CHAPTER 21
GROOVER
CANDLES? CHECK. MUSIC? Low enough that it suggests mood lighting without screaming "I'm trying to get laid." Bedroom? I've changed my sheets twice and vacuumed under the bed like my mother might conduct a white-glove inspection. Lube? Hidden in the nightstand where it’s accessible but not sitting out like some kind of fucked-up charcuterie board.
Christ, I'm actually nervous. Me. A professional athlete who regularly gets body-checked by guys twice my size in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. Nervous about getting a guy naked. What is this, junior prom?
The knock on my door sends my heart rate skyrocketing like I've just done a line sprint. I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair one last time before opening the door.
Holy shit.
Mateo stands in my hallway looking like someone photoshopped a GQ model into my mundane life. Dark jeans that hug his thighs in ways that makes my head spin. A forest green button-down that makes his skin glow golden under the hallway lights. His hair is artfully messy in that "I definitely tried but I want you to think this is effortless" way.
"Hey," he says, clutching a wine bottle like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
"Hi," I respond, brain cells frantically trying to remember how human speech works. "Come in."
He brushes past me, close enough that I catch a whiff of something new—pine and citrus with an undertone of something darker. He's wearing cologne. He bought cologne for tonight. That little detail sends a jolt straight to my dick, which is already perking up like a dog that heard the treat bag rustle.
"I brought wine," he says unnecessarily, thrusting the bottle toward me. "The guy at the store said it pairs well with..." He stops, swallows. "Well, he didn't specify what exactly, but he winked a lot, so I'm assuming it pairs well with poor life choices."
I laugh, taking the bottle. Our fingers brush, and even that tiny contact feels like touching a live wire.
"I like your candles," he says, glancing around the apartment. "Very National Geographic documentary. 'Here we observe the hockey player in his natural mating habitat.'"
And just like that, the tension breaks enough that I can breathe again. This is Mateo—snarky, quick-witted, ridiculous Mateo. The fact that I want to lick every inch of his body doesn't change that.
"Mock all you want, but I'll have you know these are 'Midnight Forest' scented," I inform him, heading to the kitchen for wine glasses. "I was this close to getting 'Passionate Encounter' before I realized I'd rather not have my apartment smell like a suburban divorced dad book club."
His laugh follows me, rich and warm. When I return with the glasses, he's standing by the window, city lights casting his profile in sharp relief against the darkness. The sight hits me in the solar plexus so hard I almost drop the wine.
"Here," I say, handing him a glass and hoping he doesn't notice how my hand trembles slightly.
He takes it, fingers deliberately mine again. Not an accident. His eyes never leave mine as he takes the first sip, throat working in a way that makes me want to trace it with my tongue.
"So," we both say simultaneously, then laugh.
"You know what's weird?" he asks, setting his glass down on the side table with deliberate care. "I've rehearsed about fifteen different conversation starters in my head on the way over, and now I can't remember a single one."
"Performance anxiety?" I suggest, earning me a glare that has zero heat behind it.
"I was going to share a fascinating observation about mating rituals across cultures, but now I'm reconsidering."
"Thank god," I mutter, stepping closer. "Because while I find your academic babbling adorable, I'd rather not discuss indigenous Polynesian sexual practices right now."
"No?" He tilts his head, a challenge in his eyes. "What would you rather discuss?"
I set my own glass down, closing the distance between us until we're standing toe to toe. "Who says we need to talk at all?"
It's a cheesy line, worthy of eye-rolling, but the way his pupils dilate in response makes it worth it. I reach up, tracing one finger along his jawline, feeling the slight stubble there. He shivers, a full-body tremor that I can see ripple through him.
"Cold?" I ask, voice dropping lower.
"Definitely not," he breathes.
I slide my hand to the back of his neck, feeling the soft hair at his nape, the heat of his skin. His eyes flutter briefly before locking back on mine, the amber flecks in the hazel almost glowing in the low light.
"I've been thinking about touching you again since the moment I woke up next to you," I admit, thumb stroking just behind his ear where I've learned he's sensitive.
"Only thinking?" His voice has a challenge in it, a boldness that catches me off guard and turns me on even more.
"Well, there was also some very creative shower activity involved," I confess, earning a laugh that morphs into a gasp when I tug gently at his hair.
"Show me," he says, and it's not a request.
I close the final inches between us, but instead of kissing him, I brush my lips along his jaw, up to his ear. "Patience," I whisper, feeling him shudder against me.
"I've spent weeks being patient," he counters, hands coming up to grip my biceps. “I'm all out of patience tokens."
His directness is so fucking hot I can barely think straight. I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. I find none.
"Bedroom," I say, not a question.
"Lead the way." He grabs his wine glass, taking another sip before following me. "Though I should warn you, I did some research."
