CHAPTER 18
MATEO
GROOVER'S APARTMENT DOOR clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world shrinks to just this space—just us. No teammates watching, no drunk hockey players with stopwatches, no audience. Just me and him and the silent question hanging in the air between us.
What happens now?
I've never been this keyed up in my life. The Uber ride from Becker's place was twenty minutes of exquisite torture, our thighs pressed together in the backseat, Groover's fingers drawing idle patterns on my knee while we maintained the absolute minimum socially acceptable conversation with our chatty driver who apparently recognized Groover and wanted to discuss the power play strategy for the entire fucking ride.
"Drink?" Groover asks, breaking the loaded silence as he shrugs off his jacket.
I nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the tension thick enough to spread on toast. "Whatever you're having."
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me standing awkwardly in his living room. And even though I’ve been here before, it feels different tonight.
Electric.
Like the furniture might bite.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, trying to get my shit together.
Groover returns with two glasses of what looks like whiskey. His smile is easy but his eyes are careful, watching me like I might bolt at any second.
Which is fair. I feel like I might.
"I figured we could use something to take the edge off," he says, handing me a glass. "Though maybe that's just me."
I take a sip, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. "Trust me, it's not just you."
We stand there for a moment, the space between us charged with possibilities, neither making the first move. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sound of traffic seventeen floors below and the faint bass from his neighbor's music.
"Look," Groover says finally, setting his glass down on the side table. "I should probably say—"
"If you're about to give me an out, don't," I interrupt, placing my glass next to his with a decisive click. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
His eyes darken at that, pupils expanding as he takes a step closer. "And where's that?"
"Here," I say simply, closing the remaining distance. "With you."
I reach for him first, fisting my hand in the front of his shirt and pulling him to me. Our mouths collide with none of the hesitation from before, just heat and hunger and the sharp edge of desire too long denied.
His hands find my hips immediately, strong fingers digging in as he walks me backward until I hit the wall beside his entertainment center. The solid surface at my back and his body at my front creates a delicious pressure that pulls a sound from deep in my chest.
Groover breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along my jaw, down to my throat. His stubble scrapes against my skin, the slight burn a counterpoint to the soft heat of his lips. When he finds the pulse point at the base of my neck and sucks, my hips buck involuntarily against his.
"Fuck," I gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders.
I can feel his smile against my skin—not a smirk, but something more satisfied, almost predatory. He does it again, harder this time, and I'm pretty sure my bones turn to liquid on the spot.
My hands are everywhere, unable to settle, wanting to touch all of him at once. I slide them under the hem of his t-shirt, finally making contact with the hot skin of his lower back. The muscles there flex under my fingers as he presses closer.
"Too many clothes," I manage, tugging impatiently at his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine for any hesitation. Finding none, he reaches behind his neck and yanks his shirt off in one smooth movement, dropping it carelessly to the floor.
The sight knocks the wind out of me. I've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never with permission to look, to touch. Never with the knowledge that all this is temporarily mine.
His chest is a study in contrasts: broad and powerful but marked with evidence of vulnerability—a jagged scar cutting across his ribs, another on his shoulder, smaller nicks and marks scattered across his skin like constellations. I reach out, tracing the largest scar with my fingertips.
"Hockey?" I ask.
"High stick. Rookie year," he confirms, sucking in a breath when my hand drifts lower, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his jeans. "Your turn."
The request hangs in the air. I hesitate only briefly before grabbing the hem of my own shirt and pulling it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. I resist the urge to cross my arms, to hide from his gaze.
The look on his face makes any insecurity evaporate instantly. His eyes track over me like I'm something rare and precious, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.
"Jesus," he breathes, reaching out to lay his palm flat against my sternum. "Look at you."
His hand is burning hot against my skin, large enough to span a significant portion of my chest. He slides it lower, over my ribs, my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my jeans. My muscles jump under his touch, my body responding to him with embarrassing eagerness.
He steps closer again, eliminating the space between us, and the first press of skin against skin pulls identical sounds from both our throats. His chest is hard against mine, the hair there creating a friction I've never experienced before. His hands slide around to my back, pulling me even closer as his mouth finds mine again.
