Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
On Saturday, we start our divisional game as the number one seed—and we lose. Our opponents, the Seattle Emeralds, despite being ranked fifth, give us a hell of a run for our money. I’m not sure if it’s because our team had a bye week that messed up our rhythm or if my being injured, and thus unable to play, throws off the team dynamic. Either way, the Emeralds beat us by a field goal. It’s humbling and disappointing.
I’m on the sideline, and even if we had advanced to the next round, I wouldn’t have been able to play. Maybe in the Bowl, if we’d made it that far.
It’s been five days since I overexerted my hamstring. The team’s physical therapists have been busting their asses coming to my house to check on me, administering shots to help the muscle heal, massaging the achy area, and coaching me through easy strength training exercises. I have been exhausted from the effort and hadn’t even left my house before the game today. The crutches suck, as do the cameras constantly watching me where I sit on the bench.
The loss . . . The loss hurts worse.
How we came in on top for the regular season only to lose to the fifth-ranked team in our conference, I’m not sure, but it leaves a sour taste in all of our mouths. Between that and my leg, I inform Aleks that I won’t be going out to commiserate with our teammates tonight.
“Thank God,” Hendrix groans when I inform him as he undresses in the locker room after the game. For years, I have never had an issue keeping my eyes to myself in sweaty, smelly, dirty locker rooms. Our stadium and practice facility both have separate locker rooms available for any players who aren’t comfortable changing and showering in front of others, and as far as I’m aware, no one uses them. Still, they are there just in case. Now, though, I’m reaching a creepy level with the way I ogle Hendrix. His sweat-damp arms covered in turf rubble, his abs peeking from beneath the hem of his jersey, his ass in those football pants . . .
I lick my suddenly dry lips. Hendrix is saying something about how he didn’t feel like going out anyway, but then his jersey comes off to reveal his muscular torso, sporadically sporting forming bruises here and there from the game, and I want nothing more than to trace every salty divot with my tongue. God, his belly button? It goes completely dark in the center, clearly deeper than my nearly flat one, and I want to know just how far it goes. How far my tongue?—
“Jesus Christ, Gin. You look like you’re about to eat Sour!” At Aleks’ exclamation, catcalls sound from around the locker room, and if my flesh was as fair as Hendrix’s, I would be as red as our team jerseys. One brush of my cool fingers to my cheeks reveals how heated they are beneath my bronze skin.
Trying to play it off, I cock a smirk and an eyebrow in Hendrix’s stupefied direction. “Hey, man. If you ever decide to switch to the queer side, I’ll show you a good time.”
“I’ll show you a better time,” Aleks pipes up, knowing he fucked up by making that comment when Hendrix and I are trying to keep our relationship a secret. The last thing we need is our teammates putting two and two together. “They don’t call me ‘Kiss’ for nothing.”
“Yeah, it’s ’cause you’re a kiss-ass. Y’all hear the way he praised Coach for his speech earlier?”
Laughter follows my snarky comeback, and Aleks looks thoroughly abashed. Good. That’s what he gets for almost outing Hendrix and me.
Dressed in Rubies sweats and a backward cap, Hendrix turns to face the room and then stares in our direction. At the attention, he just shrugs, casually stuffs his hands in his pockets, and says, “Nah, I think I’d prefer Kit over you old guys anyway.”
Kit, turned facing his locker as he dresses, lets out a guffaw that has him rearing back to send his laughter into the ceiling. I’m not old by any means, but Kit is a young guy and looks even younger due to his baby face and short stature—though Hendrix only has two inches on him. His small body is what makes him a slippery son of a bitch on the field, and why he is going to be one of the best running backs this league has seen. “Oh, Sour,” he singsongs without turning around. “They may be too old for you, but you are way too young for me . I like my men like I like my wine— finely aged .”
“Like Larson,” someone quips, and a chorus of “oohs” flood the locker room.
The attention is—for now—off Hendrix and me, and when I catch Aleks’ eyes amidst a battle of towel whipping between some of our teammates, he mouths an apology. I nod that it’s okay, but one look at Hendrix’s tense shoulders has me worried otherwise.
A few minutes later, I’m hobbling on my crutches out of the stadium, a silent Hendrix beside me. We’d ridden to the game together in his car, so I don’t bother trying to talk before we’re tucked inside and on the road. Part of me wants to make sure we’re okay after what happened in the locker room, but a smarter part tells me to move on and distract him from it.
Tapping my fingers nervously on my thighs, I clear my throat, deciding to bring up something I have been meaning to talk to Hendrix about. “Hey, just checking. You have an agent, right?”
His eyebrow twitches upward.
