25. Colton #2
The whole ride to the pizza place is an exercise in self-control. Micah leans back, his arm stretching across the seat behind me, casual, like it’s nothing. But his fingers brush my shoulder once…twice. And I’m stuck there, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how badly I want him to touch me again.
He pulls his arm away and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. Clearly satisfied with teasing me.
The bus rattles along the back roads toward Frank ’s Pizza, and the team is buzzing with post-win energy. Guys are shouting over each other, reliving the last touchdown. Someone’s speaker is blasting throwback rap from the back row. It’s chaos.
But for me? It’s quiet. Because Micah is right here.
He sits pressed against the window, arms crossed, totally relaxed—but his knee brushes mine with every bump in the road. I can’t tell if it’s an accident. Probably isn’t. He hasn’t looked at me since we got on, but I can feel him. Like a sun I’m orbiting without permission.
A laugh erupts somewhere behind us, followed by a, “Yo, Taylor, that last play was sick!”
I throw up a hand without turning, letting the guys think I’m cool, unbothered. But inside? My head is still in that hotel room, his mouth on me less than an hour ago, the taste of him on my tongue last night, and the way I almost begged him to flip me over and fuck me.
Micah’s knuckles flex against his bicep, catching my eye. He’s not smiling. Not even close. But under the team’s noise, his voice rumbles, meant only for me.
“You keep staring at me,” he says, low, “and everyone’s gonna know.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I look past him, out the dark window, but I don’t move my leg. If anything, I press closer, reckless and craving the friction.
When the bus finally squeals to a stop in front of Frank’s Pizza, the smell of grease and garlic drifts in before the doors even open. The team hollers like it’s Christmas morning, already talking about stuffed crust and wings.
Micah stands behind me, as we let the aisle clear first, then leans close as we shuffle out. His voice is a low whisper against my ear, making me shiver .
“Better eat fast,” he says. “I’m not done with you, Golden Boy.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost miss the step off the bus. The streetlight catches on his smirk as he follows the others inside, leaving me to swallow the heat in my chest and the ache in my sweats before I join him.
Frank’s Pizza is loud the second we pile in, the scent of melted cheese and fried dough makes my stomach grumble as we step inside. It’s chaos trying to get twenty guys into a single section, the adrenaline of the win vibrating through the room.
I end up at the edge of a long table with Caleb on one side and two sophomores on the other.
Across from me, Micah drops down next to Luke, with Will and Ty sliding in beside him.
He doesn’t look at me—not really—but his presence hits as hard as a linebacker.
My entire body is tuned to him, and I could probably track his every move blindfolded.
The waitress starts taking drink orders, and the table roars with overlapping conversations. Luke is already reenacting the last play, hands flying, Ty laughing so hard he almost knocks over a water.
Then, under the normal high energy after a win, I feel it. The unmistakable brush of a sneaker against my shin.
I stiffen, glancing up. Micah is leaning back, one arm draped over the empty chair next to him, completely at ease, nodding at something Will just said. He doesn’t even flick his gaze my way—but his foot drags up the inside of my calf, slow and deliberate.
My pulse jumps. I shift in my seat, praying Caleb is too busy inhaling his garlic knots to notice the way my breath hitches.
Luke slaps Micah on the shoulder, grinning. “Dude, you were e verywhere tonight. That block on the third down? Saved our asses.”
Micah’s lips curve, not a smile, not really. “Just doing my job.” His foot presses higher, catching the hem of my sweats. “Some of us show up where we’re needed.”
I choke on my water. Caleb thumps my back, laughing. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I croak, forcing a grin that feels as though it’s stapled to my face. “Went down the wrong pipe.”
But nothing about this is wrong. It’s dangerous, it’s reckless, and I can’t stop the ache in my gut, or the way I keep waiting for the next brush of his foot.
