Chapter 26
Miguel
Bedroom.
My heart kicked.
He said it like a question and a promise at the same time. Looked wrecked in the best way—pupils blown, lips already kissed red—and proud, like he’d just made a decision he wasn’t taking back.
“Yeah,” I said, barely managing the word. “Okay.”
He took my hand, lacing our fingers together–his palm warm and a little damp. I couldn’t tell if that was nerves or heat or both. We started walking toward the hall.
Every step felt like walking out onto thin ice and daring it to hold. Every tiny sound felt loud because we were both breathing like something huge was about to happen and neither of us wanted to spook it.
In his room, he clicked on the lamp by the bed instead of the overhead light. The glow was soft and low, amber across his sheets, across his face. He let go of my hand and scrubbed the back of his neck like he needed a second to reset his brain.
That hit me almost harder than the kiss. This wasn’t some guy trying to pull me into bed like it was a game. This was Drew—steady, controlled, always measured—standing there in his own bedroom, trying to catch his breath because he wanted me.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
He looked up.
“You don’t have to overthink it,” I told him. “Just… feel it.”
Something in his shoulders loosened.
He let out a slow exhale. “That ‘just feel it’ thing? I’m better at systems and tape—adjustments, structure. Feelings… I’m rusty.”
“Then good thing you’ve got me,” I said.
That got me a real smile. Small, crooked. The kind that made his eyes crease at the edges. God, that smile. I felt it in places I didn’t even have names for.
I stepped in first.
My hands found his hoodie. “Can I?”
He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah.”
I lifted the hem. He raised his arms, and I pulled it up slowly, letting the fabric drag over his stomach, his chest, his arms. He wasn’t cut like some gym rat trying to impress Instagram.
He was built like a man who carried his life on his back and refused to drop it—strong chest, thick shoulders, scars he didn’t bother to hide.
One, a faint silver, traced low along his ribs, another thin line nicked his shoulder.
I wanted to mouth both, memorize both, ask about both—just not yet.
“Carajo,” I whispered, and I didn’t even mean to say it out loud.
His brow flicked. “That good or that bad?”
“That good,” I said, honestly. “Damn, Coach.”
Color hit his cheekbones. He looked away for all of half a second, and that alone nearly finished me. Big, calm, composed Drew—blushing for me.
“If you keep calling me ‘Coach’ in here, my brain’s going to stay at the rink.”
“Okay,” I said softly. “Drew.”
His eyes snapped back to mine like the name landed exactly where he needed it.
“Your turn,” he said, and his voice had a rough edge to it now. He reached for the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing my stomach. My whole body lit up. He slid my shirt up and off, slower than I had with his. His gaze drifted down my chest, my stomach, then back up, lingering.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re…”
“Guapo—handsome?” I offered, teasing.
Color hit his cheekbones. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “That.”
That voice did things to me.
Shirtless, inches apart, it hit me how evenly matched we were—Drew maybe an inch taller, a shade broader through the chest. He could cover me if he leaned in. Shield me. Pin me.
I’d thought about that way too many times since Sunday, and my body remembered every one of them at once.
The thing was, my instincts didn’t want to be the one covered. They wanted to cover him—to be the one holding, anchoring, keeping him there.
The heat that shot through me was instant, low and sharp, enough to make me shift my stance.
His eyes followed the movement, then flicked back up to mine.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” I admitted. “I’ve never… been with a guy before.”
He nodded once, eyes steady. “Me either.”
The air changed—so much honesty in so few words. Two men with no map, choosing to learn each other anyway. The simplicity of it steadied me more than any bravado could.
I leaned in and kissed him slowly. Not the hungry, slammed-against-the-wall kiss from the front door.
This one was deeper. Softer. Learning him.
His mouth opened under mine, and I licked into him, tasting salt and spice and the faint tang of citrus—Drew and dinner and heat—and his breath caught like I’d stolen it straight from his lungs.
“Okay,” he said, voice shaky against my mouth. “That’s… Jesus.”
“I got you,” I murmured. “Tengo ganas de ti, Drew.”
He shivered.
“What does that mean?” he whispered.
“It means,” I said against his jaw, letting my lips drag there, “that I want you. So bad.”
His answer was this quiet, helpless sound from somewhere in his throat. The kind that made my stomach drop and my cock throb, and yeah, we were officially past pretending either of us wasn’t gone.
I kissed down his neck, taking my time because this was new territory for both of us—my first time touching a man like this, his first time being touched by one—and I wanted every second to count. And my god, every sound he made told me we were figuring it out right.
He tilted his head for me without me even asking.
That trust? That did me in.
I mouthed along the tendon there, just enough teeth to feel him jolt under my hands. His pulse jumped hard against my lips.
“Miguel,” he rasped.
“Mm?”
“You keep doing that and I’m gonna embarrass myself before we even get horizontal.”