“Not the rep from the team, but your own agent,” I clarify. “Someone to negotiate your contract for next year. You pay them, and they make sure you’re getting good deals.”
He shrugs, outwardly nonchalant, though I can tell I’ve thrown him off with my question. “Can’t I just sign on the line like I did with that lawyer guy last summer? That worked fine.”
I shoot him a look. “Rix, babe, you can double your contract salary simply by having an agent. That’s double what you got this year, understand? An agent can negotiate all that shit, and you pay them to make sure you get a good deal. I can give you my agent’s information. I haven’t had any complaints with her.”
Hendrix nods, so I send my agent’s contact info to him. He still seems out of it as he parks in a free space in my garage and climbs out of the car. As has become a habit since I injured my leg, he crosses to the passenger side and helps me out of the car, handing me the crutches from the back seat. We travel through my dark house, Hendrix flipping on a few light switches as we go.
“How do you feel about a shower?” I’d noticed he hadn’t taken one earlier after the game, so hopefully, he will want to take one with me now. For the last week, we have been showering together in swim trunks, only taking them off at the last second to clean our junk while carefully avoiding each other in the large tile shower. We haven’t outright discussed it, but I feel the careful separation is due to the fact we might jump each other’s bones and damage my leg worse should we let our hands wander.
Doesn’t mean I’m not always hard during the entire process.
Doesn’t mean Hendrix hasn’t been either.
At my suggestion, Hendrix pauses just inside the dim living room, his lips parting slightly to allow the tip of his pink tongue to dart out and wet them. His gaze flicks down over my body, and while everyone else makes me feel self-conscious of the crutches, he makes me feel like me . Like he sees me beneath the football jersey and injured muscle. To him, I’m just Tahegin—his boyfriend. His attractive boyfriend. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice raspy.
I prop my crutches against the nearby wall and cautiously apply pressure on my leg. It’s sore, but using it for its intended purpose actually does wonders for making me feel better. Taking a hesitant step toward him, I chuckle when he gasps and darts to my side to hold me.
“What are you doing?” He demands.
My hand finds his, interlocking our fingers so we are in more of an embrace than a supportive hold. “It doesn’t hurt too badly, and the physical therapist said I can start putting weight on it.”
Hendrix frowns as if he doesn’t like the idea of me being in pain or straining myself, and I earn one of his signature “hmphs” when I head for the hallway to the guest room we’ve been showering in. As we pass the perfectly made bed, I contemplate suggesting we sleep there tonight. Hendrix hasn’t left since I injured my leg earlier this week, and save for last night when he slept on my living room floor mattress with me, he has been sleeping on the sofa to keep from jostling my leg. Having him in the same room at night has been comforting and familiar, but last night was so much better. We didn’t do anything—not even make out or hardcore cuddle—and it was still one of my favorite nights ever.
Geez, I am such a fucking simp for him.
While Hendrick’s back is turned as he starts the shower, I make quick work of stripping to my boxers. The swim trunks we have been wearing while washing are hanging on a towel rack beside the bathroom counter, and I internally shudder at the thought of donning the cold, stiff material.
As he turns to face me, Hendrix’s eyes drink in my nearly naked body, the apple in his throat bobbing when he swallows. “Trunks?” he asks in a husky voice, making no move to grab them.
I give him a wicked grin and don’t reply. Reaching out, I mow my hands through his soft blond hair beneath his backward cap, knocking it to the ground at his heels. He’s got a bad case of helmet hair, and the sweaty strands remain standing wildly while my hands drift down his body. I take my time rubbing my palms down his front, admiring the feel of his hard muscles and rigid abdomen even through the thick ruby-red material of his hoodie. At the hem, I sneak my fingers inside, lightly scrape my nails along the skin above his waistband, then slide my hands up and up, taking the hoodie with me. My thumb ghosts over the rim of his navel. My fingers trace the defined dips between his abs. My large palms settle on his pecs, nails lightly tipping his peaked nipples.
“Fuuuck, T,” he exhales shakily.
Looking up from his exposed torso, I notice how his pupils have blown wide, how his cheeks have flushed an attractive cherry color, and how his lips are dark and wet from his tongue. A strangled groan slips out as I imagine what he tastes like with desire on his lips and tongue. I give in to the impulse and dart forward to take his bottom lip into my mouth, nipping and sucking. It’s everything I’ve imagined and more; he tastes like salty sweat and Gatorade and a man who has just worked his ass off on a football field; he feels like hard muscle and need and a perfect place to press my body against.
I get my fill of his lips, then push my tongue inside to glide along his hot, velvety one, another burst of his flavor igniting my every taste bud.
Eventually, I find the strength to pull back, breathing hard as our eyes meet once more. He looks thoroughly debauched, and I know I can’t be much better off. The evidence is practically ripping out of my boxers.