This kiss is deeper, hungrier, all pretense of restraint abandoned. His tongue slides against mine, tasting faintly of whiskey and desire. I arch into him, wanting—needing—more contact, more friction, more everything.
He shifts his weight, pressing his thigh between my legs, and the pressure against my dick makes my vision blur at the edges. I break the kiss on a gasp, head thumping back against the wall. Groover takes the opportunity to attack my neck again, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he rocks his thigh deliberately against me.
"Fucking hell," I hiss, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
He chuckles against my throat, the sound vibrating through me. "Sensitive there?"
In response, I slide my hand between us, palming the impressive bulge in his jeans. His laugh cuts off into a choked groan, hips jerking forward into my touch.
"Two can play," I manage, squeezing lightly to emphasize my point.
His pupils blow wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises. "Bedroom," he says, voice dropped to a register I've never heard from him before. "Now."
I nod, not trusting my voice. He grabs my hand and practically drags me down the hallway. Before my brain has a chance to fully catch up, Groover is turning to me, hands cupping my face as he kisses me again, walking me backward until my legs hit the edge of the mattress. He follows me down as I fall, catching his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush me.
The new position aligns our bodies perfectly, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, the friction of his cock against mine sends sparks shooting up my spine. I'm suddenly, painfully aware of how hard I am, how every nerve ending seems to be focused on the point where our bodies meet.
"Can I?" he asks, hand hovering at the button of my jeans.
"Please," I nod, lifting my hips to give him better access.
He makes quick work of the button and zipper, easing some of the pressure that's been building since Becker's balcony. Then he sits back on his heels between my legs, looking down at me with hunger that would be scary if I wasn’t so fucking turned on.
"Lift," he instructs, and I raise my hips again so he can tug my jeans down and off. I'm left in just my boxer briefs, the thin black cotton doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected I am by him.
"Your turn," I say, propping myself up on my elbows. "Only fair."
A flash of something—amusement? appreciation?—crosses his face before he stands to shuck his own jeans. The denim slides down powerful thighs dusted with dark hair, revealing tight black boxer briefs that cling to every impressive inch of him.
Holy shit.
He rejoins me on the bed, settling his weight half on top of me, one thigh slotted between mine. The feeling of skin against skin from chest to ankle is overwhelming in the best possible way. His hand slides up my side, over my ribs, thumb brushing across my nipple in a movement that might be accidental if not for the way his eyes track my reaction.
"Do that again," I breathe, and he does, deliberately this time, watching as I arch into the touch.
"Sensitive," he notes, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good to know."
Before I can respond, he dips his head and replaces his thumb with his mouth, lips closing around the hardened nub. The wet heat of his tongue sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my dick, and I let out a sound that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity for shame left.
Encouraged, he moves to give the other nipple the same treatment, one hand sliding down to grip my hip, holding me in place as I try to arch for more friction. He's teasing now, deliberately avoiding the place I most want him to touch.
"Groover," I groan, frustrated beyond belief. "Come on."
He lifts his head, eyes dark with desire. "Patience," he says, pressing a kiss to my sternum. "We've got all night."
"I might not last all night if you keep this up," I admit, and his resulting grin is downright sinful.
He shifts lower, trailing kisses down my torso, tongue dipping briefly into my navel in a way that makes my stomach muscles clench. When he reaches the waistband of my boxers, he looks up at me, a silent question in his eyes.
"Yes," I say, lifting my hips in clear invitation. "Please."
He hooks his fingers under the elastic and slowly—torturously slowly—pulls the fabric down, freeing my aching cock. The cool air hits the heated skin, making me hiss. Groover sits back again, eyes raking over me with undisguised hunger.
"Fucking gorgeous," he says, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my face flush.
Before I can respond, he wraps his hand around me, and every coherent thought flies out of my head. His palm is calloused from years of hockey sticks and weights, creating a friction that has me seeing stars. He strokes once, twice, testing, learning what makes my breath catch.
"Like that?" he asks, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.
"Yes," I gasp, hips bucking involuntarily. "Fuck, yes."
