25. Colton
TWENTY-FIVE
COLTON
The stadium lights are brutal. Hot. Blinding. They turn the field into a stage, and I feel as though every mistake I make tonight is under a microscope.
I should be locked in. Quarterback. Leader. Cool under pressure.
Instead, I’m jittery, every muscle remembering last night. The drag of scruff on my throat. The weight of him over me. The way I came apart for him, as if I’d been waiting years for it. His fist stroking me in the shower. Fuck.
The ball snaps. I fumble it. Recover, scramble. Nearly get sacked.
Coach is yelling. The crowd is restless. And I can feel Micah’s eyes burning into me from the line as though he knows exactly what’s got me off my game.
By the time I get back to the sideline, I've spit my mouthguard out, and I’m muttering to myself. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t think like this?—”
A hand snags my face mask and jerks me forward, and suddenly he’s right there. Micah. His own helmet still on, eyes d ark through the bars, voice a low growl that cuts through the noise of the stadium.
“Shut up and score,” he bites out. “Get out of your head.”
It’s not just a command—it’s a challenge. A reminder. A threat.
My breath catches. My heart slams. He’s close enough that I can see the smear of black paint under his eye and feel the heat of him even through all the pads.
Then he shoves my helmet back, pushing me away. “Get your head in the game, QB. Or I swear I’ll bench you myself.”
It shouldn’t thrill me. It shouldn’t make my blood pump hotter than the crowd ever could.
But it does.
The huddle is a blur. I barely hear the play. My mouthguard is back in, my hands flexing in my gloves, heart pounding louder than the crowd.
Micah’s voice is still in my head. Shut up and score.
The ball snaps.
Everything slows down.
The line holds for half a breath—just long enough for me to see my opening. My legs move before my brain does. I roll right, dodge a linebacker by inches, and sprint. The end zone is the only thing in the universe that matters.
Cheers swell in my ears.
One defender dives, fingers grazing my hip, but I twist away, lungs burning, cleats digging deep. My body knows this game, knows this field. And in this moment, I know exactly who I’m doing it for.
I cross the line, the ball tight to my chest, and the roar is deafening. Teammates swarm, clapping my helmet, shouti ng my name, but none of it hits me the same way he does.
Micah.
He jogs up slow from the line, pads gleaming under the lights, mouth curved in that cocky almost-smile that used to drive me crazy when we were kids—and now makes my stomach clench and my blood ignite.
He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t even speak.
He just claps me on the shoulder pad—firm, possessive—and in that split second, my whole body lights up as if it’s wired straight to him. Heat shoots down my spine. My chest tightens.
The noise of the stadium is a tidal wave as we jog off the field, helmets knocking against shoulder pads, teammates yelling in my ear. My chest heaves, adrenaline buzzing like I swallowed lightning.
Micah falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms almost brush. He waits until the crowd’s roar swallows the world, until no one can hear but me.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips barely moving.
My knees nearly buckle.
It’s not loud. Not cruel. Just…possessive. Deliberate. A reminder of last night and exactly who owns the part of me I keep pretending doesn’t exist.
Heat surges straight to my gut, and I have to keep my helmet tilted down so no one sees the way my mouth parts, the way my body betrays me.
Micah smirks, already peeling off toward the bench, pretending nothing happened and leaving me standing there with my blood pounding in my ears and my heart sprinting harder than my legs ever could.
The hotel door clicks shut behind us.
I don’t even have time to set my bag down before Micah spins me, my back hitting the door with a soft thud. His mouth crashes into mine, all teeth and heat and punishment. I groan against his lips, my hands scrambling for his shoulders, as though I’ve been starving for this all day…because I have.
The kiss turns feral fast. His tongue slides against mine, stealing the air from my lungs, and his hands grip my hips like he’s deciding whether to hold me up or pin me against the door.
My pulse hammers in my ears, and the taste of him—the faint tang of Gatorade and heat—is everything I didn’t know I needed.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he mutters against my mouth, dragging his teeth over my bottom lip before sucking it hard enough to make me gasp. “Watching you play like that…watching you listen to me on the field.”
“Micah—” I manage, but I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
He doesn’t give me time to figure it out.