I stop in the hallway, turning to look at him. "Research?"
His cheeks flush, but his eyes stay steady on mine. "Very thorough research. With diagrams."
The mental image of Mateo hunched over his laptop, studying gay sex techniques with the same intensity he applies to anthropological theories, sends a fresh surge of heat through me.
"So you're prepared for a practical exam?" I tease, backing into the bedroom.
"I'm a good student," he says with a shrug that's not nearly as casual as he's aiming for. "Though I imagine there's a difference between theory and practice."
"Huge difference," I agree, reaching for him once we're beside the bed. "But don't worry. I grade on a curve."
He rolls his eyes, but his hands are already working on my shirt buttons. "That was terrible. Do hockey players take classes in bad innuendo, or is it a natural talent?"
"Both," I admit, helping him with the buttons when his fingers fumble. "There's a seminar in rookie training camp called 'Puck-Related Double Entendres 101.'"
His laugh is cut short when my shirt falls open, revealing my chest. His hands freeze, eyes widening slightly as they rove over me.
"Fuck," he whispers, more to himself than to me.
"That's the general idea," I say, because apparently I can't help myself.
"If you're going to be this insufferable, I might have to shut you up," he warns, recovering his composure enough to slide his hands inside my open shirt, palms flat against my skin.
"Promises, promises," I taunt, but the effect is somewhat ruined when my breath hitches as his thumbs brush over my nipples.
I shrug out of my shirt, letting it fall to the floor, then reach for his. "You don’t need that," I murmur, working on his buttons with far more dexterity than he managed with mine.
Each button reveals another tantalizing glimpse of golden skin. By the time I push the fabric off his shoulders, my mouth is literally watering with the need to taste him.
"You're staring," he points out, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice.
"Can you blame me?" I ask, running my hands down his sides, feeling him shiver under my touch. "You're fucking hot, Mateo."
The blush that spreads across his cheeks and down his neck is almost as enticing as his body. I lean in, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammers wildly, tasting salt and clean skin and that new cologne.
His hands tangle in my hair, holding me against him as I work my way across his collarbone using my teeth. He hisses and his hips buck against mine involuntarily.
"Interesting," I note, filing that information away for future use.
"Shut up and do it again," he demands, voice strained.
Who am I to deny such a polite request? I oblige, giving his collarbone the same treatment again while my hands slide down to grip his ass through his jeans, pulling him against me.
The friction is electric, both of us already painfully hard. He rolls his hips, seeking more pressure, more contact. I walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the mattress, then push gently until he sits, looking up at me with wide, dark eyes.
I drop to my knees between his spread thighs, a position that pulls a strangled sound from his throat. His hands immediately return to my hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pushing or pulling, just holding on.
"I want to taste you," I tell him, hands resting on his thighs, thumbs stroking the inseam of his jeans where I can feel the heat of him through the denim. "Can I?"
His eyes widen further, pupils blown so wide there's barely a ring of hazel left. "I—yes. God, yes."
I reach for his belt, maintaining eye contact as I undo it with practiced ease. The button and zipper follow, his breathing growing more ragged with each small movement. When I hook my fingers in his waistband, silently asking him to lift his hips, he complies immediately.
His jeans slide down, revealing black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how affected he is. I help him kick the denim away, then sit back on my heels, taking in the sight of him—all long limbs and flushed skin, hair tousled from my hands, lips parted as he watches me with focused intent.
"You're thinking too much," I observe, noting the slight furrow between his brows, the way his fingers twist in the sheets beside him.
"Hard not to," he admits with a shaky laugh. "This is... new territory."
An idea forms, something I'd considered earlier but wasn't sure if he'd be open to. "I might have a solution for that," I say, rising to my feet. "Wait here."
I go to my closet, retrieving a silk tie—dark blue, expensive enough to be soft against skin. When I return, his eyes lock onto it immediately, understanding dawning.
"A blindfold?" he asks, voice barely audible.
I nod, sitting beside him on the bed. "Sometimes limiting one sense heightens the others. Makes it easier to just feel without analyzing everything."
He stares at the tie, lower lip caught between his teeth. I can practically see the gears turning in that brilliant brain of his, weighing curiosity against vulnerability, desire against control.
"You don't have to," I assure him quickly. "It was just an idea. We can—"
"No," he interrupts, face set with determination. "I want to try it. I trust you."
Those three simple words hit me like a truck. I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat, the weight of that trust settling on my shoulders like both burden and gift.
"You sure?" I ask softly, giving him one more chance to back out.
He nods, turning to face me fully. "I'm sure. I want... I want to stop thinking for once. Just feel."
I lift the tie, folding it carefully into a band. "If at any point you want it off, just say so. No questions asked."
