Chapter 33
Drew
Miguel stood in the doorway.
And Christ, he was beautiful.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have believed I could look at another man like this — want him, ache for him, and think he was beautiful. But it wasn’t just want anymore. It was recognition. Something in him fit something broken in me.
And he was mine—in every way that mattered, just not in the ways the world could see. The thought still startled me sometimes. That I could belong like this — to him, with him — and no part of it felt wrong.
His towel was knotted low on his hips, droplets tracing paths over his pecs and the defined ridges of his stomach. His eyes, dark and intense, roamed all over my body. Each place his gaze lingered, my skin seemed to tighten around it, like I’d forgotten how to breathe.
He stepped inside. The soft click of the latch felt louder than a whistle on the bench—privacy, permission, both at once.
The towel tented and his arousal was no secret. The sight punched heat straight through me; every ounce of composure I wore as coach peeled away in a heartbeat.
“Miss me much, huh?” The words came out lighter than I felt, a thin joke to cover the way my pulse wouldn’t settle.
He didn’t answer—the towel hit the carpet with a soft whuff, was answer enough.
His cock sprang free; thick, veined, and curving upward from a nest of trimmed dark hair, with his balls drawn tight.
A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip of his dick.
My mouth watered, my jeans were suddenly too tight.
Miguel closed the gap, his hands cupping my jaw, tilting my head down for a kiss that was pure fire; our lips crashed, tongues dueled, and his stubble scraped mine.
I tasted the mint from his toothpaste, mixed with the salt of his skin.
My hands roamed his back, tracing the flex of muscles honed from endless drills, and I pulled him flush so our bare torsos pressed together, his nipples hard points against my chest.
We stumbled toward the bed. I shoved my joggers down my thighs. My boxer briefs followed, my cock springing out, rigid and leaking, slapping against his thigh.
“Fuck, Drew,” he growled into my mouth, palming my length, giving it a slow, firm tug that made my knees buckle.
“You were so hot in the locker room, talking about how this win wasn’t luck, I had to adjust my cup twice.
” His thumb circled the head, smearing pre-cum, the slick pressure sending jolts straight to my balls.
I groaned, thrusting into his fist, my own hand wrapping around his shaft which was hot, like velvet over steel, and pulsing under my grip.
We hit the mattress in a tangle, him pinning me briefly before rolling so we were side by side, our cocks aligned, grinding together in a messy slide.
His foreskin bunched over mine, the friction raw and electric, pre-cum lubing the way.
I hooked a leg over his hip, pulling him closer, our balls brushing against each other, heavy and full.
“It feels so fucking good, Miguel, your dick against mine, leaking all over.”
He chuckled, his minty breath hot on my neck.
He nipped the skin there as his hand joined mine, both of us stroking in tandem, the wet sounds filling the room.
His free hand explored lower, cupping my ass, a finger teasing the rim, circling my hole without entering.
It fluttered, needy, remembering the stretch.
“I want your mouth on me,” I rasped, pushing him back. He grinned, that playful spark in his eyes, and slid down, his beard tickling my abs as his lips closed over my cock. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling the slit, drawing out a curse. “Shit, yes.”
He took me deeper, his throat relaxing to swallow half my length, then he hummed around it so the vibrations buzzed through me.
His hand worked his own dick in lazy strokes, but his eyes were locked on mine, watching my face.
I threaded fingers in his hair, guiding him gently, my hips lifting to fuck his mouth.
His saliva dripped down my shaft, pooling at the base, his cheeks hollowing with each bob.
“You fuck my face like a pro,” he mumbled around me, popping off to lick the underside of my cock, tracing my veins before sucking my balls into his mouth, rolling them gently.
The edge built too fast, his tongue too skilled, all too potent. I pulled him up, kissing him fiercely, tasting myself on his lips, his tongue.
“Not yet. I need to feel you inside me.”
He nodded, eyes gone dark and hungry—and even through the haze, he was still Miguel, still thinking.
“Hold on,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to my shoulder before reaching for the towel he’d left behind earlier.
A quick shake, a smooth spread across the bed. The fabric was still warm from his skin.
“Didn’t want us ruining the sheets,” he said, mouth curving.
“Always thinking ahead,” I murmured, and it wasn’t just lust tightening my chest.
“Lube?”
“Drawer.”
“You came prepared, huh?” he said with a teasing grin.
“I’m always prepared, Miguel.”
He found the bottle, the cherry scent blooming as he slicked his fingers generously.
He knelt behind me, spreading my cheeks wide, his thumbs pulling me open. It hit me then, how much I trusted him. How easily I gave him every inch, every breath. How natural it felt — like my body had been waiting for him my whole damn life.
His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin, then his tongue, flat and wet, licked a broad stripe from my balls to my rim. I jolted, moaning into the pillow, the rimming unexpected and filthy. His tongue moved in slow, circling laps that made my breath catch and my body open for him, helpless.