Strong hands push my hoodie up, his fingers tracing the line of my abs, all possessive heat. My breath stutters, my back pressing harder against the door as heat pools low in my stomach.
Then he drops to his knees.
My brain shorts out.
Micah looks up at me from the floor, blue eyes dark, a wicked curve to his mouth. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my sweats and tugs just enough to make me twitch.
“I’ve been thinking about this since I tasted you in the shower ,” he says, voice a low growl that slides straight through me. “About how good you taste. About how you sound when you’re trying not to beg.”
My throat is dry. My fingers curl against the doorframe to keep from sinking to the floor with him.
“I want you in my mouth, Colt,” he murmurs, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I want to taste all of you. Let me have you.”
My head thumps back against the door as Micah shoves my sweats down, my cock springing free into his palm. I’m already hard, already leaking, and his low, satisfied hum vibrates straight through my spine.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, before dragging his tongue up my length in one slow, possessive lick. My knees nearly buckle.
Then his mouth closes over the tip, hot and wet and sinful. I choke out a sound I didn’t know I could make, my fingers tangling in his hair. He doesn’t wait. He takes me deeper, steady and sure, his throat flexing as I slide against that tight, perfect heat.
“Micah—” I gasp, but he only hums around me, the vibration making me twitch against his tongue. His hand grips my thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding me in place as he sets a punishing rhythm, sucking me, and claiming every sound I make as his own.
A knock rattles the door behind me, jolting through my whole body.
“Yo, QB!” Caleb’s voice booms through the wood, cheerful and oblivious. “Come on, man! We’re grabbing pizza to celebrate that last touchdown. You and Blackman alive in there?”
I can’t answer. My mouth opens, a strangled noise slippi ng out as Micah swallows me deeper, his blue eyes glinting with wicked triumph. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he sucks harder, cupping my balls in his palm at the same time, dragging a groan from my chest that I can’t smother.
“Uh—y-yeah!” I stammer, voice cracking as heat coils in my gut. “I’m—ah—g-good!”
Caleb laughs. “Alright, don’t take too long! We’re starving!” His footsteps fade down the hall.
Micah pulls back just long enough to whisper against the tip, his voice low and lethal. “Be a good boy. Come for me while your teammate thinks you’re tying your damn shoes.”
My whole body locks up. The thrill, the impossible heat of his throat—my orgasm rips through me with a helpless, choked moan. Micah swallows every drop, holding me up by the thighs until the world stops shaking.
He pulls back with a wet pop, his mouth slick, and smirks up at me like the devil himself. “That’s my good quarterback,” he murmurs, voice dipped in mockery and heat all at once.
By the time I come out of the bathroom, my face is no longer red, and my clothing is back in place.
My body’s humming with the memory of his mouth, his tongue, the cold brush of that piercing, and his hands so fucking possessive on my thighs.
My throat’s dry, my hands twitchy as though they need somewhere to go.
Micah’s sprawled on the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone and acting as though he didn’t just ruin me.
His gaze flicks up for a single second, catching mine, and that half-smirk curls his mouth.
I feel it in my gut. He knows I’m thinking about it—about what it would be like if I was on my stomach, sweats peeled down, if he finally gave me everything I’ve been craving .
“Team’s waiting,” I mutter, then clear my throat, because those words came out croaked.
He stands and stretches, all lazy, predatory grace. As he walks past me, his hand ghosts over the small of my back, barely a brush of fingertips through cotton, but it might as well be a brand. My pulse jumps.
By the time we make it outside, the night air is cool, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for the heat coiled in me.
Guys are laughing and shoving each other around the bus steps, still buzzed from the win.
I paste on my perfect golden boy quarterback smile, and pretend my body isn’t still betraying me.
Micah climbs the bus first, and I follow on autopilot.
I can’t even imagine sitting somewhere that isn’t in his orbit.
Our arms bump, his warmth bleeding into me.
When I slide into the seat beside him, his thigh presses against mine, the fabric of my sweats soft and thin enough that I feel him anyway.
My cock twitches, traitorous, remembering the pressure of his hand, his mouth.
Caleb drops into the seat across the aisle, grinning. “Good game, man. You looked…amped tonight.”
I force a casual shrug. “Yeah. Felt good.”
Micah hums low in his chest, a sound meant for me alone, and my fingers tighten on my phone.