Chapter 2 #2
I let out a shaky breath and attempt to shove him away from me, but my arms refuse to move. Especially when his finger tracks up the underside of my dick and I start trembling.
“Maybe we should compare and see,” he says, and I have no idea what he’s talking about for a minute until his towel falls to his feet and he steps closer. Up close, his dick is huge, thick, and uncut.
I didn’t realize that before, but now I do.
He reaches between us and brings them together, and the feel of his fingers wrapped around me makes my head nearly combust.
I can’t believe he’s doing this. I’m caught in a literal dick measuring contest. I should tell him to stop, but I can’t make myself say it. The feel of him against me, his hand, his cock…
“If you want me to stop, say something,” he says, and I let out a shaky breath as I glance down at us pressed together. It’s a sight. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. Two dicks, a bead of precum sitting on the tip of mine, his foreskin bunched beneath the head of his cock.
“Not bad,” he murmurs as his thumb brushes over the tips, and my fingers curl into the lockers behind me. We shouldn’t be doing this here. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see this. But that doesn’t stop me from letting it happen, and it certainly doesn’t stop him.
His hand tightens, and he drags his fist down our combined lengths.
My dick jerks at the sensation, and my breathing accelerates.
“Well, you’re right. I have a bigger dick,” he tells me as he twists his hand near the base, his fingertips stroking my balls.
My eyes cross, my eyelashes fluttering. I need to tell him to go away, to leave me and my dick alone, but I don’t.
I just let him touch and stroke, his hand doing things to my cock that I didn’t know were possible. Why are his hand jobs so good?
He leans forward slightly, his lips hitting the skin of my neck, and he inhales. “But you’re bigger than me everywhere else, so it seems we’re even.”
I meet his gaze, his mouth impossibly close to mine.
Fuck, he’s not going to kiss me, is he?
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck is happening. I don’t know why I’m allowing this to continue.
But it feels so damn good, so fucking right that I’m speechless.
“You know what I’ve wanted to do ever since that forest floor where I had my hand down your pants?”
“Wh—what?”
“Kiss you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine.
“Fuck no.”
“Fuck yes. It’s a bit of a kink of mine. Kissing. I fucking love it. And I want to kiss you. Right. The fuck. Now.”
He brushes my lips again, and I jerk back, my head hitting the lockers behind me.
But he doesn’t let me escape, doesn’t let me retreat.
He just chases my mouth, slamming his down on mine, his tongue pushing its way inside.
I groan at the sensation, knowing it’s a man doing this to me—no, that it’s him doing this to me.
Colton Cavanaugh, the star soccer player, was kissing me, the fly-half of the rugby team.
If anyone found out…the scandal. The gossip.
It doesn’t stop me. It only makes me kiss him back harder. He tilts his head, licking sloppily inside of me, and I meet every thrust of his tongue with my own. It’s a war of sorts. And yet, I like it, the tremble in my body giving everything away.
He’s making out with me just like he did with all those girls at that party, tongue and spit and teeth.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes you lose all reason, all motivation.
All you want to do is sit there and take it.
I moan, and so does he as his fist works our cocks in tandem. Sensation blooms inside of me—pleasure. Pleasure from another guy. A man.
Oh fuck, why does this feel so good?
I thrust my hips up, and he threads his free hand through my hair, tilting my head just the way he wants it.
Oh god, I’m totally the bottom, aren’t I? I’d totally let him do whatever he wants with me. He was right.
He’d be the one fucking me.
The thought of it—of him pushing inside my ass—makes my hands leave the lockers and wind through his hair, tugging on those strands roughly, holding his head in place as he plunders my mouth.
I should stop this.
I’m not gay.
But I don’t.
And neither does he.
Suddenly, the sound of voices permeates the space, indicating that others have entered the locker room, but that doesn’t stop him. Instead, he rips his mouth from mine and holds a finger up to his lips as he continues to stroke us, his movements growing more frantic, more intense.
His forehead lands on mine, and I can feel the puff of his breath against my lips.
“Fuck, you’re a good kisser,” he whispers. “I fucking knew it.”
I bite my swollen bottom lip, and he leans forward and sucks on it, pulling it between his lips and making my eyes flutter closed.
He pulls away again and licks up my neck, making me arch into it.
“Come,” he whispers into my ear. “Come on. Come, Witkoff.”
Pleasure zips through me, the feeling radiating down my spine and settling in my balls. My cock twitches, and I feel my release barrel through me.
He kisses me again, swallowing my breathy moans as he erupts as well. It’s a mess. It hits our abdomens, our thighs, and some even splashes onto the floor. It’s a tsunami, complete and utter destruction.
Colton’s strokes eventually slow, and he leans away from me, his eyes taking it all in—my blushing cheeks, my cum-soaked cock.
His lips quirk up as he peers at me. His tongue slides across his front teeth, and his hand finally leaves my dick.
“You made a mess,” he says softly.
“So did you.”
