Chapter 8 #2
The word punches straight through my spine, a white-hot bolt of something I haven’t let myself feel in years. I glance down, trying to breathe, trying to pull it back—and that’s when I see it.
A bottle of massage oil, half-tucked into the open flap of his duffel, like an invitation. Like a fucking dare.
I reach for it without thinking, snapping the cap and coating my palm in one slick motion.
The scent is faint—something minty, almost medicinal—but the texture is perfect.
Warm, smooth, decadent. And I waste no time.
I shove his panties to the side and free his straining length, then wrap my hand around him.
Tight and slick, stroking him hard enough to make his knees wobble.
Luke gasps, grabbing at the metal behind him for balance, his body already bowing into the touch. “Oh my God—”
“Not even close,” I growl.
My other hand braces him at the throat, not squeezing, just holding him there as I work his cock with practiced, punishing strokes. The oil makes every motion obscene—wet and fast and unforgiving—and Luke is falling apart in my hands.
“You’ve been teasing me for a week,” I grit out. “Strutting around as if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Say it. Admit it.”
His hips buck. “I—I knew.”
“Say it again, Maddox.”
“I knew,” he moans, breath catching, “fuck, I knew what I was doing—”
“Yeah?” I bite the edge of his jaw, dragging my lips down to the shell of his ear. “Then you knew this is what you’d get. So you’re going to be good and take it.”
He whimpers, needy and ruined, and that’s all it takes. His whole body seizes as he comes hard into my hand, lube and heat and sweat painting both of us. His voice breaks on my name, and I hold him through it, mouth pressed to his throat.
I don’t give him time to recover.
The sight of him—flushed, trembling, wrecked in my arms—snaps the last restraint clean in half.
I shove my joggers down just enough to free myself, breath coming heavy now, my own need throbbing and urgent. I slick myself quickly with what’s left of the oil, hands shaking with it, the scent sharp in the air.
No thinking.
I grab Luke by the hips and spin him, pressing him back into the lockers so hard they rattle. He gasps, palms flattening against cold metal, spine bowing instinctively as I line myself up behind him.
“Quédate,” I order, voice gone rough and dark, before adding the command in English, “Stay.”
He does.
I don’t rush it.
I slick my fingers first, deliberate, grounding myself in the ritual of it, even as my pulse hammers out of control. I work him open slowly, methodically, making sure he’s ready—making sure he knows I’m taking my time on purpose.
Luke trembles beneath my hands, breath stuttering, every muscle tight with anticipation. He presses back instinctively, needy, trusting, and that alone nearly undoes me.
A flash of reality cuts through the heat.
The door.
It isn’t locked.
Anyone could walk in. A trainer. A player who forgot something. Harris himself.
The risk sends a sharp thrill through my chest—dangerous, reckless—and instead of stopping me, it makes my grip tighten.
I crowd in close, chest to his back, mouth at his ear. “Stay quiet,” I murmur.
He nods, frantic, fingers clawing at the locker as I finally line myself up behind him, taking one last breath like I might be able to pull back.
I can’t.
I press forward in one slow, relentless motion, stealing the air right out of his lungs. He cries out—broken, stunned—and I clamp my hand over his mouth to muffle the sound and bite down on his shoulder, hips locking tight as I settle fully against him.
I stay still for a beat—long enough for him to adjust, long enough for his breathing to go shallow and uneven beneath my palm. Long enough for the reality of it to slam into me.
I’m really doing this in the locker room with a player. Not just any player but the same one I’ve been fantasizing about all fucking week long.
I lower my mouth to his ear, voice barely more than breath. “Quiet,” I murmur. Not a command this time.
He nods frantically, fingers clawing at the locker, his whole body tightening around me in a way that makes my breath tear out of my chest.
I move again—slow, deliberate—the lingering slickness between us turning every motion into something unbearable. Perfect. Controlled. Ruinous.
When he tightens around me again, I lose the last of my restraint.
I drive into him harder, the lockers rattling with the force of it, metal echoing louder than either of us dare to be. The sound pushes me faster, sharper, chasing the edge with reckless intent.
“Silas,” he moans.
My hand slides to his hip, grip brutal. “You don’t get to say my name,” I warn, breath ragged at his ear. “Not unless I say you can. And I told you to be quiet.”
He tries. God, he tries.
But the sound he makes this time is helpless, broken, and it drags me toward my orgasm.
I grip his hips and piston in and out of him, my breath punching out of me with each movement.
He feels like heaven. And it isn’t long before I’m releasing into him.
Pulse after pulse fills him with my cum.
I lean back and watch it slip out around me.
It’s so erotic, I can’t stop pumping into him to watch it seep out with each thrust.
Finally, I pull out. He slumps forward, the locker holding his weight. And I can’t help but trail my fingers over his asshole, pushing some of my cum back inside. It makes a possessive urge fill me that has me stepping back, my walls snapping back into place.
The second I step back, it hits me.
What I’ve done. Where I am. Who he is.
The heat drains fast, replaced by something cold and sharp that slices straight through my chest. I straighten, forcing distance between us, every instinct screaming to pull away before I do something even worse than fucking him in the locker room with no protection.
Before I let myself want more.
I fix my joggers and rake a hand through my hair and mutter under my breath, “No. Esto no puede volver a pasar.”
This can’t happen again.
I don’t look at him when I say it. Can’t. If I do, I’ll break whatever fragile wall I’ve managed to throw back up.
There’s a pause.
Then Luke shifts, slow and deliberate. He glances back over his shoulder, blue eyes perceptive, catching the tone if not the words. Amusement flickers there—soft and dangerous.
“Oh,” he says lightly. “That sounded serious.”
I grit my teeth.
He turns just enough to face me, expression all lazy confidence. “Let me guess,” he adds, tilting his head. “You’re regretting fucking your player against a locker?”
The words land clean. Precise. As though he knows exactly where to hit.
“That’s not funny,” I snap.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Didn’t say it was. Your Spanish sounded like regret.”
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. Professional.
“This ends here,” I say flatly. “What happened stays here. You don’t bring it onto the field. You don’t bring it into practice. And you don’t—” My jaw tightens. “—look at me like that again.”
Luke studies me for a long moment.
Then he smiles.
“Sure, Coach,” he says easily. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. You’re not going to get strings attached to physical acts from me. I’m not the type for commitment.”
And with that, he turns away to finish getting dressed, as though he hasn’t just detonated something inside my chest. I want to grab him and stop him, tell him I don’t regret what we did, I regret we can’t have more, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want more.
I stand there long after he leaves, the locker room echoing and empty, my control rebuilt brick by brick—but cracked all the same.
Because I don’t regret it. And that’s how I know I’m already fucked.