I hook my fingers in the pockets of his sweatpants and tug downward, pausing when the front refuses to pull past his thick bulge. I’d felt the size of him that night we frotted together, and I have caught glimpses here and there, but none of that has prepared me for the pure awe I feel as I watch, rapt, as the waistband of his sweatpants fights his towering cock. Ultimately, the pants tug free with a soft snap, and I let go so they fall to his ankles.
Hendrix’s hands grab my hips and pull me close, the matching tents in our boxers nearly brushing. “Tahegin,” he murmurs as he tilts his head up. Mouth at my chin, he nips at the stubble I’ve let grow over the last few days.
“Hmm?” I hum distractedly, angling my head to give him more access to my neck.
His fingers splay on my sides, and a thumb finds my navel. It teasingly rounds the edge before pressing down to rub in deliberately smooth and careful circles. The sensitive nerves alight, pulling a gasp and a guttural moan from my mouth. My body twitches and writhes reflexively in response as shocking bites of pleasure shoot down, down, down to deep within my balls and the core of my shaft. I cry out, grabbing one handful of his hair and one of his muscular pecs. “Shower with me.” His whispered request sends goose bumps down my arms.
I can only nod and stumble toward the glass door separating us from the hot water. Hendrix’s presence behind me is so distracting I completely forget about my boxers until they’re becoming heavy with water. When I glance over my shoulder, I feel my eyes go wide at the sight of him fully naked in the shower with me.
“Hey,” Hendrix says, trying to clear his voice of the gravel and rasp it has adopted in response to his arousal. One hand moves to close over his cockhead, holding it down and to the side so his forearm modestly covers the rest of him. “We don’t have to do anything if you?—”
“I want to,” I quickly interject.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a soft smile. “I was going to say that we don’t have to do anything if you’re in too much pain. Trust me, I am fully aware of how much you want to.” He gives my tented crotch a pointed look.
“I’m fine,” I rush to tell him. Trying to prove that fact, I strip my soaked boxers off in one swoop from my hips to my ankles, forgetting my injured hamstring in my haste. It pulls tight as I bend over, and I hide the pained wince as best I can manage.
Hendrix’s frowning face when I return to full height makes it clear he isn’t convinced. With the hand not covering his junk, he caresses my wrist, then gently slides his fingers up my arm, over my shoulder, where he gives a firm squeeze, and to my neck. He holds my jaw in his palm, stormy grey eyes pulling me in like a whirlpool. “Tahegin,” he breathes, hand adjusting on my cheek. “Babe.” I melt at the endearment. “I don’t want you hurting worse. There has to be—well, I don’t know. I assume there’s a way . . . Ugh.” What began as a confident declaration trails off, and he hangs his head with a sigh. “I really should watch some gay porn at some point. I’m not well versed on any of . . . this.” He gestures between our somewhat flagging erections.
Amusement has me throwing my head back and laughing without restraint. If the shower wasn’t spraying over us, the tears in the corners of my eyes would be clear to see. When I’m finished, Hendrix is standing with his arms crossed, a pinched, put-out look on his face. His nose is so adorable all scrunched up like that I just have to dart in to drop a kiss on its tip. “You’re cute, Rix.”
Huffing, he fans his hands in front of his face, waving me off and sputtering, “I’m not cute!”
“Rix.” Wrapping my arms around his neck, I tug him close, completely unashamed as my cock brushes the trail of hair beneath his navel. At the contact, I quickly harden once more. “It’s cute that you think you need to do research, but the thing is you don’t.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I catch his eye and cut him off. “How old are you?”
He scowls, whether because he’s sure I already know or because he thinks I am trying to use our—small—age difference to prove a point. Spoiler alert, it’s neither. “Twenty-two.”
“Right. You’ve had twenty-two years to get acquainted with your dick.”
Flushing, he opens his mouth only to close it again a second later.
I press our foreheads together and let my eyelids fall closed, feeling him against me as my hips naturally begin to roll, seeking the friction of his hard abs against the underside of my shaft. I softly gasp against his lips with pleasure. “You know what feels good,” I murmur. “Friction. And I’m sure you know a lot of ways to get it, don’t you, baby?”
He responds like I’d hoped he would, mirroring my movements until his hard, thick, long length is grinding against my belly. One stray thrust brings our cocks side by side, the heat of them mingling, the silky soft skin rubbing with— yes —glorious friction. He grunts with satisfaction, but I’m louder—a blessing and a curse. I cry out with a moan so high-pitched I’ll be embarrassed about it later. Right now, all I can focus on is my dick haphazardly bumping against his. It’s just enough to tease, torture, and drive me mad.
