CHAPTER 28
MATEO
THREE MONTHS.
It's been three months since I walked into a hotel room and uttered the single most embarrassing first words in the history of awkward introductions. Three months since I signed a contract to pretend to be in love with a man I'd never met. Three months of cameras and questions and careful public performances.
And somewhere in those three months, the pretending stopped.
I'm not sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was during that first kiss, when his lips touched mine and something clicked into place. Maybe it was when he taught me to skate. Maybe it was when I saw him play for the first time.
Or maybe it was a thousand tiny moments—the way he remembers how I take my coffee, the sound of his laugh when I say something unexpectedly funny, the gentle way he guides me through each new experience without making me feel inexperienced.
All I know is that tonight—our official three-month "anniversary" as far as the contract is concerned—I'm sitting in a noisy club surrounded by his teammates, watching him laugh across the room, and I'm terrified by how real this feels.
"Earth to Mateo!" Devon waves a hand in front of my face. "You in there, Professor?"
I blink, refocusing on the conversation around me. "Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted another drink," Devon says, eyeing me with suspicion. "But you were too busy making heart eyes at your man to hear me."
"I wasn't making heart eyes," I protest, heat creeping up my neck.
"You absolutely were," Leila confirms, patting my arm sympathetically. "It's cute. Disgusting, but cute."
I take a large swallow of my drink instead of responding. The alcohol burns pleasantly down my throat, adding to the warm buzz I've been cultivating all evening. I'm not drunk—not yet—but I'm definitely in that sweet spot where everything feels a little softer around the edges, where my usual overthinking has quieted to a manageable hum.
Across the VIP section, Groover catches my eye and smiles—that private smile that seems reserved just for me. My stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the man himself.
"God, you've got it bad," Devon says, following my gaze. "Three months and you're still in the honeymoon phase. I'm jealous."
"It's not—" I start, then stop myself. What am I going to say? It's not real ? Because that's not true anymore, is it? "It's good," I finish lamely.
"Mmm-hmm." Devon's knowing look makes me squirm. "You know what you need? Shots."
Before I can protest, he's flagging down a waiter and ordering a round of tequila for our table. Leila groans but doesn't object as shot glasses are distributed.
"To the happy couple," Devon announces, raising his glass. "Three months of Groover being disgustingly in love, and consequently, much less of a pain in the ass to be around."
"Hear, hear!" Wall chimes in from the next table over, raising his beer.
I catch Groover's eye again as we all throw back our shots. The tequila burns, but it's the heat in his gaze that makes me shiver. He excuses himself from his conversation with Becker and makes his way over to our table, sliding onto the banquette beside me.
"Are they torturing you?" he asks, his arm settling around my shoulders like it belongs there.
"Only a little," I say, leaning into him automatically. "Devon's pushing tequila."
"Devon's a terrible influence," Groover says solemnly. "That's why we keep him around."
Devon clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm a delight and you know it."
Another round appears, seemingly manifested by Devon's sheer force of will. The conversation flows around me—hockey talk, relationship gossip, good-natured ribbing—but I'm increasingly aware of Groover beside me. The weight of his arm across my shoulders. The heat of his thigh pressed against mine. The subtle scent of his cologne I’ve grown addicted to.
Each point of contact feels like a live wire.
By the time Devon drags Leila to the dance floor, leaving us alone at the table, I've had just enough liquid courage to say what's been on my mind all night.
"Can we go somewhere quieter?" I lean in close to his ear to be heard over the music. "I want to talk to you."
He pulls back slightly, studying my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just... not here."
He nods, taking my hand as we stand. We make our excuses to the remaining teammates, ignoring Becker's exaggerated wink and Wall's knowing smirk. The music fades as Groover leads me down a hallway toward the back of the club, stopping at a door marked "Private."
"Owner's a fan," he explains, producing a key card from his pocket. "Lets us use the office when we need a break from the chaos."