“Fuck,” he rasped between strokes, voice raw with want. “You taste so damn good. I could live here.”
The words vibrated against me—rough, reverent, undoing me completely.
His tongue fucked my ass in and out, loosening me, before he replaced it with a finger, sliding in using the lube and his saliva.
The intrusion burned sweet, my hole gripping as he pumped slowly, adding lube for glide. “Relax, let me in.”
I did, breathing deep, and pushed back as a second finger joined, scissoring to stretch the ring. The fullness built, a delicious ache, and then he curled his fingers, brushing my prostate; that electric spot that made my cock twitch and leak onto the sheets.
“Right there, Miguel, don't stop.”
He didn't, thrusting deeper, faster, the squelch loud and obscene, his free hand kneading my thigh, and his nails digging in just enough to sting.
“Your hole opening up is so pretty to me,” he murmured, his voice laced with awe and dirt. “Gonna add another finger, I need to stretch you wide for my cock.”
The third finger breached, the burn intensified, but pleasure overrode as he twisted, pegging my gland relentlessly.
My body shook, my prostate throbbed under the assault, my cock grinding into the mattress for friction.
Sweat beaded on my back, dripping down as he finger-fucked me mercilessly, the pace building like a power play.
“Do you feel that? Your ass is sucking me in, begging to be fucked. I could make you come like this, your prostate milked dry.”
I whined, close to the edge, my hole spasming around his knuckles. “Please fuck me now. I need your cock inside me, Miguel.”
He withdrew slowly, leaving me clenching on nothing. Then his hand found mine, our eyes locking for a breath that said everything we didn’t need to repeat. The tests. The trust. The quiet promise that what we shared belonged only to us.
No barriers left between us. Just skin. Just want.
He slicked himself with lube, the blunt heat of him nudging my entrance, pressing until his head popped past the rim, dragging a gasp from my chest.
“Mierda,” he groaned, breath ragged. “You’re so damn tight. So perfect like this.”
He inched forward, a deliberate move, letting me adjust to the girth which was splitting me open. His veins dragged along my walls, filling every inch until his pubes tickled my ass and his balls nestled against mine.
Pausing, he leaned over, his chest to my back, kissing my shoulder. “You good?”
I nodded, rocking back to take more, the fullness overwhelming.
It’s a pain-tinged bliss. He pulled out halfway, then thrust in sharp, setting a rhythm: slow at first, building to deep, grinding snaps.
The bed creaked, and the headboard thumped against the wall.
The angle was off slightly so he missed once, slipping out with a wet slide before pushing back in.
But it was real, his grunts mixing with mine, our sweat-slick skin slapping together.
“Pound it harder. Wreck my ass,” I demanded, fisting the sheets, meeting his hips.
He growled, gripping my waist, bruising me with his fingerprints as he railed me.
His cock pistoning, hitting that spot dead-on now, and stars exploding with each plunge.
I wasn’t just being fucked, I was being claimed, piece by piece, stripped of every lie I’d ever told myself about what I wanted. And Christ, it felt like freedom.
One hand snaked around my waist, fisting my dick, he stroked in time with his thrusts: it was rough, and he was thumbing my slit to coax more pre-cum.
“Gonna fill this hole, Drew. Gonna fuck you deep.” His words, filthy and possessive, coiled tight in my gut. The suite smelled of sex, lube, sweat, and us.
His pace stuttered, breaths coming in pants against my ear. “Close, your ass is gripping like a vise. Come for me, Drew, shoot while I fuck you.”
He twisted his wrist on my cock, driving into me until I shattered, my body seizing, my hole clenching tight as release tore through me, spilling hot across his hand and the sheets.
“Fuck, yes. Dios, take it all!” He buried deep, his grinding erratic, flooding my inside with a shuddering groan, his release triggering aftershocks in me.
We slumped, him collapsing over me, cock softening inside before he eased out. My body ached in the best way, raw and loose, every nerve still humming.
Sticky and spent, he rolled us to our sides, his arm banding my waist, his lips pressing soft kisses to my neck. The room quieted—just our ragged breaths, the cooling air, the faint pulse still beating behind my ribs.
I slipped free, padded to the bathroom for a warm cloth, and came back to find him sprawled on his back, eyes heavy but watching me. I wiped us both clean—slow strokes over his skin, tender where the muscles trembled from overuse.
When I slid back under the sheets, he pulled me in close, his head settling over my heart. My hand found his hair, damp and soft between my fingers.
For a while, neither of us spoke. We just breathed together, skin to skin, the world outside falling away until it was only this: the quiet, the warmth, the certainty that we’d both been seen and cared for.
“That was… incredible,” he whispered, fingers tracing the dip of my hip.
I turned toward him, brushed the damp hair from his forehead, and kissed him slow. “You were incredible. A win feels better with you.”