Chapter 28
Miguel
When Drew opened the door, the last streaks of sunlight slipped past the blinds, flooding the apartment in gold.
I barely had time to breathe before he reached for me—one rough hand curling around the back of my neck, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was all heat and hunger and quiet disbelief.
For a second, I froze. Not because I didn’t want it—God, I did—but because this time he was the one who started it. Drew, the man who always held the line, who measured every touch like it might cost him something.
When he pulled back, his breath brushed my cheek, ragged and warm. His eyes searched mine like he was checking if he’d gone too far.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His voice was low, rough-edged. “Hey.”
I lifted the takeout bag still dangling from my hand. “Hope you’re hungry.”
He glanced at it, the corners of his mouth twitching. “What’d you bring?”
“Burgers,” I said. “From that place by the rink. The one with the ridiculous fries.”
That earned me a grin—rare and unguarded. “That’s sweet of you,” he said, and his eyebrows shot up, like the words surprised him as much as the kiss had.
We ate at the counter, side by side. Nothing fancy—just the kind of meal that tasted like comfort and grease and long days finally over.
The quiet between us was as easy as it had always been.
Every so often, he’d glance at me from under his lashes, like he still couldn’t believe he’d been the one to close the distance first.
And if I was honest, neither could I.
He wiped his hands with a napkin and leaned on his elbow, studying me. “You’re quiet tonight.”
“Just enjoying the company,” I said. “You?”
He hesitated. “Trying to wrap my head around all of this.”
I nodded once, slow. “Fair.”
He gave a soft laugh—more breath than sound. “I spent most of my life thinking I was straight. Then you show up, and suddenly every part of that feels… less certain.”
Something in my chest pulled tight. “You’re allowed to be confused, Drew.”
He looked up. “I’m not even sure it’s confusion.
I just—when my wife died, that part of me shut off.
Desire. Touch. It felt… done. Like my sexuality died with Laura.
I didn’t look at anyone—not men or women romantically.
Just didn’t have it in me.” He paused, the next words almost shy.
“Then you happened, and it’s like something woke up I didn’t even know was asleep. ”
“You don’t have to label it, you know.”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe not. But I want to understand it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then here’s me trying to understand mine.
I’ve never looked twice at a guy before you.
Not once. And I’ve been around plenty of guys, trust me.
But you…” I blew out a breath. “You’re different.
So if that makes me bisexual, fine. If it just makes me yours, I can live with that too.
” I swallowed. “You make me realize maybe it’s not about gender. Maybe it’s just… you.”
That got him to look up—really look at me, eyes warm and searching. “You think I’ve noticed another man since you?”
I smirked. “I’d hope the fuck not.”
That made him laugh, quiet but real, his shoulders easing. “No,” he said. “Just you.”
We let the words sit there for a while, the air between us thick but not heavy.
Then I asked, softer, “So… what are we, Drew? Friends with benefits? A situationship? Or—” I hesitated, heart kicking, “—boyfriends?”
He ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “That’s the question, huh? Because if we were two regular guys on different sides of town, maybe it’d be easy to name it. But I’m your coach. You’re my goalie. There’s a line there, and I don’t know what crossing it costs.”
I nodded. “There’s no official clause in the contract about it, not unless one of us tries to make it something public. But still—reputation. The team. The press.”
He looked at me then, steady. “Are you willing to risk that?”
“I’m not willing to risk not doing this right,” I said. “I don’t want something half-formed. I want us.”
His breath hitched, the smallest sound, but I caught it.
Then I smiled. “So yeah, I want you to be my boyfriend, papi.”
His brow arched. “You’ve called me that before. Are you calling me your daddy?”
I laughed, stepping closer, close enough that the warmth of him hit my chest. “No. Papi’s… versatile. Depends on the tone. Could mean handsome. Could mean someone you care about. Could mean someone you want.”
He studied me with that quiet curiosity that always made me feel too seen. “And which one am I?”
“All three,” I said.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. There was just the sound of the city outside, the hum of the fridge, our breathing syncing in the middle. Then he smiled—wrecking me completely.
“Come with me, Coach,” I said, gesturing for him to follow me out of the kitchen to the living room, where I shifted the coffee table to the side.
He raised an eyebrow. "What're you on about now, Rodriguez?"
I dug out my phone from my pocket.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“Changing the mood,” I said.
I thumbed through my playlist to find a low guitar, steady percussion, that smooth pulse you can feel more than hear. That bachata music that made your body remember how to flirt, or fuck, without a word. I grinned, cranking up the volume before resting the phone on the coffee table.
“It’s bachata,” I said. “Pretty damn sensual, but relax—you don’t need to be a TikTok choreo guy. I’ve got you.”
He hesitated just long enough to sigh like he knew he didn’t stand a chance. “Miguel, I can’t dance.”
“Good,” I said. “Less pressure.”
He eyed my hand like it was a trick play, but after a beat, he took it.
His grip was firm, callused from gripping sticks and weights, and as I pulled him toward me, I felt the heat of him, all six-foot-three of solid man, his crotch brushing mine just enough to make my pulse spike.
We faced each other in the open space, the music pulsing low: guitar strums and that driving beat that made your body sway and hips roll.
"Alright, the basics," I said, stepping closer, my hand settling on his waist. Dios mío, he was warm through his shirt, his muscles shifting under my palm.
"Right hand here," I guided his hand to my shoulder, "left on my back.