The room beyond is surprisingly tasteful—a small office with sleek furniture and muted lighting. A desk occupies one wall, with a leather couch against the opposite side. Groover closes the door behind us, the thump of the bass now just a distant vibration.
"Better?" he asks.
I nod, suddenly nervous now that we're alone. The alcohol in my system makes everything feel slightly dreamlike, but not enough to quiet the thoughts racing through my mind.
"So," he says, leaning against the desk. "What did you want to talk about?"
I take a deep breath. "Today's our three-month anniversary."
"I know." His expression is carefully neutral. "Contract's almost fulfilled."
"Right." I run a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. "That's... that's what I wanted to talk about."
Something flickers across his face—concern? Disappointment? I can't quite read it.
"Mateo—"
"I'm confused," I blurt out, cutting him off. "About us. About what this is."
He straightens, taking a step toward me. "What do you think it is?"
"That's the problem. I don't know anymore." I pace the small space, trying to organize my thoughts. "It started as a contract. A job. Pretending. But then we... and I... and now I don't know where the pretending stops and the real begins."
"What feels real to you?" he asks quietly.
I stop pacing and look at him. Really look at him—the man who's become the center of my world in ways I never imagined possible.
"Everything," I admit, the word barely audible. "When you touch me. When you laugh at my stupid jokes. When you listen to me ramble about anthropology like it's actually interesting. When you look at me like... like you're looking at me right now."
He takes a step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "And how am I looking at you?"
"Like you want me," I whisper. "Not for the cameras. Not for the contract. Just... me."
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "I do want you. Have since that first night, if I'm being honest."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "So this isn't just... physical for you?"
"Is that what you think this is?" His voice is low, intense. "Some kind of experiment?"
"I don't know what to think," I admit. "I've never felt like this before. About anyone. And I'm terrified because the contract ends, and I don't want... I don't want whatever this is to end with it."
The words hang between us, raw and honest in a way I've never allowed myself to be. Groover's eyes search mine, something vulnerable and fierce in his expression.
"Mateo," he says, my name like a prayer on his lips. "Nothing ends unless you want it to."
Relief floods through me, so powerful it makes my knees weak. "I don't want it to end."
His other hand comes up, framing my face between his palms. "Good. Because I'm not ready to let you go."
And then he's kissing me, deep and thorough, like he's trying to convey everything he can't say with words. I melt into him, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss tastes of tequila and truth and something desperately, wonderfully real.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against his. "I want you," I whisper. "All of you. Tonight."
He pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine. "Are you sure? We don't have to rush—"
"I'm sure," I interrupt. "I've never been more sure of anything."
The look that crosses his face—hunger mixed with something deeper, more tender—makes my breath catch. "Not here," he says. "Let me take you home."
***
THE DRIVE TO his apartment passes in a blur of anticipation and stolen kisses at red lights. My body's a live wire, every nerve ending crackling with electricity. The tequila buzz has settled into something warmer, more dangerous—liquid courage pooling in my veins, drowning out the rational voice that usually keeps me second-guessing everything.
Groover's hand rests on my thigh, a casual touch that feels anything but. His fingers trace absent patterns that inch higher with each stoplight, and I'm so hard it's actually painful against my zipper.
"If you keep that up," I warn, voice breathless, "we're not going to make it to your apartment."
He glances over, the streetlights painting his face in flashes of gold and shadow. "That a promise or a threat?"
"Both." I shift in my seat, desperate for relief. "I've been thinking about this all night."
"This?" His hand slides higher, knuckles brushing against the bulge in my jeans.
"Fuck," I hiss, head falling back against the headrest. "You know exactly what I mean."
His laugh is low and dangerous, sending another jolt of arousal straight to my aching cock. "I want to hear you say it."
I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. We've crossed plenty of lines already, discovered pleasures I never knew existed—but we haven't done that . The final frontier. The big leap.
"I want you inside me," I finally manage, the words barely audible over the hum of the engine.
His sharp intake of breath is audible in the confined space of the car. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
The remaining blocks to his apartment pass in tense silence. When he finally pulls into his designated parking spot, neither of us moves immediately, the moment suspended like we're both aware of its significance.