He nods again, eyes locked on mine until the last moment when the silk covers them. I secure it with a loose knot, careful not to catch any hair, then check the fit.
"Too tight?"
"No, it's good." His voice has already changed, lower, breathier.
I wave a hand in front of his face to confirm he can't see. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Thirty-seven?"
"Lucky guess," I tease, noting how some of the tension has already left his shoulders. "Tell me how you're feeling."
"Exposed," he admits, then quickly adds, "But in a good way. Like... suspended. Waiting."
I press a soft kiss to his shoulder, feeling him startle slightly at the unexpected contact. "Good. I want you to just focus on sensation. No thinking. No analyzing. Just feeling."
I guide him to lie back on the bed, arranging him against the pillows before crawling over, careful not to put my full weight on him. The sight of him spread out beneath me, blindfolded and vulnerable, sends another surge of heat through me so intense it's almost painful.
"I'm going to touch you now," I warn him, giving him time to anticipate.
I start with his hands, bringing each one to my lips, pressing kisses to his palms, his wrists, feeling the accelerated pulse there. His breathing quickens as I work my way up his arms, across his shoulders, down his chest.
Without his vision, every touch seems amplified. He arches into each point of contact, soft sounds of pleasure escaping him that he'd probably suppress if he could see me watching. The blindfold has freed him from self-consciousness, from overthinking.
"You're so responsive," I whisper against his skin as I kiss my way down his stomach, feeling the muscles jump beneath my lips. "So perfect."
I trace the waistband of his boxers with my tongue, a teasing preview that has him lifting his hips in clear invitation. His hands find my shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully.
"Please," he gasps, all academic vocabulary abandoned. "Ansel..."
The sound of my name on his lips sends another jolt through me. I hook my fingers in the elastic, ready to finally, finally taste him.
That's when my fucking phone rings, splitting the charged atmosphere like a thunderclap.
"Ignore it," Mateo says immediately, hands tightening on my shoulders.
I fully intend to do just that, returning my attention to the task at hand, but the ringing stops only to start again ten seconds later.
"Fuck," I growl, pushing myself up. "They wouldn't call twice unless it's important."
Mateo yanks the blindfold up, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light. "At least hurry, then," he says, voice tight with frustration.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, checking the screen. Sophia. Because of course it is. The universe has a fucking vendetta against my sex life.
"This better be an actual emergency," I snap as I answer.
"It might be," Sophia replies, voice clipped and professional. "Jason Miles is writing an exposé on your relationship with Mateo."
Ice floods my veins. "What?"
"He's claiming he has sources confirming his suspicions."
I turn away from Mateo, lowering my voice. "What sources?"
"I don't know, but I've got the PR team working on it. We need to get ahead of this. Is Mateo with you?"
I glance over my shoulder. Mateo has pulled the sheet over his lap, watching me with concerned eyes. "Yes."
"Good. Keep him there for now. I'm sending over some talking points just in case. If Miles calls either of you, do not answer. Understand?"
"Yeah," I say, mind racing. "I understand."
"I'll call back if I have any updates. Groover?"
“Hm?”
“Try not to worry too much. He may be bluffing.”
She hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, trying to process what this means, what happens if the truth comes out. Everything we've built, the fragile whatever-this-is between us, could shatter.
"What's wrong?" Mateo asks, voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I look at him—all tousled hair and worried eyes—and make a split-second decision I'll probably regret.
"Nothing important," I lie, setting the phone face down.
"Come on," he says flatly. "Your entire body just tensed up like you're heading into overtime of game seven."
I hesitate, caught between truth and protection. If I tell him, he might panic, might want to end things before they've really begun. But if I don't tell him, and he finds out tomorrow from some sleazy reporter's exposé...
My phone buzzes with a text. I glance down to see Sophia's message: "Might be fake news. Source unreliable. Sit tight."
That's all I need to make my decision.
"Just PR bullshit," I say, tossing the phone onto the nightstand with a decisive clatter. "And it can absolutely fucking wait."
Mateo narrows his eyes, clearly not buying it. "Ansel—"
"Nope." I cut him off, moving with purpose back to the bed.
Before he can argue, I plant my palm on his chest and push him back onto the mattress. He lands with a soft "oof," indignation flashing across his face.
"I was in the middle of asking you a ques—"
I silence him by reaching for the blindfold, sliding it back over his eyes with decisive swiftness. His mouth opens, but whatever protest he's forming dies on his lips when I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs and yank them down in one fluid motion.
"Fuck," he yelps, body arching involuntarily off the bed.
I take a moment to appreciate the view—Mateo Rossi, blindfolded and completely naked on my bed, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Now," I say, settling between his spread thighs, breath deliberately ghosting over his heated skin. "Where were we?"