When the first pizzas land, greasy and steaming, I dig in just to give my hands something to do. Micah finally glances at me, just for a second, his expression unreadable to anyone else—but I see it. The promise. If anticipation is foreplay, he’s an expert at it.
And my whole body responds, traitorous and eager, while my teammates laugh and shove and talk about the game as if I’m not one bad move away from giving us both away.
The noise in Frank’s is a blur now—Luke’s story about some freshman puking in his helmet, Will groaning about having to drive the equipment van home, Ty calling for extra ranch.
All I can focus on is the slow, deliberate drag of Micah’s now socked foot up my leg. I don't know how he got his shoe off, but I know it's him.
It starts at my ankle, featherlight, and every muscle in my body goes taut. I know I should move. Shift. Do something before someone notices. But I don’t.
I can’t .
He presses higher, the arch of his foot tracing my calf, then my knee. My words die in my throat mid-sentence, the sound I make strangled enough that Caleb frowns.
“You good?” he asks again, squinting.
I nod quickly, shoving a bite of pizza into my mouth as if that can hide the heat crawling up my neck. “Hot cheese,” I mumble. “Burned my tongue.”
Micah doesn’t even look at me, which somehow makes it worse. He leans toward Luke, all casual, all team-player charm, while his foot slides into my lap.
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose.
My sweats do nothing to hide the way I’m already half-hard, and the first brush of his toes against me is like an electric shock. My hips jerk, the table rattling just enough to make Caleb glance at me again.
Micah keeps talking to Luke, voice easy, smooth—acting as though he’s not using his toes to stroke along the shape of me through thin fabric.
My fingers curl tight around the edge of the table.
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to beg him for more. I don’t even know anymore.
When his big toe presses just under the curve of my cock, heat explodes in my gut. I hunch over a little, trying to mask the way my breath stutters.
“—Colt?” Caleb says, nudging my arm. “You were saying?”
I blink, struggling to remember what I was even trying to say. “I—uh—yeah, no, uh?—”
Micah flexes his toes against me, cruel and perfect.
A sound leaves my throat that isn’t words, and I finally snap. My hand darts under the table, grabbing his fo ot and holding it still, my grip tight enough to make my knuckles ache.
He finally looks at me. Just a flick of his eyes, sharp and knowing. And his lips curl into that infuriating, devastating half-smirk.
I’m sweating, panting like I just ran a two-minute drill, while he eats another slice of pizza, the picture of innocence.
“I—uh—bathroom,” I mumble, already sliding out of the booth. My chair scrapes the tile, earning a couple curious glances from the team, but no one stops me.
I walk fast—too fast—my sweats doing nothing to hide how hard I am. My pulse hammers in my ears as I push into the single-stall bathroom and lock the door behind me.
I lean against the sink, trying to breathe, to get my body under control.
No chance.
I’m still hard as steel, the phantom memory of his toes against me making my whole body ache.
The handle jiggles. Then the door clicks open, lock bypassed by the tiny coin on the outside—restaurant staff style.
Micah slips in and shuts it behind him. He closes the space, and his hands are on my waist, moving me where he wants me. And, of course, I go willingly, because I am gone for this man. He’s right. I’m basically his.
He’s all heat and broad shoulders as he presses me against the door, the wood cool against my back, his chest solid against mine.
“You really thought you were getting away from me?” he murmurs, his nose running along my earlobe as he breathes me in.
“Micah—someone could?— ”
“Shh.” He presses his palm over me through the thin gray sweats, and I almost fold in half.
A sharp hiss escapes me, my head knocking lightly against the door.
“Maybe gray sweats were a bad idea,” he taunts, voice dripping with sarcasm and heat. His hand cups me fully now, the heel of his palm pressing just right. “Shows everything, Colt.”
I choke on a sound halfway between a whine and a moan.
“Bet the whole team would know exactly what I’m doing to you,” he continues, slow and cruel, his thumb brushing over my length. “Maybe they already do. You left the table looking like you were ready to beg.”
