4. Matty #2
Heat crept up the back of my neck when his gaze dragged down my front and then back up again. Slowly.
Finally, when I couldn’t bear the weight of his stare any longer, I cleared my throat. “I just meant I don’t want us to look confused or out of place.”
“Say it again.”
I blinked. “What?”
“My name.”
My brain stalled out completely.
“Peter,” I breathed.
Something dark and hungry flickered across his face. For a second, I thought he might close the distance between us. For a second, I thought I might let him. Instead, he took one careful step back.
“Goodnight, Matty.”
He let himself into his cabin and closed the door behind him, leaving me standing there, dick throbbing, dog whining, silently replaying the last thirty seconds.
“Night,” I said to no one.
When I finally stepped inside, it felt like I had just run a marathon. The room was small but cute, with knotty-pine walls, a queen bed, a barely there kitchenette, and a window that looked straight at—
Yup. His cabin.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Mo gave me a judgmental side-eye from the pillow she’d claimed at the head of the bed. Hopefully, she would forgive me for what I was about to do. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
And horny times called for jerking off in a tiny cabin.
I kicked off my shoes and stripped down to my boxer briefs within seconds, planting my ass on the edge of the handmade quilt. My cock was already straining hard against the fabric, a wet spot darkening the front. I shoved the briefs down my thighs and kicked them aside, finally freeing myself.
I wrapped my right hand around the base, squeezing once, then leaned forward and spat into my palm. I slicked the spit over my cock in one long stroke, spreading it from root to tip, then did it again, letting the wetness mix with the precum leaking from my tip.
“Fuck,” I breathed, my eyes falling shut.
My hand moved up and down my shaft in a steady rhythm. Slowly at first. I was already too worked up; it wouldn’t take much to send me over the edge.
The cabin was dead silent except for the wet sound of my fist and my own ragged breathing.
Fucking filthy.
Fucking hot.
Every stroke sent sparks up my spine. I leaned back on my free hand and let my mind go where it wanted.
To one of Diaz’s stories.
The one that had lived rent-free in my head for months, long before I’d known who the author was.
It started after a late-night game. The stadium was empty except for the two of us. In the story, Diaz had dragged me into the dugout after the final out, dropped to his knees on the rubber mat, and looked up at me with those dark eyes while he worked my belt open.
“Been thinking about this for nine innings, Miller,” the Diaz in my head said, his voice low and thick with desire. “You in that tight uniform, your ass in the air every time you bent over for a grounder. I’ve been wanting to taste you since the first pitch.”
I tightened my grip and sped up, twisting my wrist just under the head. The vision of his mouth on my cock was so vivid, I could almost feel it.
Hot, wet. Relentless.
“Come on, Alabama,” fantasy-Diaz whispered, pulling off just long enough to speak, spit dripping down his chin. “Fuck my throat, tesoro. I can take it.”
I groaned under my breath and stroked faster, my hips rocking up to meet my fist.
In his story, he let me use his mouth hard, gagging softly every time I hit the back of his throat. When I finally came, fictional Diaz swallowed every drop, then licked the head of my cock one last time, like it was his favorite lollipop.
But it was the whisper afterward that always destroyed the real me.
He looked up at me, lips swollen and voice hoarse, and growled, “That’s it, tesoro . . . . That’s my good boy. All mine.”
I came hard with a choked groan, the word tesoro echoing in my head.
“Peter,” I cried as thick ropes of cum spilled over my knuckles and onto my stomach.
My hips jerked helplessly as the orgasm rolled through me in long, shuddering waves. I kept up my strokes, drawing out the pleasure until every last drop was wrung out of me.
For a long minute afterward, I just sat there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling.
Mo had turned her back to me in clear disapproval.
I let out a shaky laugh and reached for the tissues on the nightstand. “Yeah, yeah. Judge me all you want.”
I pulled my boxer briefs back into place and lay back on the bed beside her.
The cabin was quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and Mo’s occasional grumpy huff.
One glance at the little clock on the nightstand told me that dinner was still two hours away, which meant I had plenty of time to gather my wits.
But not nearly enough.
I stared up at the wooden beams above me, wondering what Diaz might be up to.
Part of me hoped he was lying on his own bed right now, hard and frustrated, thinking about me the same way I’d just thought about him.
The other part—the louder, more anxious part—was terrified that he wasn’t thinking about me at all.
Mo crawled over and flopped across my chest with dramatic flair. I scratched behind her ears, letting the warmth of her little body ground me.
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the ache that had nothing to do with the orgasm I’d just had.
Tomorrow, we would be on camera.
We would smile and crack jokes about “faking it until we baked it” and stand shoulder to shoulder under bright studio lights while at least one of us pretended like his pulse didn’t spike every time the other looked at him too long.
Spoiler alert, it was me.
Without a doubt, we had a long week ahead of us. And judging by the way my body reacted when he did something as mundane as asking me to call him by his name?
Yeah, I was gonna need another Kleenex box.