He establishes a rhythm that's just on the edge of too much, too intense, his grip firm but not tight. With his free hand, he pushes my thighs farther apart, opening me up to his gaze, his touch. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but all I feel is desperate need.
Just when I think I can't take anymore without exploding, he stops, releasing me to tug his own boxers down. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. My mouth waters at the sight, a reaction that would surprise me if I had any brain cells left for analysis.
He lowers himself back onto me, and the first press of his naked erection against mine pulls matching groans from both our throats. He spits into his palm—a move that should be gross but is somehow the hottest thing I've ever seen—and wraps his hand around both of us, creating a tight channel for us to thrust into.
"Oh fuck," I choke out, the sensation of his cock sliding against mine, both encased in his firm grip, nearly short-circuiting my brain. "That's—that's—"
"Yeah," he agrees, voice strained. "I know."
He starts to move, setting a pace that has me clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything I can reach. Each stroke sends jolts of pleasure up my spine, building toward something that feels bigger, more intense than anything I've experienced before.
His hand is slick now with both our precome, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room alongside our ragged breathing. He shifts his weight to get a better angle, and the change in pressure makes my back bow off the mattress.
"Look at you," he says, voice raw with want. "So fucking responsive. So perfect."
His words push me closer to the edge, a tightening at the base of my spine warning that I won't last much longer. I reach between us, my hand joining his, both of us working together now. The added pressure, the intimacy of touching both him and myself at once, is overwhelming.
"Groover—I can't—" My words come out broken.
"I've got you," he says, pressing his forehead against mine, his rhythm faltering as his own control slips. "Come for me, Mateo. Let me see you."
My orgasm hits like a lightning strike, every muscle tensing as pleasure crashes through me in waves. I'm dimly aware of crying out, of my body arching like a bowstring pulled too tight, of wet heat spilling over our joined hands and onto my stomach.
Through the haze of pleasure, I feel Groover's body go rigid above me, his cock pulsing against mine as he follows me over the edge with a deep groan that I feel more than hear. He collapses half on top of me, face buried in my neck, both of us breathing hard as if we've just run a marathon.
The stillness that follows is mesmerizing.
His weight is heavy but not uncomfortable, anchoring me to reality as my brain slowly comes back online.
Eventually, he lifts his head, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in all directions from my hands. His lips are swollen, a flush high on his cheekbones. He looks wrecked in the best possible way.
"So," he says eventually. "That was..."
"If you say 'nice,' I might have to hit you," I warn, earning a startled laugh.
"I was going to say 'fucking incredible,' actually," he corrects. "But I was also going to ask if you're okay."
I take stock—physically satisfied in a way I've never experienced. Mentally trying to process the seismic shift that just occurred. Emotionally... complicated.
"Yeah," I say, surprised to find it's true. "I'm good. You?"
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Better than good."
He rolls to the side, disappearing briefly into the adjoining bathroom. He returns with a warm washcloth, cleaning me up with surprising tenderness before tossing it in the direction of the hamper.
"Stay," he says, settling back on the bed beside me. It's not a question, but I hear the unspoken option to refuse.
I think about my apartment, about the texts from my father still unanswered, about the contract and the arrangement and all the complications waiting in the real world. Then I look at Groover—at Ansel—watching me with those warm brown eyes, and find I don't want to be anywhere else.
"Okay," I say, and the smile that breaks across his face is worth any complications tomorrow might bring.
He pulls me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. The solid heat of him at my back is new but undeniably right, like a puzzle piece I didn't know was missing until it clicked into place.
"Ansel?" I whisper, his real name rolling off my tongue with satisfying ease.
"Mmm?" His voice is already thick with approaching sleep.
I have a thousand questions. What does this mean? Where do we go from here? Is this still part of our arrangement, or something else entirely? But they're all too big, too complicated for this moment.
"Nothing," I say instead. "Just... this was good."
His arm tightens around me, lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of my neck. "Yeah, it was."
As I drift toward sleep, my phone buzzes from the floor where my jeans landed. Another text from my father, no doubt, another reminder of the real world waiting beyond this bedroom door. But for now, wrapped in Groover's arms, I let myself exist in this moment, in this discovery, in this connection I never saw coming.
Tomorrow is for questions. Tonight is just for this.