CHAPTER 26
GROOVER
MORNING SUNSHINE HAS no business being this cheerful. It slices through my blinds like some kind of solar assassination attempt, determined to drag me from sleep whether I'm ready or not.
I groan and throw my arm over my eyes, but it's too late—I'm awake. My body clock's been set to hockey time for so long that even after a late game, I'm up with the birds like some kind of demented Disney princess.
The weight on my chest shifts, warm and solid.
Mateo.
Still asleep, his breathing deep and even against my skin. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in every direction like he's been electrocuted, and there's a faint line pressed into his cheek from where it was smooshed against my shoulder all night.
He looks fucking adorable.
This is becoming a dangerous habit—waking up beside him, watching him sleep, feeling something warm and terrifying expand in my chest.
Careful not to wake him, I extricate myself from his octopus grip. He makes a small noise of protest but rolls over, burying his face in my pillow without fully waking. I pause at the edge of the bed, just looking at him—all sleep-warm skin and tangled limbs against my sheets.
Mine. The thought comes unbidden, possessive and raw.
I shake my head and head for the bathroom, desperate for a shower to clear my mind. Last night's game was a grinder—physical, exhausting, but ultimately satisfying with another win under our belts. My muscles ache pleasantly, the familiar soreness of a body well-used.
The shower hisses to life, steam immediately filling the glass enclosure. I step under the spray, groaning as hot water pounds against sore shoulders. For several minutes, I just stand there, letting the heat work its magic on tight muscles, head titled back, eyes closed.
That's why I don't hear the bathroom door open. Don't notice I'm not alone until the shower door slides open, letting in a rush of cooler air.
"Room for one more?"
Mateo stands there, gloriously naked, hair adorably messed up, eyes still puffy with sleep.
"Always," I manage, stepping back to make space.
He steps in, immediately hissing as hot water hits his skin. "Jesus Christ. Are you part lobster? How do you not cook yourself alive in here?"
I laugh, reaching around him to adjust the temperature. "Better?"
"Less third-degree burn, more second-degree," he concedes, moving fully under the spray.
Water sluices down his body, following paths I want to trace with my tongue. His eyes close as he tilts his face up, letting water flatten his chaotic hair. The line of his throat, the relaxed set of his shoulders—it does something to my insides, twists them up in knots I'm not sure I'll ever untangle.
"Pass the shampoo?" he asks, eyes still closed against the spray.
I reach for the bottle, but instead of handing it to him, I squeeze some into my palm. "Turn around."
He opens one eye, suspicious. "Why?"
"Because I want to wash your hair, you paranoid anthropologist."
A slow smile spreads across his face as he complies, presenting his back to me. I step closer, my front nearly touching his back, and work the shampoo into his hair. His immediate groan of pleasure goes straight to my dick.
"That feels amazing," he sighs, leaning back into my touch.
I take my time, massaging his scalp with firm pressure, working from his temples to the nape of his neck. His head lolls forward in surrender. It's oddly intimate, this simple act of care, more vulnerable somehow than the filthy things we've done to each other's bodies.
When I finally guide him back under the spray to rinse, he looks half-asleep again, eyelids heavy, lips parted slightly. I can't resist leaning in to taste those lips, water cascading around us as we kiss, slow and deep and unhurried.
His hands find my waist, pulling me closer until we're chest to chest, the slick slide of wet skin making us both groan. I can feel him hardening against my thigh, his body responding to mine with an eagerness that still surprises me.
"Your turn," he mumbles against my lips, reaching for the shampoo bottle.
I raise an eyebrow. "You'll need a stepladder, short stack."
He narrows his eyes, jabbing a finger into my chest. "I am five-foot-nine, which is perfectly average, you genetic freak. And you can bend down."
Laughing, I duck my head obligingly, giving him access. His fingers in my hair feel incredible, firm and sure as they work the shampoo into a lather. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation.
"You played amazing last night," he says as he works. "That hit in the second period had me holding my breath."
"Hmm," I respond, too blissed out for proper words. "Guy had it coming. Slashed Petrov twice."
"My brave bodyguard," he teases, nails scratching lightly against my scalp in a way that makes me shiver despite the steam.
