” he whispers. Then again, stronger. “You’re fucking mine, Miguel.”
The way he says my name—wrecked and reverent and a little desperate.
I kiss him again, swallowing the sound he makes. My hands roam all along his ribs, his stomach, and the curve of his waist. He arches up into every touch, chasing it, craving it.
“Take these off,” I say, tugging at his sweats.
He lifts his hips and I drag them down, underwear with them, slow enough to tease but fast enough that he whines. The second he’s bare, I settle between his thighs, palms sliding up the inside of them, spreading him open.
He shudders.
I look up at him, voice dropping to a growl. “This is mine. All of it.”
His eyes flutter. “Miggy…”
“You did so fucking well tonight,” I murmur, kissing the inside of his knee, then higher. “Talking to him and standing your ground. I could’ve taken you on that table.”
He lets out a strangled sound.
“I didn’t,” I add, kissing the sharp ridge of his hip bone. “But I thought about it.”
His hand flies to my hair and clenches.
“Please,” he whispers.
I lower my mouth and kiss him where he’s swollen and flushed and already leaking for me. He moans, quiet but desperate, hips jerking up.
“Oh my God—Miggy—”
I pin his hips to the bed with my forearm and suck him deeper, slowly at first, then harder, taking him until my throat aches and his thighs are shaking under my hands.
He tries to warn me. “Miggy, I’m—fuck, I’m… I can’t.”
I hum around him, and he breaks. His back arches, his hand fists the sheets, and the other is still in my hair.
He comes hard, with a choked gasp, thighs trembling around my shoulders as he pulses his cum down my throat.
I ride every second of it, slow him down carefully, and kiss the inside of his hip when he collapses back onto the mattress.
He’s breathless. Flushed. Beautiful.
I climb up over him again, caging him in with my body. His hands slide up my arms, gripping my biceps, grounding himself.
“Get on your back,” he whispers, trying to tug me down.
“Not tonight,” I say, brushing my thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Not after what you went through. Tonight, I take care of you.”
His eyes soften, then darken. “I want you,” he whispers. “I need you inside me. I want to feel you—please.”
I close my eyes for one second because his begging does something catastrophic to me. Then I grab him by the hips and flip him gently onto his stomach, kissing the back of his shoulder.
“You’ll feel me, hermoso,” I murmur against his skin. “Everywhere.”
That earns me a whimper.
I trail kisses down his spine, slow and hot, until he’s shaking again. “Fuck. Do you have any lube?”
Caleb looks over his shoulder at me and nudges his head toward the foot of the bed. “Inside my duffel.”
“Look at you being prepared.” I kiss his hair and hop off the bed to grab it. “Gold star, pretty boy.”
When I push into him—after stretching him, after coaxing him open, after whispering praise against his neck—Caleb lets out a raw, broken sound he barely muffles in the pillow.
“Mine,” I breathe into the shell of his ear, gripping his hips as I sink deeper, each piercing hitting all the right spots. “You hear me? You’re mine, Caleb.”
“Yours,” he gasps. “All yours, baby. Please… don’t stop.”
I won’t.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
I fuck him slow at first, deep, steady, grounding strokes that make his breath stutter and his back arch. Then harder, until the bed creaks and his fingers claw at the sheets. Every sound he makes punches straight through me.
Every whispered “Miguel—Miguel—fuck, please,”
It’s too much.
It’s perfect.
I drag him up against my chest, one hand around his throat, the other gripping his hip, my mouth on his shoulder as I thrust up into him.
“Mírame, hermoso. Todo esto es mío, ?sí? Esta boca, este cuerpo, este corazón—todo para mí.”
His whole body shudders. “Fuuuck.”
“Dímelo otra vez, quién te hace sentir así.” I growl against his skin. “Dilo, mi amor.”
He chokes on a moan. “You do. I’m so fucking yours, baby.”
“And I’m yours,” I answer, thrusting harder. “No matter what he thinks. No matter how long it takes him. I’m yours.”
His hand reaches back blindly and grips my forearm, nails digging in.
“Mig—I’m gonna—fuck—”
“Do it,” I whisper into his ear, biting lightly at the lobe. “Eso, eso, así mi amor. Qué rico suena cuando te vienes para mí.”
He does.
Hard.
I follow him seconds later, buried deep inside his ass, groaning against his shoulder.
When it’s over, it takes forever for either of us to move.
Caleb is limp on the bed, face buried in the pillow, breath uneven.
I pull out gently and collapse beside him, dragging him immediately into my chest. His hair sticks to his forehead, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are kiss-swollen.
He looks loved.
Because he is.
He turns his face into my neck, breathing me in. “Miggy,” he whispers, small and soft and safe. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I kiss his hair. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
He exhales shakily, hand splaying over my chest. Caleb falls asleep against me like he hasn’t slept in days.
And I hold him like I was made for it.