9. Colton
NINE
COLTON
My phone buzzes again, and I glance down expecting… I don’t know. A brush-off? A delay? A joke, maybe?
Not this.
I sit up straighter on the edge of my bed, mouth going dry.
It’s a photo—clear as day. No filter. No hiding. Just smooth skin, a sharp collarbone, and a sticky note pressed against a broad, inked chest.
My heart stutters.
Hot as fuck.
I swallow hard and stare at it longer than I probably should. My brain spins, trying to find something clever to say. Something flirty but not desperate. Something that doesn’t scream, hi I’m a walking mistake, and you just ruined my ability to breathe.
I fail spectacularly.
Me: Okay so… That’s unfair. You’re hot as fuck, and now I’ve forgotten how to type. This feels like a trap. A very sexy, no-escape kind of trap.
I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I drop my head into my hand and groan into my palm. God, it’s not as if I’ve never sexted in my life.
But maybe that’s the thing. I haven’t. Not really. Not like this.
Not with a guy. And I have to say, I’m curious.
SmokeScreen77: You’re cute when you’re flustered. Bet you’re even cuter when you moan my name.
My stomach flips again.
I stare at the screen, throat dry, heart hammering, and my palms clammy.
Moan my name .
Jesus. It’s a text. A simple line. But he may as well have been whispering it against my ear, breath hot and mouth even hotter with how it makes me feel.
I shouldn’t be this into it. I shouldn’t even be doing this. But I can’t stop. Don’t want to. Not when it feels this…intoxicating.
Another message lights up the screen.
SmokeScreen77: I’ll be good if you want me to.
Or not.
Your call .
I bite back a groan, dragging my hand down my stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of my sweats. Fuck.
I’m hard again.
He keeps going.
SmokeScreen77: But I am curious what the rest of you looks like when you’re this turned on.
My breath catches. I shift, trying to find enough friction without losing my mind.
Then the kicker:
SmokeScreen77: Show me what I do to you. No pressure. (Except for the one in your pants.)
I actually laugh . It’s hoarse and short, but it breaks through the nerves enough for me to move.
“This is insane,” I mutter to myself, even as I palm my cock through my sweats.
I’m alone. Thank God. No Caleb. No dumb commentary or knocks at the door. Just me, a guy who has no idea who I really am, and a painfully hard problem I’m not trying that hard to solve.
My hand dips under the waistband again. I stroke slowly, eyes closed, pretending it’s his voice in my ear. His mouth on me. His hand guiding mine.
The tension builds faster than I expect.
I lift the phone. Snap one more picture—wider this time. My cock, swollen and flushed, gripped in my hand. The tip glistens with pre-cum, veins standing out as if they’re begging.
I almost don’t send it .
But then I do.
Me: You’re dangerous. But here’s more of what you do to me. Hope you’re as hard as I am.
I hit send.
Then drop the phone beside me and stare at the ceiling like I’ve officially lost my goddamn mind.
But I’m still smiling.
The second the message goes out, I regret it. Not because I don’t mean it, but because now I’m exposed. Literally. Figuratively. Digitally. At least my face isn't attached.
My chest rises and falls too fast. I’m still gripping myself, half-hard and fully losing it.
Then the screen lights up again.
SmokeScreen77: Jesus. You trying to kill me? Because I’m two seconds from making a mess thinking about your hand on your cock.
My hips twitch at the words. My fingers curling tighter around myself. Another bubble pops up immediately after.
SmokeScreen77: Bet it feels even better when someone else wraps their lips around it.
You want that, don’t you? Want me to do it?
To suck you until you forget your own name?
I choke on air.
SmokeScreen77: Say the word, and I’ll dream about it tonight. Hell, I might already be.
I’m overheating. My hand clenches. My brain short-circuits. And still—still—I’m somehow harder than I was five minutes ago.
Another message buzzes in:
SmokeScreen77: Or maybe you’re too shy to tell me what you really want. Maybe you want more than just my mouth. Tell me, Golden. I’ll be whatever fantasy you need tonight.
I exhale sharply, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I shouldn’t. But my body’s already answering for me.
Me: I want all of it. Your mouth. Your hands. Your tongue.
I want to forget everything but the way you make me feel.
Tell me what it'd be like.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly. And I already know—I’m not sleeping tonight.
The typing bubble flickers, disappears, then comes back again.
SmokeScreen77: First, I’d take my time. Let you lie back for me, already hard, already aching.
I’d kiss down your chest, slow… memorizing you with my mouth.
Then I’d wrap my fingers around your cock.
Not tight. Not yet. Just enough to make you twitch.
I swallow hard, breath caught in my throat as the next messages comes in.
SmokeScreen77: I wouldn’t rush. I’d want to hear it—every breath, every curse, every soft fucking moan you make when I drag my tongue across your slit.
And when I finally take you into my mouth? You wouldn’t last long. But I’d swallow every goddamn drop like you were the only thing I’d been hungry for all night.
My hips lift off the bed. My hand works faster. God. This guy is going to ruin me.
Another message blinks through, as if he knows.
SmokeScreen77: Touching yourself for me again, Golden? Wish I could watch. Wish I could make you fall apart with nothing but my mouth.
I groan—out loud. I don’t even try to muffle it.
Me: I’m close. Fuck. Say something else. Anything. Make me come.
The typing bubble comes back instantly.
SmokeScreen77: Imagine me on my knees. Hands spreading your thighs. You’re shaking. Begging. And I look up at you and say,
“Come for me, baby. Make a mess just for me.”
My vision whites out.
I come with a choked-off sound, the kind I’ll be embarrassed about later, the kind no one’s ever made me make before. Except…he just did.
Through a screen.
Through words.
I stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, and try to remember how to breathe.
Another ping.
SmokeScreen77: Goodnight, Golden. Dream filthy. I know I will.
And I’m wrecked. Fully, completely, undeniably wrecked.
The sun’s too damn bright.
My thighs ache. My lungs burn. And my legs feel like they’re made of cement and regret.
Which is exactly what I deserve after last night.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. I was too wired. Too high on something that didn’t involve alcohol or weed for once—just a voice I haven’t heard and a face I haven’t seen, but somehow feel close to.
And now, I’m paying for it with back-to-back sprint drills and Coach barking as though we’re all about to lose scholarships if we slow down even once.
“Move your ass, Taylor!” Coach yells.
I dig in harder. Drive my cleats into the turf like I can outrun the heat still clinging to my skin.
Across from me, Micah runs the same drill on the opposite side. Fast. Agile. Fucking annoyingly graceful.
I grit my teeth, eyes flicking forward. Attempting not to take in the lines of his tattoos on his back. Focus .
We both hit the cones at the same time—tight pivot, shoulder brush, tension snapping like a live wire between us.
“Watch it,” I snap.
“Maybe don’t run like you’ve got a stick up your ass,” Micah fires back, barely winded.
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because the image that hits me isn’t one I want to admit to. And definitely not something I want to think about mid-practice. But my body doesn’t seem to care.
I pick up the pace. Elbow sharper this time. Just enough to knock against him when we pass again.
Micah stumbles a half-step, recovers fast, then gives me a grin that’s all teeth.
“Oh, we’re playing dirty now?” he calls.
“Just didn’t see you there,” I lie.
“Maybe keep your eyes off my ass then,” he shoots back.
I flush. Goddamn it.
“Enough flirting, girls!” Coach barks from the sideline. “If you’re gonna play like high schoolers, I’ll bench you like high schoolers.”
A few guys laugh.
Micah blows out a breath and jogs ahead. I hang back a beat, dragging my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair and trying not to let my frustration boil over.
The worst part?
I don’t know if I want to punch him. Or kiss him. Or confess that I sexted a stranger all night who might as well have been him since I couldn't stop picturing his face attached to that chest.
Either way, I’m screwed.
Coach yells again. I take off after Micah. Because if I stop moving, I might actually think about it. And that’s not something I can survive.
Practice is winding down. Or at least it should be.
The guys are panting, hands on their hips, shirts sticking to their backs, cleats dragging a little more with each drill. We’re tapped. Spent. Done.
But apparently Coach doesn’t agree. He blows the whistle so hard it could crack skulls and storms toward the center of the field.
“You two wanna flirt instead of functioning like a goddamn team?” he snaps, eyes locked on me and Micah as if we personally insulted his mother. “Then you can bond on the damn track.”
Micah scoffs beside me. “Seriously?”
“Shut it, Blackman. Everyone else, hydrate and hit the locker room.”
The team watches us, but nobody argues. They peel off, heads down, grateful it’s not them.
“Taylor. Blackman. Run until you bleed or figure out how to work together. Whichever comes first.”
Micah mutters something under his breath. I don’t catch it, but I don’t need to. I’m already jogging toward the track, jaw tight, eyes forward .
This is bullshit.
Beside me, he keeps pace pretending it’s nothing. Like he’s not soaked in sweat, and he didn’t just spend the last hour dodging and snapping at me like we were enemies, not?—
Don’t .
We run.
One lap. Then two. Then four. The sun hangs low and heavy, cooking us from the top down. My shirt clings to every inch of my back. My breath is ragged. My thighs burn.
Micah’s breathing is steady. Controlled.
Smug asshole.
I glance sideways. “Having fun?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Would be more fun if you could keep up.”
I shove my shoulder into his mid-stride.
He stumbles but stays upright, grinning as though I gave him a gift.
Coach doesn’t even need to watch us now—he knows. He knows we’ll keep running out of spite.
Lap six. My mouth is dry. My vision wavers at the edges. Still, I keep going. Because I’d rather die running next to him than admit that every step feels the same as chasing something I already lost.
“Ready to give in, Golden Boy?”
I grit my teeth, sweat dripping down the bridge of my nose. “You wish.”
Then I swing again…another shoulder check mid-stride, but this time Micah’s ready. He shifts his weight at the last second and throws his own into it.
We collide against each other.
And then we’re down. Both of us. A tangle of limbs and cleats and breathless curses, grass and dirt grinding into my skin as I land half on top of him.
The world tilts.
Not from the fall.
From him.
Micah’s chest heaves under me, hot and solid. His thigh slots between mine, and every part of me lights up like I just touched a live wire. My cock reacts instantly, hard and unforgiving, trapped in the most uncomfortable fucking jock strap known to man.
Goddammit.
I shift, trying to get up, trying to not rub against him.
It doesn’t work.
Micah’s breath catches. His eyes flash to mine—dark, unreadable—and my stomach bottoms out.
We’re still. Frozen. Everything around us—Coach’s whistle with the freshman, the thud of a stray ball, the laughter of the other team—fades beneath the pulse pounding in my ears.
“You done trying to take me out?” he mutters, voice low. Rough.
I swallow. My hands are on his chest. I should move them.
I don’t.
Instead, I say, “Only if you tap out first.”
He huffs a laugh. “Didn’t peg you for a power top.”
I jerk back as though he slapped me, but not before I see the smirk twist his mouth.
Fucker.
I climb to my feet, brushing off grass and pride, adjusting myself quickly before anyone can clock what’s happening under my shorts .
“You always this mouthy when you’re beneath me?” I throw over my shoulder as I walk off, pretending I’m not still hard as hell.
Micah’s answering laugh chases after me. And that’s when I realize: I lost that round.