Chapter 7 #2
Cal groaned into my mouth, a low, sound that vibrated against my lips. His arms came around me instantly, crushing me against him, lifting me slightly off the ground. The friction of his body against mine, hard, heavy, solid, sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
I was hard instantly. Painfully, achingly hard. It felt like my jeans were suddenly two sizes too small, the denim cutting into me as I pressed my hips against his.
I gasped, breaking the kiss for a split second to breathe, but Cal chased me. He bit my lower lip, hard enough to sting, before soothing it with his tongue.
But just as I tried to deepen it, to lose myself in the taste of him, he put a hand on my chest and pushed.
I stumbled back, chest heaving, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The cold air hit my wet lips like a slap.
“Stop,” Cal said. He wasn’t out of breath. He looked calm. Terrifyingly calm. “You’re kissing me like you hate me.”
“I was proving a point,” I stammered, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue, my chest heaving with exertion.
Cal stepped off the wall, adjusting his jacket. He stepped into my space, forcing me to look him in the eye.
“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, mocking drawl. “You’re kissing me because you’ve been starving for sixty-two days. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel you burning a hole in me every time I change my shirt?”
My heart stopped.
Sixty-two days.
He counted.
He knew exactly how long it had been. He hadn’t just moved on; he had been counting the days just like I had. The realization shattered me. I stood there, stripped naked by his words, unable to form a defense because he was right. I was starving.
Cal watched the realization hit me, and he didn’t offer comfort. He just looked annoyed, like I was wasting his time with my denial.
“Get in the car, Silas,” he ordered, tossing the keys at me. They hit my chest with a dull thud. “You drive. I’m done with this conversation.”
The drive to the hotel was torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
I was driving. I had to drive. If Cal drove pissed off, we’d end up in a ditch. But my hands were shaking on the steering wheel, and the erection throbbing in my jeans was making it impossible to think straight. Every bump in the road was agony.
The car was silent, save for the hum of the heater and the rhythmic sound of the tires on the wet pavement.
Then, I heard it.
The sound of a belt buckle hitting the plastic of the center console. The heavy clink.
Then the zzzzzip of a fly being dragged down.
My heart hammered against my ribs. My eyes darted to the right before I could stop myself.
Cal had reclined the seat. His knees were spread wide, jeans pushed down to his thighs. His head was thrown back against the headrest, exposing the line of his throat to the passing streetlights. His hand was inside his underwear.
“Cal,” I choked out, my voice tight. “I’m driving.”
“So drive,” he whispered, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy. “I’m not touching you. I’m staying on my side.”
He wasn’t hiding it. He pulled his hand out, his fist wrapped tight around his cock. He was stroking himself, slow and deliberate. The wet, slick sound of his hand sliding up and down filled the quiet car.
I hit a red light.
I should have been watching the intersection. I should have been watching for pedestrians. Instead, I turned my head. I couldn’t look away.
I watched the way his knuckles turned white as he pumped his hand.
I watched the tip swell with pressure, glistening in the dashboard lights, a bead of precum catching the green glow of the streetlight.
I watched the way his hips bucked slightly off the leather seat, seeking more friction.
I watched a bead of sweat roll down his throat and disappear into the collar of his shirt.
“Green light,” Cal panted, not opening his eyes.
I jumped, slamming on the gas. The car jerked forward, tires spinning for a second on the slick asphalt.
“Fuck,” I groaned, shifting in my seat, trying to adjust the painful pressure in my pants. It felt like I was going to explode. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.
“I hear you,” Cal murmured, his voice strained, edging closer to the finish. “I hear you shifting over there. You’re biting that lip again, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” I begged, my knuckles white on the wheel. “Cal, seriously.”
“You like watching,” Cal groaned, his hand moving faster now, his pace frantic, the sound of skin-on-skin becoming louder, wetter. “You like seeing me lose it while you have to be the good boy and drive the car. Don’t you?”
“Cal, please—”
He came with a sharp, broken cry, arching his back off the seat, spilling over his own hand and stomach.
I drove the rest of the way in silence, gripping the wheel until my hands went numb, my entire body vibrating with a need I wasn’t allowed to satisfy, hating him and wanting him in equal measure.
The next night, the tension hadn’t broken. It had calcified.
Showdown was live from the Allstar Arena. We had just won a six-man tag match, and the locker room was a chaotic swirl of shouting, tape being ripped off, and the smell of Icy Hot.
I moved through it like a ghost, slamming my locker shut with a ringing clang. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get back to the hotel before I did something stupid.
“Where’s Deadlock?” I barked at another rookie sitting on a bench, untying his boots.
The kid looked up, wide-eyed. “Uh, bathroom I think?”
I rolled my eyes. Calling him Deadlock backstage usually pissed Cal off; he hated when people used the stage name unless they were fans, but I was annoyed. I was frustrated. And I was still aching from the car ride.
