24. Micah
TWENTY-FOU R
MICAH
I wake up furious.
Not just irritated, not the kind of mood a shower can rinse off. This is bone-deep, gut-twisting, what the hell did I do fury.
Because I let him in.
I let Colton Taylor put his mouth on me. Around me. God.
And it was so fucking good, I can still feel it.
The memory ambushes me before I even open my eyes—the heat of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue, the way his throat worked around me when I pushed in deeper. That desperate little sound he made when I held him there, when his jaw trembled, and he still took me like he was made for it.
I grind my teeth because my body doesn’t care that I’m pissed. My cock twitches in my briefs as if it’s ready for round two, and I hate myself for wanting it. For wanting him.
I drag a hand over my face, muttering a curse, and sit up in the hotel bed we shared. Colton’s gone probably already downst airs, grinning at everyone and pretending he didn’t let me ruin him last night, as though his lips weren’t wrapped around me until he cried against my skin.
I shove into my hoodie and sneakers, jaw tight, and stalk toward the door.
Luke falls into step with me in the hallway, bright-eyed and annoyingly chipper.
“Morning, sunshine.”
I grunt. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He smirks. “Say good morning? Jesus, you look like someone stole your playbook and set it on fire.”
I stab the elevator button hard enough to bruise. “I said don’t.”
Luke studies me for a beat, brows raised. “You’re off. More than usual. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I snap.
“Yeah, okay.” He leans against the wall, watching me as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You look like a guy with…complications. Like six foot, golden boy shaped complications.”
I almost laugh. Complications is one word for letting your ex-best-friend-slash-quarterback deep-throating you and then waking up aching for it again.
But I just mutter, “Drop it.”
Luke lets it go, for now, but I can feel his eyes on me all the way down to the lobby.
And under the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of bad hotel coffee, all I can think about is last night.
The way Colton’s throat squeezed around me. The way he shuddered when I praised him and told him he was my fuck-toy. The way I already want to shove him back down and watch him take it all over again .
I ball my hands into fists. I’m so goddamn screwed.
The lobby smells of burnt coffee and those pre-packaged muffins no one ever actually eats. A couple of my teammates are already sprawled across the breakfast area, laughing at something on one of their phones. I can hear the low rumble of ESPN from the mounted TV above the cereal station.
And then I see him.
Colton.
He’s leaning against the counter by the juice machine, still in his travel shorts, hair a perfect mess that somehow looks deliberate. He’s got that easy, Golden boy smile plastered on his face—the one that makes coaches, cheerleaders, and donors eat out of his hand.
And I hate it.
Because all I can see is his mouth swollen from my cock. The way his throat flexed when I pushed past his tongue. The way he whimpered like he wanted it, like he wanted me, even if he’ll pretend otherwise in daylight.
He spots me, and for a split second, that smile falters. Just a flicker. Then it’s back, bright as the sun.
“Morning,” he says as if nothing happened. As though he didn't rut against me until he spilled in his shorts, and I didn’t fuck his mouth until he whimpered like a desperate little?—
I yank open the mini-fridge and grab a bottle of water before I can do something stupid, like cross the room and remind him what that throat is for.
Luke slides into the chair across from me with a plate piled high with bacon. He glances toward Colton and then back at me, eyebrows raised. “Oookay. Whatever that is…” He gestures between me and Colton as though he’s tracing a live wire. “I can practically smell the drama. ”
I glare at my water bottle. “Eat your bacon, Luke.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I could get popcorn instead.”
I bite back a curse and focus on peeling the label off the bottle, because if I look at Colton again, I’m going to remember the way his lips went slack around me, the little choked sound he made that made my whole body shudder, and the way his thighs trembled like he wanted more.
And I shouldn’t want to see it again.
I really shouldn’t want to drag him upstairs, throw him on that hotel bed, and tell him to take me properly this time.
But when his laugh carries across the breakfast room—easy, warm, so fake—I nearly crush the water bottle in my fist.
Luke whistles low. “Yup. Definitely drama. And whatever it is…you’re losing.”
The walk-through should feel routine. It should be automatic—the same drills, the same signals, the same routes we’ve run a hundred times.
But nothing about this feels normal.
Not when I can feel him behind me.
Colton’s voice is all confidence as he calls the cadence, barking out plays for the second-string receivers. He’s sunshine and leadership and every damn thing the world thinks he is. Meanwhile, I can barely keep my helmet straight, because every time I line up, I’m aware of him.
The weight of last night is all over me.