“Micah…” My voice is a broken plea, my hands gripping his hoodie as if I’ll drown without him.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Tell me you want it.”
His hand leaves my cock, and for one brief, gutting second, I think he’s done with me.
Then he presses closer—hips forward, chest to chest—and I feel him. Hard. Heavy. The thick ridge of him grinding against mine through his jeans and my thin sweats.
I choke on a sound that might be a moan. Might be another plea. My hands fly to his shoulders, gripping tight as his hips roll into me, slow and deliberate, controlling the rhythm.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
“Yeah, you feel that?” Micah’s voice is a low growl against my ear. He pushes again, harder, the friction setting fire to every nerve. “That’s how bad I want you. Right here. Right now.”
Our cocks slide against each other through the layers, a hot, m addening friction that makes my knees weak. I arch into him without thinking, chasing every scrap of pressure like I haven’t been touched in years.
“Micah—” My voice breaks on his name, again.
He grips my hips, holding me where he wants me, grinding against me with a slow, punishing rhythm. Each roll of his hips makes me bite my lip to hold in a sound that would give us away to the entire restaurant.
“You’re so fucking hard for me,” he murmurs, the edge of a cruel smirk in his tone. “Bet you’re already thinking about me bending you over this sink. About how good I’d stretch your tight little ass if you came prepared.”
A broken whimper slips out before I can swallow it.
“God, I can feel you throbbing,” he whispers, dragging his length over mine in another slow grind. “So fucking needy, Colt. Can’t even make it through dinner without me.”
I nod helplessly, head falling back against the door as my hips rock up to meet him, chasing friction as if I might die without it.
Micah’s hips grind harder, setting a slow, merciless rhythm. My cock jerks against his with every pass, the friction through my thin sweats enough to make my vision blur.
“You like this,” he murmurs, voice dark and low against my ear. His breath is hot, his tone taunting. “Getting worked up like some desperate little bitch in the bathroom. I can feel how close you are already.”
A strangled sound escapes me as my head thumps back against the door.
“Micah—”
He hums, dragging his length over mine in a slow, deliberate grind that makes my toes curl in my sneakers. “You gonna come in your sweats for me again? Huh? Soaked through before the team even finishes their pizza?”
“F-fuck,” I choke out, hips jerking helplessly to meet his. My cock twitches, the heat coiling so tight I can barely breathe.
He smirks against my neck, the scruff on his jaw catching on my skin. “Look at you. So fucking hard. So easy. All I gotta do is grind on you a little, and you’re ready to lose it.”
I groan, biting down on my lip, because he’s right, and it’s humiliating how much I love it.
“You want me to let you come?” he asks, voice wicked and soft, a soft secret. He grinds harder, pinning me fully to the door. “Or should I stop and make you sit across from me, dripping, knowing I could’ve finished you off with two more strokes?”
The threat has my cock throbbing against him, my hands curling into his hoodie in a silent plea. “Please,” I whisper, shame and need twisting together in my gut.
“Yeah,” he says with a low chuckle, rolling his hips one last time with purpose. “Beg for it, Colt. Beg me to let you make a mess for me.”
“Please, Micah—fuck, please?—”
He crushes our cocks together with one final grind, and I break apart. My hips jerk, my mouth falling open on a soundless cry as I spill hot and messy into my sweats, shuddering against him.
Fuuuccckk. I arch against him. That’s the second time in twenty-four hours he’s made me come in my pants.
Micah holds me through it, his hand splayed low on my back, his own cock still hard and heavy against me. “Good boy,” he murmurs against my jaw. “So fucking good for me.”
The shame and euphoria twist in my chest, making it imposs ible to think straight. I can already hear the voices of our teammates echoing down the hall, and my knees are barely holding me up.
Micah leans back just enough to smirk down at me, his hand giving my ass a squeeze. “Better clean up fast,” he says. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know how much of a mess I can make you with just my cock against yours.”