I pulled out my phone to text him.
Get your ass back here. We have to go.
Before I could hit send, a notification popped up.
A message from Cal.
Image loading…
I tapped it open.
The air left my lungs.
It was a photo, taken in the bathroom stall down the hall; I recognized the ugly beige tile. The angle was high, looking down. Cal was standing. He was still in his gear, his bright red and black trunks, but they were shoved down to his thighs.
He was fully hard.
Thick. Heavy. Veins prominent against the skin.
My mouth went dry. Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy. I looked around frantically, shielding the screen with my hand. A producer was by the coolers. Two refs were talking ten feet away. If anyone saw this…
I looked back at the screen. I shouldn’t look. I should delete it.
But I zoomed in.
Below the photo, a block of text bubbled up.
I’m in here wrecking myself thinking about how good you looked in Miami. All marked up. You looked exactly like mine. Makes me want to do it again.
He wants to mark me again.
The thought hit me like a physical blow. And then, a darker, more dangerous thought followed it.
I want him to.
I stared at the phone, my thumb hovering over the glass.
I realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that I had a thing for hickeys.
Just the thought of him biting me, of him leaving that purple bruise on my neck again, made my knees weak.
It made me want to drop to my knees right here on the locker room floor.
My eyes drifted back to the photo. To the size of him.
The girth of him looked intimidating even on a screen.
I remembered a girl, years ago in developmental, who tried to go down on me. She stopped after a minute, rubbing her jaw, complaining that I was too much, that she couldn’t take it. I had felt proud of that at the time. A stupid, masculine badge of honor.
Now, looking at Cal, I felt a spike of pure anxiety.
He’s bigger.
A sudden, violent image flashed in my mind, of me, in that stall, on my knees on the dirty tile. Trying to take him. Trying to fit his massive length past my lips. I had never done it. I had never even wanted to do it. The mechanics of it seemed impossible.
I’d choke, I thought, the panic rising. I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d gag. I’d embarrass myself.
But beneath the fear, there was a perversion that terrified me even more.
I want to try.
I wanted to choke on him. I wanted to feel him hit the back of my throat.
I wanted to see if I could take what that girl couldn’t take from me.
I wanted to know what he tasted like. The realization made me lightheaded.
I stood there, hand trembling, picturing myself gagging, eyes watering, forcing him down my throat just to prove I could handle him.
“Hey.”
The voice came from right behind my ear.
I jumped, fumbling the phone, barely catching it before shoving it into my pocket. I spun around, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Cal was there. Showered. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans. Duffel bag over his shoulder.
He looked cool. Composed. Like he hadn’t just sent me a picture of his dick with a caption that made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
“You…” I stammered. My voice was an octave too high. My face felt like it was radiating heat like a furnace. “You can’t just, we’re at work! There are people right there!”
I gestured wildly to the room, praying the refs weren’t watching my meltdown.
Cal stepped into my space, blocking me from the view of the others. He was grinning. He loved this. He loved seeing me flustered, seeing me falling apart because of a text message.
“I was thinking about you,” he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of my ear. “About how purple that bruise was. About how much I want to put another one right next to it.”
I made a strangled noise in the back of my throat, my hands balling into fists at my sides to keep from grabbing him. My brain was still stuck on the photo. On the mechanics of it. On the size of him.
“Callum…”
“What’s the matter, Si?” he whispered back.
He pulled away, winking at me, a sharp, devastating thing, and patted my shoulder.
“Come on,” he said loudly, his voice casual, perfect for the audience of the locker room. “Let’s hit the road. I’m starving.”
He turned to walk away, whistling low, his hips swaying with that confident stride that drove me insane.
I watched him go. The heat in my blood spiked, mixing with the adrenaline, twisting into something reckless. Something bold. Something I couldn’t take back.
I stepped forward, closing the distance before I could think about the consequences.
“I bet I wouldn’t choke,” I whispered, my voice rough, pitched low so only he could hear.
Cal froze. His whistle cut off. He turned his head slowly, confusion knitting his brow. “What?”
I leaned in, my lips inches from his ear, trembling with adrenaline, my voice dropping to a sinful promise.
“That picture,” I breathed out, the words feeling dangerous on my tongue. “I bet I wouldn’t gag. I bet I could take every inch of it.”
For a second, Cal just stared at me. He blinked, the words processing.
Then, it hit him.
The confusion vanished. His eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide as a slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face. He didn’t look shocked anymore. He looked ready to drag me back into that stall right then and there.
“Careful, Reed,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly low, thick with intent. “Keep talking like that, and I might just let you try.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I didn’t wait for another word. I grabbed my bag, pushed past him, and walked out the door, leaving him standing there in the middle of the locker room, looking like I’d just hit him with a steel chair.