The way his throat tightened around me. The soft, broken sound he made when I shoved deep and held him there, his fingers curling into the sheets like he didn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away.
My cock twitches in my compression shorts, and I swear under my breath, jerking my helmet off once Coach dismisses us to the locker room.
I just need a shower. A reset. Something.
The locker room is loud—guys joking, pads hitting benches—but it all fades the second I spot him across the room. He’s mid-laugh at something Caleb said, still in that fake-easy mood, peeling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion that shows off every line of his back.
My hands remember.
The way his spine arched when I pinned him down. The way his hips stuttered when I let him grind himself to release, desperate and soaked.
And then he turns just enough to catch me staring.
His lips curve—not the real smile, not the one he used to give me at two a.m. in his basement—but a tiny smirk, a flicker of awareness that slices through my temper.
I slam my locker shut.
“Problem?” he asks, voice low enough that the others won’t hear.
I stalk toward him, close enough that the smell of his soap and sweat tangles with memory. “You gonna play golden boy all day, or you gonna admit what you begged for last night?” I grouse.
His breath hitches, but he tilts his chin up, stubborn. “I didn’t?—”
I lean in, my voice a whisper against his ear. “Your throat says otherwise.”
He shivers.
Luke’s voice cuts through from a few lockers down. “Hey, l ovebirds, you’re creeping everybody out. Either make out or fight already.”
The guys laugh, but Colton’s face goes red, and I can see the flicker of something dark in his eyes—arousal, humiliation, want.
And I know I’ve got him.
I wait until the laughter dies down and guys start peeling off toward the showers. Steam curls out from the tiled corner of the locker room, the hiss of water mixing with the echo of voices.
I follow, slow, deliberate.
Colton’s in the last stall, of course, back to the wall as if he can disappear into it. The shower curtain not closed completely. He’s scrubbing his hair, eyes closed, water cascading over his shoulders. His lips are pink from the heat, parted just enough to make my cock ache.
I step into his stall without a word. Sliding the shower curtain shut behind me. This college has private showers, and I'm going to take full advantage of it.
He startles, slamming back against the tile. “Micah?—”
I crowd him in, letting the spray hit my back. “What?” My voice is low and dangerous. “You were brave enough to open your mouth last night. Suddenly shy?”
His throat bobs. I watch it move, remembering exactly how it felt constricting around me. My hand lands on the wall next to his head, close enough that he can’t escape.
“Micah…” It’s a whisper, broken.
I reach down, and he doesn’t stop me. His cock is already hard again, pressing against my palm as though it’s been waiting for me all day. I give him one slow stroke, just enough to make him shudder.
“Pathetic,” I murmur against his jaw, feeling the scrape of his stubble against my cheek. “Came in your shorts last night, and here you are, hard for me again.”
He whimpers—quiet, but it’s there. His fingers curl against the tile like he needs something to hold on to.
“You’d let me take you right here if I wanted, wouldn’t you?” I breathe against his ear. “Water running, team just outside, and you’d still spread for me.”
He doesn’t answer, but his hips jerk forward, his body betraying him.
I grin, cruelly against his lips. “Not ready for that, though, are you?” I give him another stroke, slower this time, savoring the way he trembles.
His breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, and I know he’s right there.
I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Come for me, Golden Boy. Show me how much you hate this. How much it embarrasses you to want my touch on you.”
Hot water pounds against the tile, turning the air to steam. I’ve got him trapped against the wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other wrapped around him. He’s already trembling, his hips jerking helplessly, and I know his body belongs to me now.
When he finally comes, it’s a shuddering mess of a release—his jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, his whole body bowing and breaking for me. It spills hot over my fist, only to wash away under the spray like it never existed.
I don’t let him hide. I stay close enough for him to feel my breath on his cheek as I run my thumb through the last of it that the water hadn’t caught, and bring it to my mouth, tasting him.
“Pathetic,” I say softly, cruelly, letting the word sink in. “What would your mom say? ”
His throat bobs, his face flaming red under the water. He can’t even look at me.
“What do you do with this now? Go back into the closet? Pretend you don't want me to fuck you?”
He makes a choked noise, somewhere between a groan and a plea, and I can see it—the part of him that hates that he wants this. Hates that I know.
I dip my head closer, brushing my lips near his ear without touching. “You’re mine in here,” I murmur. “No one else even has a chance. You’ll be thinking about my hands…my mouth…until I decide I want you again.”
When I finally step back, he’s still hard despite coming, his chest rising and falling fast. I grab my towel, not looking back as I leave him in the shower, aching for something he can't have, because he knows I’m right.