33. Nico #2
I took my time. Teased his nipples until he squirmed, then moved lower—mapping the ridges of his abdomen, dipping my tongue into his navel just to feel him twitch. His breathing had gone ragged, hands fisting in the sheets.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of those grey sweats and pulled them down slowly. Deliberately. I was not prepared for the sight I uncovered.
Black jock. Definitely not the athletic kind.
He was hard, straining against the fabric, and the sight of it—of him—made my mouth go dry.
I raised a brow. “Expecting this?”
“It's more comfortable for long travel days.”
“Sure it is.”
He lifted his hips so I could pull the sweats the rest of the way off. I tossed them somewhere behind me and sat back on my heels to look at him.
Adrian didn't have a traditional skater's body.
Most of us were built lean—lightweight and compact, designed for rotation.
Adrian was built for power. Broader through the shoulders than anyone on the circuit, arms corded with dense, sinewy muscle.
His core was carved, obliques cut sharp above the black straps framing his hips.
It was why his quads were so explosive, why he got more height than most skaters that were twenty pounds lighter.
Every muscle was designed to launch and land.
The ink scattered across all of that smooth golden skin.
The cherry blossoms climbing his neck. The dragon coiled around his bicep.
The serpent disappearing beneath the waistband.
And there, on his upper thigh—the compass rose I'd only caught a flash of in Osaka, when everything had been too fast and too frantic to look properly.
Now I could see it clearly. Intricate, beautifully rendered. No needle. No direction.
His chest was heaving, stomach clenching with every breath.
“You look so fucking hot,” I said.
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, at hearing me say it out loud. Then that familiar smirk crept back.
“I like the feisty Nicky who says exactly what he's thinking.” His voice had dropped, gone rough at the edges. “I've been thinking about this a lot.”
“Yeah?” I traced the strap across his hip with one finger. “Me too.”
“What are you waiting for then?” He pulled his legs back, hands gripping the backs of his thighs, and the sight punched the air out of my lungs.
His hamstrings were strung taut—long, defined, built from years of explosive takeoffs—framing that perfect ass in black straps. Pink and exposed and waiting.
I didn't think. Just dropped to the mattress and pressed my mouth against him.
He gasped and before he could catch his breath, I was licking into him, tasting him, working my tongue against that tight ring of muscle until his gasps turned into moans. His thighs were shaking on either side of my head. One of his hands found my hair and gripped hard enough to sting.
“Fuck—Nicky—”
I pressed deeper. Let him feel my tongue inside him. Sucked and licked until he was writhing, until his moans had gone high and desperate, until he was pushing back against my face chasing more.
“Please,” he breathed. “Please, I need—”
I pulled back just enough to ask, “What do you need?”
“You.” He looked down at me, flushed and wrecked and beautiful. “I need you inside me.”
I grabbed the condom, rolled it on with fingers that weren’t quite steady.
Ripped open a packet of travel lube—of course it was right there with the condoms—and tried not to think about how convenient it all was.
Tried to ignore the hot flare of jealousy that he packed this stuff like he packed toiletries.
Later. I’d think about that later.
I slid two fingers inside him, already softened from my tongue but not quite ready to take me. He groaned, pushing back against my hand, impatient as always.
“Easy,” I murmured. “Let me—”
“I don't want easy. I want—”
I crooked my fingers and whatever he was about to say dissolved into a moan that he tried to muffle against his own forearm. I didn't let him. Pulled his arm away and pinned it to the mattress.
“I want to hear you,” I said. “Every sound.”
The front of his jock was soaked through with precum, the black fabric darkened and clinging, and I wanted to taste him so badly I couldn't help myself.
I shoved the pouch aside and pulled him out—flushed and hard and leaking.
Ran my thumb through the pearl of precum beading at the tip. Watched him twitch.
“Nicky, if you don't—”
I licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock.
Felt his abs clench under my free hand. Took just the head into my mouth and sucked—light, teasing, nowhere near enough—while my fingers kept working inside him.
His hips stuttered, caught between pushing forward into my mouth and back onto my hand, unable to commit to either.
“You're—fuck—you're doing this on purpose—”
I swirled my tongue around the head. Dipped into the slit. Tasted salt and heat and him. Let my lips drag down, slow, taking more of him, then pulled off entirely and blew cool air across the wet skin.
His whole body jerked like a puppet being yanked by its strings and he grabbed my wrist.
“Now, Nicky. I can't wait anymore—I'm going to blow.”
So I pulled back. Lined myself up. And sank inside him in one slow, devastating stroke.
He wasn't kidding about how close he was.
The moment I slid past his prostate, his whole body seized. His cock jerked and then he was coming—untouched, back arching off the bed, head thrown back against the pillow. Cum painted his black jock, his stomach, his chest. Rope after rope while I held still inside him, watching, barely breathing.
He was squeezing around me so hard I couldn’t move a millimetre.
“Oh fuck—” His voice cracked. “Keep going. There's more.”