Throwing all caution and slowness to the wind, I let out a frustrated growl of need and reach behind Hendrix to fumble along the built-in shelf, accidentally knocking multiple bottles to the ground with a half-thought prayer that they are all capped. My fingers close around the intended bottle, and I quickly flick open the cap to pool some of the contents into my palm. Then, I’m wrapping a hand around the both of us, squeezing, stroking, tipping my head back with a throaty groan of ecstasy, the noise bouncing off the tile walls.
I find enough sense to back Hendrix out of the spray of water, lest our lubrication be washed away, and he sucks in a sharp hiss of air as his bare back makes contact with the chilly tile wall. The cold is almost immediately forgotten as I twist my wrist and pump our cockheads with rapid motions. Beneath the pleasure sizzling in every nerve, I savor the moment—touching Hendrix like this for the first time, feeling how hard and hot and veiny and thick he is. God damn, he is going to feel so fucking good inside me. I have never had anyone as big as him, but I am more than ready to take him. I’m not one to back down from a challenge.
Something sharp nips my shoulder, and I return to the moment, bringing my head down to gaze at Hendrix again, who looks quite pleased with himself. Or maybe he’s just enjoying the handie.
God, he looks so hot and rugged with his hair wet and dark, water dripping down his face and caught in his lashes and on his lips. He’s been biting the lower one; I can tell by how dark and puffy it is. Heavy breaths puff from his mouth, and I suck in his exhale as I attack his mouth with mine. I lick the water from his lips and nibble on the thickest part of the bottom one. My tongue slips in to taste him, drink him, keep him here forever.
Growling under my breath, I give in to the carnal desire to wrap my arms around his waist, hold him tight against me, and thrust into the slick, tight space between our bellies. I have to widen my legs and crouch slightly, lifting him up to get the best angle. The move fucks with my hamstring, so I can only hold out for a minute or two before I’m forced to relent. Using my hand again, I jack us off for all I’m worth, until our kisses devolve into heavy panting against each other’s mouths.
Hendrix’s hands roam everywhere, testing for my hotspots and admiring the ones he finds attractive. He must have a thing for my back muscles because more than once, he rakes his nails down either side of my spine, scraping the skin hard enough there might actually be visible marks on my bronze-colored flesh when this is all over. His teeth come into play, too, not quite biting but grazing my mouth, chin, jaw, neck, and shoulders. “Fuck. T. Yes ,” he hisses breathlessly, thrusting into the tight clamp of my hand around us. I feel him harden under my fingers, his body warning us of his impending release.
“You close, Rix?” I purr. “You gonna come for me?”
“ Tahegin .”
“Mm,” I hum with wicked pleasure, smiling against his lax mouth. I love how he’s falling apart for me. I revel in it. And because I’m feeling cocky, I keep talking. “You like how I make you feel, baby? You like having another man get you off? Feel me, Rix.” My free hand grabs his and presses it against my hard abs, so different from the soft belly of a woman. “Feel my cock.” I squeeze our shafts tighter together, stroking long and hard and fervorous.
He swears under his breath, nails digging into my abs before he seems to remember my weakness. Easing off with the nails, he dedicates his efforts to my navel. “Meet me there,” he grits out through lust-clenched teeth.
I tip my head back, crying out with every new circle of pressure he makes on my navel until the electricity shooting from it to my balls has them drawing impossibly tight to my body, my shaft hardening painfully. With a guttural shout—yet another noise for me to be embarrassed about later—I erupt, the ring of my fingers flying rapidly over our crowns and catching the sensitive, mushroomed heads with each pass.
Hendrix comes with an entire tightening of his body, his thumb forced to press harder on my navel by his spasming muscles as he finds release with me. That extra pressure has a late spurt of come bursting from my slit, drawing out my orgasm. I let out an unintelligible curse as Hendrix collapses against me. His head drops onto my shoulder, and his body goes completely relaxed in the aftermath of pleasure.
Falling into him, too, I rely on the wall at his back to keep us up while I try to catch my breath and regain my bearings. Small tremors rack my arms and legs, a mixture of satisfaction and not having worked up a sweat like that all week.
Chuckling has me tuning back into our shower, and I realize Hendrix is smiling against my collarbone. He shifts to look down at our softening cocks dripping our combined messes, which also lingers on our stomachs, rolling into our deep come gutters. “Did you,” he pants and laughs in disbelief. “Did you use conditioner as lube?”
Now, I smile and laugh and gasp for air, barely managing to summon an exhausted smirk. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Hendrix beams up at me, and it finally registers that we’ve gone bare dick to bare dick and he isn’t running away. It’s a victory I will gladly accept. “Yeah, it did.”