"Mateo," he says, turning to face me fully. "We don't have to—"
I cut him off with a kiss, climbing across the center console to straddle his lap, ignoring the awkward press of the steering wheel against my back. His surprise lasts only a second before his hands find my hips, anchoring me against him as our mouths collide.
It's messy and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. I grind down against the hard ridge beneath his jeans, seeking friction, seeking more. His groan vibrates against my lips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks.
"Inside," he gasps when we break for air. "Now."
I don't need to be told twice.
We stumble from the car to his apartment like drunks, though it's not alcohol making us unsteady—it's want, raw and overwhelming. His hands never leave my body, running over my arms, my back, my ass, like he can't bear to break contact for even a second.
The elevator ride is torturous. We're not alone—an elderly couple joins us on the ground floor, forcing us to stand a respectable distance apart. But Groover's eyes never leave mine, dark and hungry, promising things that have my skin flushing hot beneath my clothes.
The second the apartment door closes behind us, he has me pinned against it, his mouth hot on my neck, hands already working at the buttons of my shirt.
"Been thinking about this all night," he breaths against my skin, teeth scraping over my pulse point. "The way you look in these jeans, knowing what's underneath."
I whimper—actually fucking whimper—as his thigh presses between my legs, providing blessed friction against my aching cock. My hands scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, desperate for purchase.
"Bedroom," I manage, voice wrecked already. "Please."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black. Something in my expression must convey my urgency because he nods once, taking my hand and leading me down the hallway.
We leave a trail of clothing in our wake—his jacket discarded by the door, my shirt somewhere in the hallway, his belt making a dull thud as it hits the hardwood floor. By the time we reach his bedroom and he all but throw me onto the mattress, I'm down to just my jeans, and he's working on those with single-minded determination.
"Lift," he commands, and I comply, raising my hips so he can slide the denim down my legs.
And just like that, I'm naked. Completely exposed while he's still partially dressed, and the vulnerability of it slaps me across the face. This is really happening. I'm about to have sex—real, actual, sex—with a man.
With Groover.
With Ansel.
My internal state must show on my face because he pauses, hands stilling on my hips.
"We can stop," he says, voice gentle despite the underlying strain. "Any time. Just say the word."
I shake my head, reaching for him. "I don't want to stop."
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, my cheek, finally my lips—gentle, almost reverent touches that make my chest ache.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs.
He finishes undressing, movements efficient but unhurried, giving me time to adjust to the reality of what’s about to come. When he's finally naked, I can't look away from him—all lean muscle and golden skin, cock hard and flushed against his stomach.
He's fucking magnificent.
"You're staring," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Can you blame me?" I reach for him, pulling him down onto the bed beside me. "You're kind of a specimen."
He laughs, the sound easing some of the tension coiled in my chest. "A specimen?"
"Anthropological term," I deadpan. "Means 'hot as fuck.'"
"Very scientific." His smile fades as his hand traces up my thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to where I want him most. "Tell me what you want, Mateo. How you want this to go."
The question catches me off guard. I've thought about this moment—fantasized about it, researched it, prepared for it—but I hadn't considered I'd have options.
"I want..." I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "Everything. I want everything."
He nods, reaching toward the nightstand. "We'll go slow," he promises. "And if anything hurts or doesn't feel good—"
"I'll tell you," I finish for him.
He leans down to kiss me, deep and thorough, and I lose myself in the sensation, in the taste of him, in the solid weight of his body pressing mine into the mattress.
When he pulls back, he uncaps a bottle of lube, coating his fingers generously. The sight sends another jolt of anticipation through me, my cock twitching against my stomach.
"Spread for me," he instructs, voice gentle but firm.
I comply, feeling exposed and vulnerable and impossibly turned on all at once. The first touch of his slick finger against my hole makes me gasp, the cool gel a stark contrast to my heated skin.
"Relax." He circles gently without pushing in yet. "Deep breath."