When he's done, he guides me under the spray, hands gentle as they help rinse the suds away. I straighten up, blinking water from my eyes to find him watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. Just... this is nice."
The simple statement contains multitudes. This—us, together, caring for each other in this quiet morning moment—is nice. More than nice. It's everything.
I reach for the body wash, pouring some into my palm before setting the bottle aside. "Turn around again?"
He complies without question this time, presenting his back to me once more. I start at his shoulders, working the soap into his skin with firm pressure, feeling knots of tension dissolve under my touch. His head drops forward again, a small sound of pleasure escaping him as I work my way down his spine.
"You're good at this," he muses.
"Hockey players know massage." I press my thumbs into the small of his back. "It's survival."
My hands continue their journey, sliding over the curve of his ass, kneading the firm muscle there. His breath hitches, body going still under my touch. I keep my movements deliberate, clinical almost, despite the fact that my cock is now fully hard, aching for the man in front of me.
"Ansel," he says, my name barely audible over the rush of water.
"Hmm?" I press closer, letting him feel exactly what he's doing to me, my erection sliding against the cleft of his ass.
He reaches back, hand finding my hip, pulling me closer still. "Don't stop."
The raw need in his voice breaks something loose in me. I spin him around, pressing him against the shower wall, claiming his mouth in a kiss that has nothing gentle about it. He responds immediately, arms wrapping around my neck, body arching into mine.
"Wanted you the second you walked in," I whisper against his throat, hands sliding down to grip his thighs. "Always want you."
He moans as I suck a mark into the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder, his hips bucking against mine in a desperate search for friction. "Then have me."
Two simple words that set my blood on fire. I drop to my knees on the shower floor, the hard tile unforgiving against my skin, but I couldn't care less. Not when Mateo is looking down at me with wide, shocked eyes, lips parted.
I press my face against his stomach, the muscles jumping beneath my lips as I work my way lower. His cock is hard and flushed, jutting proudly from the nest of dark hair at the base. I ignore it for now, instead focusing on the sensitive crease where thigh meets pelvis, sucking another mark there that pulls a strangled sound from his throat.
"Fuck," he gasps, fingers threading through my wet hair.
I look up, searching his face as I take him in hand, giving him one firm stroke from base to tip. His head falls back against the tile with a thud, eyes squeezing shut at the sensation.
"Look at me," I say softly. "I want you to watch."
His eyes fly open, locking with mine as I lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. The sound he makes, trapped somewhere between a moan and a sob echoes off the shower walls, spurring me on. I take just the head into my mouth, sucking gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge.
"Fuck," he chokes out. "That's—god—"
I hum in acknowledgment, the vibration making him jerk against my hold. Slowly, I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks as I go, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Once I've taken as much as I can comfortably manage, I pull back, establishing a rhythm that has his thighs trembling beneath my hands. Each bob of my head pulls another desperate sound from him, each flick of my tongue against the sensitive spot just under the head makes his fingers tighten in my hair.
"Not gonna last," he warns, voice tight with restraint. "Too good."
I pull off with an obscene sound, replacing my mouth with my hand, stroking him firmly as I catch my breath. "That's the idea."
Before he can respond, I duck lower, tongue finding his balls, drawing one gently into my mouth. His entire body jolts, a string of curses falling from his lips that would make Becker proud. I lavish attention on first one, then the other, all while maintaining the steady stroke of my hand on his cock.
"Ansel—fuck—I can't—"
I release him, looking up with a grin. "Can't what? Take more pleasure? Because I think you can."
His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wild with need. "What are you—"
"Turn around," I instruct, rising to my feet. "Hands on the wall."
For a moment, I think he might refuse. Then, with a shaky exhale, he turns to face the shower wall, hands braced against the tile. The position pushes his ass out, presenting it to me in a way that makes my mouth water.
"Perfect." I press a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Trust me?"
He nods jerkily, tension radiating from every line of his body.
I drop to my knees again, hands sliding up the back of his thighs to his ass, kneading the firm muscle there. Slowly, giving him time to anticipate, I spread him open, revealing the tight pucker of his hole.
"Ansel," he says, voice tight. "What are you—"
His question dissolves into a shout as I lean in and lick a firm stripe over his entrance. His whole body goes rigid, hands slipping against the wet tile as he struggles to stay upright.
