CHAPTER 23
Kane
I'M AWAKE.
Not just the normal "let me scroll through my phone until I pass out" awake. I'm talking full-on, brain-in-overdrive, every-muscle-tense awake.
I've been staring at the same crack in the wood wall for—I check my phone—two hours and seventeen minutes. The screen informs be of nothing but the time and the absence of new messages.
My father's deadline looms in my brain like a guillotine blade. I can practically hear the countdown ticking away in my head.
Above me, the top bunk creaks. Becker's not sleeping either. The rhythm of his breathing is all wrong—too measured, too controlled. He's lying up there pretending to be asleep, just like I'm down here pretending I'm not having a full-blown mental crisis.
I set my phone face-down on the mattress. The screen's been dark for hours.
Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but all I see is Becker's face. The hurt there. The confusion.
Figure out what you want.
What I want.
What a fucking concept.
For twenty-four years, what I've wanted hasn't been part of the equation. There's what my father wants, what the team needs, what the coaches want. But what I want? That's always been irrelevant.
And what I want is four feet above me, pretending to sleep.
I want Becker. I want his chaos and his stupid jokes and his ability to make me feel like I'm more than just Kane Marcus's son. I want to stop thinking about my father's threats, about careers and consequences and deadlines.
Just for one night, I want to be selfish.
My decision crystallizes like ice forming on a windshield—all at once and with absolute clarity.
Before I can second-guess myself, I'm sliding out from under my covers, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor.
The ladder to the top bunk creaks under my weight, but I don't care if he hears me coming.
I want him to.
Becker's eyes are open when I reach the top, reflecting what little moonlight filters through the cabin's small window. He watches me climb without speaking, but his body tenses as I crawl into the cramped space beside him.
"Kane—"
"Shhh." I cut him off, maneuvering in the tiny bunk until I'm straddling his thighs. The single mattress dips under our combined weight, forcing us closer together.
He’s wearing threadbare t-shirt and sleep pants, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric.
"What are you doing?" His hands come up to rest on my hips, not pushing me away but not pulling me closer either.
"Getting my shit together." I don't give him time to respond before I'm leaning down, capturing his mouth with mine.
For a second, he's frozen. Then he's kissing me back, his lips parting, tongue sliding against mine. But his hands move to my chest, pushing slightly.
"Kane," he murmurs against my lips. "This is messed up."
"One night," I breathe, trailing kisses down his jaw to the spot below his ear that makes him shiver. "Give me one night where I don't think about anything except you."
My cock is already hardening, pressing against the fabric of my boxers, and I can feel Becker responding beneath me. I slide my hands under his t-shirt, tracing the ridges of his abs, feeling his muscles jump beneath my touch.
"I want to taste you," I confess, the words spilling out before I can stop them. My heart pounds so hard I swear he must feel it. "I want to do it right."
I move down his body, tugging at his sleep pants. He hesitates for a moment, but then lifts his hips, helping me slide them down his thighs. His cock springs free, already hard, the tip glistening in the dim light.
"This doesn't change—" he starts, voice strained.
"It changes everything," I interrupt, settling between his spread legs. "Now let me."
The bunk is cramped as hell, but I don't care.
All I care about is the way Becker's watching me, craning his neck, chest rising and falling with short, rapid breaths.
I work my way down his body, pushing his shirt up to expose his stomach, pressing kisses to the trail of hair that leads to his cock.
I pause, suddenly nervous.
Will I even know how to do it?
I’ve even seen another man's cock up close, let alone put my mouth on one. But God, I want to. I want to hear him moan because of me.
Doing my best to keep my fingers steady, I wrap my palm around his cock, testing the weight and feel.
It's different. So fucking different from touching myself—the angle, the size, the heat of his skin.
I stroke him slowly, learning, memorizing what makes his hips twitch. What draws those small, involuntary sounds from his throat.
"Fuck," he whispers, his head falling back against the pillow.