“Horizontal’s flexible,” I said, smiling against his throat. “We could put you against the wall, Coach. Bend you over the dresser. Ride you into the mattress. I don’t mind.”
He made a choked sound that was half laugh, half groan. “You cannot just say that.”
“Oh, sí puedo,” I breathed into his ear. Oh, I can.
His whole body tightened.
The way his breath hitched when I murmured in his ear told me exactly what worked: not sweet reassurances, but want—plain and filthy. Drew was the kind of man that would want to hear te deseo–I want you, quiero cogerte–I want to fuck you, spoken like a confession.
Noted.
“Bed,” he muttered, and his voice wasn’t steady anymore.
I walked him back until his knees hit the mattress and he sat. Standing between his thighs, my hands on his shoulders, I felt the thrum of his throat under my thumb and heard his breath go sharp, like we’d just skated a full overtime shift.
“You’re sure?” I asked. I needed that in words.
His eyes locked on mine. “I asked you to come here, didn’t I?”
“Being invited over for dinner and being invited to suck your dick are two different invitations,” I deadpanned.
For a beat, the room went silent.
Then he actually laughed—this warm, startled, helpless sound—and his head tipped back and my whole chest pulled tight because I’d never heard him laugh like that. Not his small, private huff. A real laugh. Open.
I grinned, leaning in just enough for our foreheads to almost touch. “You know, you sound surprised.”
He arched a brow. “You sound… awfully confident for someone who’s never—”
“Done this before?” I finished for him. “Please. I’m a goalie, remember? I study tape before every game.”
That earned me another laugh, softer this time.
“And maybe I called Ry and Xander,” I added, like it was nothing. “Ry's useless—grunted something about ‘figure it out.’ But Xander? Man practically gave me diagrams.”
Drew’s smile broke wide. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” I said, brushing my lips against his. “I’m prepared.”
That was all I needed.
My fingers went to his waistband. He lifted his hips without me asking—obedient, trusting. Fuck. I slid his sweats down, underwear with them, slow, watching his face the whole time.
He was already hard, thick and flush against his stomach.
My mouth actually went dry.
“Dios,” I whispered. God.
Color climbed his neck. His jaw clenched like he was bracing. “Miguel…”
“Shh.” I leaned in and kissed just above his hip first, then a little lower, because I wanted to hear what sound he’d make. He made it—low, rough, half-swallowed—and his thigh muscles jumped under my hand.
“Lie back for me,” I said.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second—control, always wanting control—then he did. He eased onto his elbows first, then all the way back, big body stretching out on the sheets like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Chest rising and falling. Mouth parted. Eyes on me.
That sight alone almost finished me.
“Beautiful,” I told him honestly.
He huffed. “That’s not exactly the word most people would pick.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well. I’m not most people.”
I wrapped my hand around him.
His whole body jerked.
“Fuck,” he choked, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “God—Miguel.”
“Dímelo,” I whispered. “Tell me.”
His hips twitched up into my fist before he could stop them. “Feels—Jesus, feels good.”
“Yeah?” I stroked him slowly, thumb dragging over the head, spreading slick. “You like my hand on you, Coach?”
He made a strangled sound and I swear I felt it everywhere.
“Drew,” he ground out. “If you keep calling me Coach while you’re doing that I’m actually gonna die.”
“Okay,” I murmured. “Drew.”
He swallowed, hard.
I leaned in and licked him.
He swore. Loud. His hand flew to my hair, fingers curling but not pulling, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be rough.
Oh god, I wanted that.
“Use me,” I said against his skin, voice low. “Tócame. I like it.”
His fingers tightened, just enough to sting. “Miguel…”
I took him into my mouth, slow, steady, letting him feel every inch of it. Letting him feel that I wanted this. That I was choosing this. His hips bucked, and then he forced them back down, like he was scared to hurt me.
That made me groan around him.
He cursed again. His breath went ragged fast—almost too fast, like this was already pulling him apart.
“Relax,” I murmured when I came up for air, stroking him with my hand again. “I’ve got you. Déjame cuidarte, papi.”
His head snapped up, eyes blown wide. “Say that again.”
I smiled, slow and wicked, and leaned in close to his ear. “Déjame cuidarte, papi. Let me take care of you.”
He actually shivered.
Oh yeah. Filed that away.
I worked him with my hand and mouth together, finding a rhythm that made his abs tighten and his thighs shake. Every sound he made wound the dial higher—those rough little gasps, the low groans, the way he said my name like prayer and profanity at once.
“Miguel—fuck—Miguel, I’m—”
“Yeah,” I breathed, stroking him faster now, my lips at the base of him, my free hand splayed wide on his stomach to feel it jump. “Quiero verte. I want to see you. Come for me, Drew. Dame eso. Give it to me.”