"Holy fuck," he gasps, the words barely audible over the shower. "What—that's—"
I don't let him recover, diving back in with focused intent. I trace circles around his rim, feeling the muscle flutter beneath my tongue, before pressing more firmly against the center. Each pass of my tongue pulls another broken sound from him, his body caught somewhere between trying to escape the sensation and pushing back for more.
"Relax," I mutter against his heated skin. "Let me in."
Whether it's my words or his own desperation, something shifts. Moments later, he surrenders, muscles loosening beneath my touch. I take immediate advantage, pressing my tongue with intent against his entrance, feeling it give way slightly.
The sound he makes when my tongue breaches him is unlike anything I've heard before—raw and primal, shocked pleasure layered with vulnerability. I grip his hips harder, holding him steady as I work him open with my tongue, each thrust going deeper than the last.
"Groover… I can't—" His words dissolve into incoherent sounds as I reach around to grip his cock, stroking in time with the thrusts of my tongue.
The dual stimulation is too much for him. With a broken cry that echoes off the shower walls, he comes, his body clenching rhythmically around my tongue, cock pulsing in my grip. I work him through it, relentless, not slowing my movements until spasms subside, only pulling away when he whimpers with oversensitivity.
His legs are trembling so badly I'm afraid he might collapse. I rise quickly, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him, pressing my chest to his back. My cock slides against the cleft of his ass, the friction pulling a groan from deep in my chest.
"I've got you," I whisper against his ear, feeling him lean back into me, trusting me to support his weight.
For several moments, we stand like that, the shower raining down on us, his breathing gradually slowing. When he finally turns in my arms, his expression is dazed, eyes only half open, lips red from where he's bitten them.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, apparently unable to find words.
"Serviceable?" I suggest, unable to keep the smugness from my voice.
Instead of answering, he reaches between us, wrapping his hand around my aching cock. "My turn."
I hiss at the contact, hips bucking into his grip. "You don't have to—"
"Shut up," he says, tightening his hold.
He drops to his knees in a mirror of my earlier position, looking up at me with determination that borders on defiance. The sight of him like that—on his knees, water streaming down his face, lips parted in anticipation—nearly undoes me before he even touches me.
When he takes me into his mouth, the wet heat of it is almost too much. I brace one hand against the shower wall, the other threading through his hair as he takes me apart with growing confidence.
What he lacks in experience, he makes up for with enthusiasm and attention to detail. He watches my reactions carefully, repeating whatever makes my breath catch or my fingers tighten in his hair.
He’s the hottest thing I've ever seen.
It’s the sight of him that does things to me—those unimaginable things that send me tumbling toward the edge so fast it’d be embarrassing, if it weren’t for the fact it’s Mateo on the other side of my impending demise.
With him, embarrassment isn’t in my emotional vocabulary.
"Close," I warn, tugging gently at his hair. "So close already."
He hums in acknowledgment and takes me deeper, one hand coming up to work what he can't fit in his mouth. The combination of the sensations and the visual is too much.
He’s too much.
"Mateo—" My warning dissolves into a groan as pleasure crashes through me, my body tensing as I come.
He stays with me through it, swallowing what he can, one palm gripping my hip, keeping me grounded in reality that’s contracted to the man in front of me.
Eventually, I haul him to his feet, claiming his mouth in a kiss that tastes of me, of him, of both of us together.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against my shoulder. "So that's what rimming is," he says with a breathless laugh. "The articles didn't do it justice."
I snort, pressing quick kiss to his forehead. "Articles?"
"Research," he says primly, though the effect is somewhat ruined by his debauched appearance. "Very thorough."
"I bet," I say, reaching around him to turn off the water, which has started to run cold. "Come on, Professor. Let's dry off before we both catch pneumonia."
He follows me out of the shower, accepting the towel I hand him. We dry each other with a care that feels almost dangerous, touches lingering longer than strictly necessary. When he reaches up to towel my hair, I catch his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm.
"What was that for?" he asks, eyes soft.
I shrug, unable to articulate the warm tangle in my chest. "Just because."
He studies my face for a moment. Then he rises on his toes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
"Just because," he echoes, and somehow, in those two simple words, I hear everything neither of us is ready to say.