I inhale deeply, forcing the tension from my muscles. On the exhale, he presses forward, one finger breaching me slowly. The sensation is familiar now, but still intense—a stretch that walks the line between pleasure and discomfort.
"Good?" he asks, finger stilling once it's fully seated.
"Yeah," I breathe, adjusting to the intrusion. "Go on."
He works me open with patient thoroughness, adding a second finger only when I'm pushing back against the first, seeking more. The stretch burns slightly, but the discomfort fades quickly as he curves his fingers, searching for—
"Fuck!" I cry out as he finds my prostate, back arching off the bed at the jolt of pleasure.
His smile is knowing as he repeats the motion, watching me writhe beneath him. "There it is."
He adds a third finger, the stretch more pronounced now, borderline uncomfortable until he presses against that spot again, sending waves of pleasure up my spine that obliterate any discomfort. His free hand wraps around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers.
"Wait," I gasp, grabbing his wrist. "Stop. I'm too close."
His fingers still immediately, but remain buried inside me. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, eyes darkening like storm clouds.
"Ah. We can’t have that now, can we?" He curls those fingers one last time, deliberately brushing that spot that makes my spine arch like I've been electrocuted. "Not when I have so many plans for you."
My entire body shakes as he withdraws his fingers with excruciating slowness. The emptiness that follows is almost painful, my body clenching around nothing, already missing the fullness.
"How do you want me?" Groover asks, voice sandpaper-rough as he tears open a condom wrapper with his teeth.
And here's the thing—I've thought about this moment. Extensively. Obsessively, even. I've watched videos (for research, obviously). I've read clinical descriptions, erotic stories, and everything in between. I've created a comprehensive mental catalog of positions, advantages, disadvantages, and optimal angles.
What comes out of my mouth, however, is: "Surprise me."
His eyebrows shoot up, a startled laugh escaping him. "Surprise you? Mr. I-Need-A-Detailed-Plan-For-Everything wants me to improvise?"
"Shut up," I mutter, heat crawling up my neck. "I just... I trust you, okay? And I want... I want..."
"What do you want?" He rolls the condom down his length, the sight of those capable fingers on his cock making my eyes fall half-closed. "Tell me."
"I want to remember this," I admit, the truth spilling out before I can stop it.
Something shifts in his expression, hunger giving way to something softer. "Come here," he says, holding out his hand.
I take it, letting him guide me up onto my knees. He arranges a pillow behind him and leans back against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him. With gentle hands on my hips, he guides me to straddle him, facing away.
"Like this," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear as I settle into his lap, back to his chest. "You control the pace, the depth. I get to touch you everywhere. Win-win."
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my hole, hot and insistent.
"Lube," I remind him, and I barely recognize my own voice.
He reaches around me for the bottle, and I hear the cap click open once more. The cool sensation of more slick being applied makes me shiver, his fingers gentle as they ensure I'm thoroughly prepared.
"Ready?" he asks, one hand guiding his cock, the other splayed across my stomach, steadying me.
In answer, I begin to lower myself, the pressure building as the head of his cock breaches me. The stretch is immediate and intense, far more than his fingers, and I freeze, a strangled sound caught in my throat.
"Easy," he soothes, lips pressed to my shoulder. "Breathe through it. You're in control."
I force myself to take a deep breath, focusing on relaxing the muscles that are clenched tight against the intrusion. Slowly, the burning sensation recedes, replaced by a fullness that walks the line between pleasure and pain.
I sink lower, taking another inch, and another, the stretch becoming more manageable as my body adjusts. Groover's breathing is ragged against my neck, his hands gentle but trembling with the effort of restraint.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groans, teeth scraping lightly along the juncture where neck meets shoulder. "So tight around me."
It’s his tone that encourages me to take more. With a deep breath, I lower myself fully, seating myself completely on his cock.
"Holy shit," I gasp, head falling back against his shoulder. "That's... fuck."