He laughs darkly and then leans forward, kissing me once more, our tongues tangling briefly before he pulls away.
“Till next time,” he says, reaching down and grabbing his towel, wiping himself up as he strides away. I watch him go, shocked and confused.
What the fuck just happened? Why did he kiss me like that? And why do I want to do it again?
“You’ve been quiet lately,” Paulie says on our morning run. It’s cool out, but the fall leaves are changing colors, leaving the horizon vibrant. It’s my favorite time of year. That and spring. I like mild temps and changing seasons.
“Yeah, just a lot going on,” I murmur.
A lot going on means that I’ve been having some kind of sexual identity crisis. I haven’t seen Colton all week, not since the locker room, but the way he looked and felt that night haunts my dreams.
I’ve woken up with soiled sheets more often than not, my body flushed and sticky.
I hate that he’s done this to me. A guy who is so fucking cocky, he even measured his dick against mine—and won.
I’ve worked myself into a frenzy over this, concluding that he’s only fucking with me to prove that he can.
He can get literally anyone he wants, and this is just further proof.
Just like he stole that coin of mine, he’s stolen my sexual identity, too.
Just crushed it right in his palm and walked away.
I’m so fucking confused.
Not that I tell Paulie any of it. No, I don’t want anyone to know about this.
Except maybe my sister, Maya. We’re the closest, even though she’s four years older than me.
I just get her and she gets me. We message each other most days, to talk about anything and everything, but I haven’t messaged her about this.
She knows something’s wrong, though. I don’t know how much longer I can fend her off.
“Well, if you ever need to talk, let me know,” Paulie says.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m good, though. Going home this weekend to see the fam. You wanna come?”
Paulie perks up. Not only is he enticed by my mom’s cooking, but he has a huge crush on my twin sister, Hailey. He hasn’t admitted it, but the way he makes moon eyes at her every time she walks into a room is a clear indication.
Not that she acknowledges him as anything more than a friend.
Poor guy.
“Yeah. I can totally do that. I’ll get a haircut too. You know, just because I need one.”
I nudge him with my elbow as we come to a stop, and I swipe my hand through my sweaty hair as we catch our breath.
“Oh hey,” he says. “I meant to ask, are you still missing your lucky coin?”
“Yeah,” I say, but don’t add that after the night in the locker room, I’m missing my jockstrap now, too.
I know Colton took it, and yet I haven’t gone to his place to confront him. Because what if he actually makes good on his threat to get me on my knees and stick his dick down my throat?
I’d hate that.
And I’m worried I wouldn’t actually hate it.
Nothing about him seems to deter me. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems.
“Shit, that sucks.”
“Yeah, it really does.”
He slaps me on the shoulder and then takes a long sip of water.
“Ready to walk back?” Paulie asks. “I need to get to class.”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
We walk back, the breeze cool, making my skin break out in goosebumps.
We talk about our classes, and Paulie informs me of some gossip going around campus.
Nothing too wild, just a guy from the football team being put on suspension for drug use, and the swim team captain getting caught with a professor.
Maybe that is wild.
Maybe I’m downplaying it because if people found out about Colton and me, we’d be the talk of campus.
I don’t like how that makes me feel.
When we arrive back at our apartment, I let Paulie shower first while I check my phone. I left it at home so I wouldn’t get distracted, and when I open it, I see a message from an unknown number.
Unknown Number:
I have a game this weekend. You should come and wear my jersey.
I stare down at it, my cheeks flushing. Fuck, like I’d ever do that. Hell no.
I’m not going to answer. I refuse.
Me:
Who’s this?
Unknown Number:
You know who it is.
I slam my phone down on the counter and feel my cock perk up. Hell no. I’m not going to do this with him. I’m not going to play this game. Fuck no.
The shower turns off, and I trade places with Paulie, bringing my phone into the bathroom with me. It’s just so Paulie doesn’t snoop. Not that he’s ever done that before, but still. I don’t want him to see any text messages from Colton.
He’ll have questions I can’t answer.
I flick the water on and shuck my clothes, grabbing my hard dick as I stare down at my phone.
I won’t text him back. I won’t.
Instead, I just step into the shower and jerk off to thoughts of him—his mouth on mine, the way his hand felt wrapped around my cock—and I come ridiculously fast.
Then I get out and shamefully dry off, pulling some clothes on.
When I make my way downstairs, Paulie is gone, and I’m left to make myself lunch. It’s only when I leave for my afternoon class that I see it, a small package outside the front door.
I pick it up and glance around, not seeing anyone lingering nearby.
Stepping back into the apartment, I tear the box open and pull out a blue and green jersey, the school soccer team colors.
And on the back is the number twenty-four and his name, Cavanaugh.
Asshole, I think as I crumple it up and throw it onto the couch.
But then I grab it and tuck it under my bed. I don’t want anyone to see it, to know I have this.
This has become a very dirty little secret.
One that he wants me to flaunt.
Well, he’ll be sorely disappointed. I’m not wearing his fucking jersey.