Follow my lead, step back, side, forward, hip snap.
Like this." I demonstrated, my feet moving in time, pulling him with me, our bodies syncing until my thigh pressed between his legs, rubbing against his growing bulge.
“You really expect me to remember all that when you’re this close?” he muttered, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice, the kind I lived for.
I chuckled as I pressed closer so our chests nearly brushed, the friction of our hips making my dick throb. "Nah, it's fun. Loosen those hips, man. Feel the rhythm."
The dance brought us body to body, my thigh slipping between his as we turned, the friction sparking something low in my gut, pre-cum leaking into my jeans.
Drew’s breath caught; his hips jolted before he steadied himself, muttering, “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
Bachata was intimate like that; it was designed to tease, to build heat without saying a word, our crotches bumping with every sway. His hand tightened on my back, and I caught the way his eyes darkened, his breath quickening as our hard-ons nudged together.
We moved through the steps, me guiding, him following better than I expected. A sheen of sweat started at his hairline, and hell, it looked good on him. I could smell his cologne mixed with the faint salt of his skin; it was musky and intoxicating.
"See? You're a natural.”
“Natural disaster, maybe,” he said, his voice thick.
“You know that’s not true,” I gently chided. “Now, add the turn, spin me out." I twirled under his arm, coming back flush against him. My free hand landed on his chest, and I felt his heart hammering.
He let out a quiet, helpless sound—a cross between a laugh and a groan—as if surprised by his own reaction. “You don’t play fair.”
Our hips aligned, rocking together to the beat, our cocks straining through fabric, and fuck, it was electric. My dick ached, pressing against him, and from the way his breath hitched, his thick shaft was doing the same, the outline clear against my thigh.
The song shifted to a slower track, the lyrics crooning about desire and touch, our hips undulating like lovers in heat, and I didn't let go. I couldn’t help it; my hand found his jaw, my thumb dragging slowly until I had him close enough to taste. "You feel that?”
“I’ve never felt anything like this,” he whispered.
“That's the point, your dick's hard as fuck against me, Coach. Makes me wanna drop to my knees right here." Our faces were inches apart, breaths mingling, hot and ragged.
"Drew," I whispered, dropping the Coach.
His eyes locked on mine, vulnerable for a split second, before he closed the gap. Drew exhaled hard, voice cracking. “Say it again.”
“Drew, kiss me.”
His lips parted, his tongue sliding against mine, and I groaned into his mouth. My hands fisted his shirt, yanking him harder against me so our cocks ground together through our jeans.
We stumbled back toward the couch, but I broke away just enough to tug him toward the hallway, my voice rough with need. "Bedroom?"
He nodded, that control fraying as he followed, his hand in mine like a lifeline, his free one palming his bulge like he couldn't wait.
The air went heavy, full of heat and the kind of silence that begged to be broken.
I kicked the door shut and we crashed together again, kissing fiercely and hungrily; our teeth clashed, our tongues fucking mouths.
My fingers worked his shirt buttons, peeling it off to reveal the expanse of his chest, dusted with dark hair, muscles etched from endless gym sessions, nipples pebbled and begging.
"You're built like a fucking god," I murmured, my palms sliding over his pecs, my thumbs circling his nipples until they hardened, pinching hard enough to make him hiss. He shivered, a low sound escaping him, unraveled already, and we hadn't even gotten naked.
His hands weren’t idle; they yanked my tee over my head, calluses scraping skin in a way that made me hiss, and my cock jumped.
We stripped fast after that; jeans hit the floor with a thud, boxer briefs followed.
We were both standing there naked, both cocks hard and bobbing, mine curved up against my stomach, thick and veined, pre-cum glinting at the tip; his was longer, thicker, the fat head slick and purple, balls heavy below.
“Mierda,” I muttered, breath catching. “Look at you.”
I pushed him back onto the bed and climbed over him, our bodies aligning, skin to skin. The heat of him made my pulse stumble. I kissed down his throat, nipped the pulse point, sucked hard enough to mark him, then moved lower, tongue dragging over a nipple, biting just enough to make him arch.
“Fuck, Miguel,” he breathed—my name sounding like a prayer, like surrender.
Those two words flipped something in me. My control was a live wire, sparking. I wanted to sink into him, all of him—but I stopped, hand on his chest, heart hammering beneath my palm.
“Hey,” I said softly, still half out of breath. “Before we go there—”
His eyes flicked open, dazed, pupils blown.
“We should talk,” I managed. “About protection.”
Drew blinked once, as if surfacing. “Yeah… right.” He swallowed. “I haven’t—since Laura. Six years. Not with anyone.”
He looked almost apologetic when he said it, which twisted something tender in me.
“Not since eight months ago for me,” I said honestly. “I’ve always been safe, so I’m negative. And I always have condoms with me.” I leaned down, kissed his jaw. “We’ll use them. Yeah?”
He nodded, voice low. “Yeah. Definitely.” Then he gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I’m not exactly stocked up on supplies here. Unless you think olive oil counts.”
I laughed quietly against his skin. “Tempting, papi, but no. Not that kind of extra virgin.”
That made him laugh, deep and warm, and the tension in the air melted again.
He glanced toward the bathroom. “What about hand lotion?”
“That’ll work for tonight. Next time, we’ll stock up.”
He met my eyes, still smiling. “So… how do we even do this? You seem to know a lot about it.”