"Eloquent," he teases, but his voice is strained, the muscles in his thighs tense beneath mine. "How does it feel?"
"Full," I manage, experimentally clenching around him, which pulls a strangled sound from his throat. "So fucking full. But good. Really good."
His hands roam my body, one sliding up to pinch a nipple while the other wraps around my cock, which has softened slightly from the initial discomfort. I moan, pleasure quickly overtaking any remaining pain.
"Move when you're ready," he says, nipping at my earlobe. "Find what feels good."
I lift myself experimentally, just an inch or two before sinking back down. The slide of his cock inside me sends shocks up my spine, especially when the head drags against my prostate. I repeat the movement, lifting higher this time, establishing a slow rhythm that has us both panting.
"That's it," he encourages, hand moving lazily on my shaft. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me what you like."
He’s going to actually kill me.
It takes me a while to gain a semblance of confidence, but when I do, my pace increases. The position gives me complete control, letting me adjust the angle until I find the one that sends white-hot pleasure coursing through my veins with each downward motion.
"There," I gasp as his cock hits my prostate dead-on. "Right fucking there."
Groover's free hand slides up my chest to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a gentle pressure that makes me dizzy. His teeth find my shoulder, biting down just hard enough.
"You're taking me so well," he rasps. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."
I reach back, threading my fingers through his hair, pulling his head forward for an awkward but desperately hot kiss over my shoulder. The change in angle drives him impossibly deeper, making me gasp into his mouth.
"Ansel," I moan, the rhythm of my movements growing erratic as pleasure builds. "Why does this feel so good?"
"I've got you," he says, taking over when my thighs start to shake with exertion. His hips thrust upward as he pulls me down, the force of it driving the breath from my lungs. "Just feel."
And I do feel—every inch of him inside me, the slick slide of his hand on my cock, the heat of his body against mine. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, pleasure building with each perfectly angled thrust until I'm babbling incoherently, a stream of pleas and curses and his name.
"Gonna come," I warn, tension twisting tight in my core. "Fuck, I'm close."
"Yeah," he urges, pace increasing, driving into me with controlled force that makes the headboard knock against the wall. "Come for me. Come on my cock."
He’s the one. The one my body listens to. The only person that exists.
My demise.
Pleasure crashes through me with shocking intensity, whiting out my vision, arching my back as I spill over his hand and onto the sheets. My body clamps down around him, muscles contracting rhythmically as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over me.
The world around me contracts to this single moment, to the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. The best kind.
A single guttural sound manages to break through, from deep inside Groover’s throat as the hand still working my cock looses its rhythm. He drives up into me one final time, holding me firmly in place with other hand, as he pulses inside me. I can feel each throb even through the condom, his cock twitching with each wave of his orgasm.
I barely register when we both stop moving.
We stay frozen like that, connected in the most intimate way possible, both trying to remember how to breathe. When he finally eases me off him, I wince at the sudden emptiness, at the unfamiliar soreness already making itself known.
He doesn't let me go far, though. As soon as he's disposed of the condom, he pulls me back against his chest, arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I might disappear.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, apparently at a loss for words.
"Yeah," I say, understanding completely. "It really was."
We lie there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin, my head tucked under his chin. I can hear his heartbeat, still slightly elevated but gradually slowing to its normal rhythm.
"You okay?" he asks eventually, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Any regrets?"
I give myself a moment to take mental inventory of my body and emotions. There's soreness, yes, and a strange new awareness of muscles I didn't know I had. But there's also a bone-deep satisfaction, a sense of rightness that I've never experienced before.
“Maybe one,” I finally say.
It’s hard to stop myself from laughing as Groover backs his head so hard it hits the headboard, eyes searching mine with concerned urgency. “What is it?”
I cut my act momentarily. I’ve always been a shit liar anyway. “I kind of regret waiting this long.”
Groover manages to deflate his chest, roll his eyes and gently smack my shoulder all at the same time. “Try not to give me a heart attack.”
I close my eyes and rest my head on his chest again, smile tugging at my lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”