My own cock throbs painfully, trapped in my boxers. It doesn’t matter. This is about Becker. About showing him what he means to me in a way I won’t put into words.
I lean down, my breath ghosting over the head of his cock. The scent of him fills my senses. My tongue darts out, licking up the underside of his shaft in one slow, experimental stroke.
Becker's entire body tenses, a strangled gasp escaping him.
"Teach me," I say, looking up at him. "Tell me what you like."
His resistance crumbles visibly, his expression shifting from conflicted to something raw and hungry. "Fuck... okay."
He reaches down, larde palm resting on the back of my head, not pushing, just guiding.
"Start with your tongue," he whispers, voice husky.
I follow his direction, circling the head with my tongue, tasting the salt-bitter pre-cum that beads at the tip. Becker's thighs tremble on either side of me.
"Yeah. Like that."
Emboldened, I continue exploring, tracing veins, discovering what makes his breath catch.
"Now take me in," he says. "Not too deep at first."
I part my lips, taking him into my mouth, careful not to go too far. The weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips around his girth—it's foreign. Strange. But so fucking intoxicating. I hollow my cheeks, sucking experimentally.
"God," Becker groans, fingers all but digging into my scalp. "You're good at this."
The praise sends a jolt straight to my groin. I moan around him, which only makes him curse again, hips jerking up ever so slightly.
"Use your hand too," he pants. "Stroke what you can't fit."
I obey, wrapping my fingers around the base of his cock, working in tandem with my mouth. Finding a rhythm that makes Becker's abs clench and his breathing turn ragged.
I’m so fucking horny it’s becoming impossible to ignore. I reach down with my free hand, palming myself through my boxers, desperate for some relief. Any relief.
But Becker’s observant. "Take it out," he rasps. "Want to see you touch yourself."
A wave of self-consciousness washes over me, but it's quickly drowned by desire. I push my boxers down just enough to release my cock. It's achingly hard, pre-cum smearing the head.
Becker watches through heavy-lidded eyes as I wrap my hand around myself, stroking in time with the bobbing of my head on his cock.
"That's so fucking hot," he breathes. "Watching you get off on sucking me."
His words send another spike of pleasure through me. I moan around him, curses, thrusting shallowly into my mouth.
"Close," he warns, fingers tightening on my skull like he’s trying to grab it. "Gonna come. You don't have to—Fuck."
I just take him deeper, making my intention clear.
I want this. Want to taste him, want to feel him come apart because of me.
Becker's back arches, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as he comes. The first pulse catches me by surprise, but I swallow reflexively, taking everything he gives me, licking and sucking him through it.
Only when he's finished do I pull off, gasping for breath, my own cock still hard and leaking in my hand. I stroke myself faster because I can’t help it, watching Becker's face as he recovers from his high.
"Come on me," he says, reaching down to wrap his hand around mine.
The sight of his fingers, long and skilled intertwined with mine around my cock is almost enough to push me over the edge. Our hands move together, his grip tighter than mine, the rhythm perfect.
"Fuck," I gasp, pressure building at the base of my spine.
My orgasm hits with might of a dozen and my vision blurs, which is unfortunate.
I blink the haze away. I want to see. I want to see everything.
My cock pulsing inside our fists.
Becker’s eyes, heavy-lidded, fixed on the action.
Ropes of cum, shooting out of me, one by one as I come with a broken curse on my lips, landing on Becker’s stomach, his chest, his cock, painting his skin white and claiming him mine.
After that, the world goes quiet.
I collapse beside him in the tiny bunk, our bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle, both of us breathing hard. Sweat cools on my skin, making me shiver. Becker rolls onto his side, and wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer.
For the first time in days, my mind is quiet.
No thoughts of my father, no worries about tomorrow.
Just this moment, the weight of Becker's arm across my chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my side.
My eyelids grow heavy, sleep finally within reach.
I'm drifting off when Becker's voice cuts through the comfortable silence. "I really think we should talk now."