That was it.
His whole body went tight under my hands.
His jaw dropped. A sound tore out of him—raw, helpless, broken open.
Heat spilled over my fingers, over his stomach.
His back arched off the mattress, muscles standing out in his neck and shoulders, and for a second he looked young and wrecked and gorgeous, and I swear I fell a little in love with him right there.
I stroked him through it, slowing him down, whispering into his skin. “Eso. Bueno. Just breathe. Lo hiciste tan bien. You did so good for me.”
Little tremors ran through him as he came back down. His grip in my hair softened, then slid, then dropped, his arm flopping back against the sheets like he’d lost the ability to hold it up.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was his breathing. Deep. Shaky. Real.
“Holy shit,” he finally rasped, voice wrecked. His eyes were still half-lidded, dazed, watching me like he couldn’t process me. “Holy… shit.”
I couldn’t help it. I grinned.
He let out this rough, breathless laugh. “You’re very smug right now.”
“A little,” I admitted.
“A lot,” he corrected, still gasping air. “Jesus, Miguel. I— I haven’t—”
He stopped. Swallowed. Looked at me.
I crawled up onto the bed, settling on my side next to him, one knee bent against his thigh. His skin was still warm, a little damp. I swiped my thumb gently through the mess on his stomach, wiped it absently on my own hip, then leaned down and pressed my mouth to his shoulder.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
He turned his head and looked at me without hiding the way he felt.
“I’m… yeah,” he said, and it sounded like the truth. His voice dropped even lower. “More than okay.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“Porque te deseo, Drew,” I said, brushing my knuckles over his jaw. “I want you—bad.”
Then, finally, like he was just remembering I existed from the neck down, his gaze slid down my chest, over my stomach, and lower—to the obvious outline straining my sweats. His breath caught.
“Oh,” he said, a little hoarse. “That’s… still a situation.”
I laughed under my breath. “Sí. Es una situación.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow—still a little shaky, which made heat punch through me all over again—and reached for me. His hand settled on my stomach first, curious, then slid lower. When his fingers traced the line of my cock through my sweats, I had to suck in a breath.
Drew looked up at me, eyes darker now. “Teach me?”
My control nearly snapped.
“Anything you want,” I said, honestly.
His smile tilted, slow and wrecking. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I want to make you feel like you just made me feel.”
Yeah. I was done because this was the kind of honesty that made your chest ache.
I let out a rough laugh and tipped my forehead to his. “Careful, corazón,” I whispered. “Talk like that and I’m never letting you go.”
“Good,” he said.
That answer was simple. Quiet. Dangerous in the best way.
I reached for him, sliding my fingers through his hair, but he caught my wrist, kissed the inside of it, then the hollow of my palm, working his way down like he was learning me by touch. Every move was tentative at first, testing, then sure.
Heat unfurled slow and steady, twining with something gentler that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with trust. The way he looked at me, the way he listened with his hands, made my breath come rough.
I couldn’t stop saying his name. Couldn’t stop telling him—half in English, half in Spanish—how good it felt, how good he was.
“Así, mi vida… just like that.”
“Yeah, right there, that’s it.”
Drew’s answering laugh was low, breathless, beautiful.
I wasn’t sure how I ended up with my back flat on the bed and my sweats and boxer briefs off of me and on the floor.
Drew’s mouth hovered, breath hot against the inside of my thigh. My whole body was strung tight, nerves thrumming—part anticipation, part disbelief that this was happening, that he wanted to do this for me.
He looked up, checking me, and that flash of nervousness in his eyes nearly undid me. “Tell me if I do something wrong,” he whispered, voice raspy.
“You’re perfect.” My voice was wrecked, barely there. “You—God, Drew, just touch me.”
His hand curled around me, awkward at first, learning the weight and shape of me, and then his lips followed—a soft brush, then a firmer press. The first time his tongue flicked over me, I choked on a moan. My hands found his hair, not to guide him, just needing to anchor myself to something real.
He worked slow, careful, tracing the veins with his tongue, taking me in increments. Each inch felt like a mile. There was nothing practiced about it, and maybe that’s what made it so intense—he was discovering, learning the map of my body, and every noise I made seemed to fuel his confidence.
“Así, así…” I murmured, breathless, the words slipping out before I could think. My hips jerked when he tried sucking, and he made a startled noise, then laughed, mouth still on me. The sound vibrated through me, wild and electric.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, just holding on. He looked up, eyes dark and shining, and the sight of him—on his knees for me, wanting this, wanting me—was almost too much.
“Drew,” I gasped, warning or plea, I didn’t even know.
He hummed, mouth never leaving me, and I felt him smile, felt him grow bolder. When I finally came undone, it was with his name on my lips, Spanish and English tumbling out tangled, the world narrowing down to the heat of his mouth and the safety of his hands holding me together.