20. Matty #3
“Diaz bit down on his shoulder, his breathing ragged as he pushed inside him in one thrust. ‘Been wanting this all fucking day,’ he growled.”
Diaz removed his fingers with a wet sound that should’ve embarrassed me. Instead, it only made me ache harder.
He slicked the dildo generously, then pressed the blunt, thick head against my hole and eased it inside. I whimpered. My back arched sharply off the bed at the sudden, delicious stretch.
“Matty moaned, pushing back onto him, desperate for more.”
The words barely made it out before Diaz started fucking me with the dildo.
Slow, deep strokes that dragged the head over that sensitive spot inside me on every pass.
I fumbled the next sentence completely when he leaned down and swallowed my cock without warning, sucking me deep while the toy worked me relentlessly.
“I can’t— Diaz, please—”
The dual sensation was overwhelming. The thrusts of the dildo stretching me paired with the hot, perfect suction of his mouth.
My hips jerked up involuntarily, chasing both at once.
Every time my voice faltered or I stumbled over my words, he would pull the dildo almost all the way out and slam it back in. Harder.
And then, there was that fucking hat.
Looking down between my spread thighs, the sight nearly short-circuited my brain—Diaz between my thighs, backwards Roasters cap still perched on his head, eyes locked on mine as he fucked me with the toy and sucked me like he was starving for it.
There was something about the casual confidence of it, the way it made him look like the cocky ballplayer who’d spent months driving me insane, now working me.
Loving me.
Worshipping me.
By the time he finally pulled the toy out and rolled a condom down his shaft, I was nearly shaking. He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, bottoming out with a low groan.
I cried out. The stretch was addictive, so much better than the toy.
“Read,” he ordered, already moving in deep, punishing strokes.
I tried.
God help me, I tried.
“‘I— I love how tight you feel around me.’” I gasped, the words fracturing as he snapped his hips forward. “‘Love the way you moan my name when I hit that spot—’”
Diaz fucked me harder, one hand braced beside my head, the other wrapping around my leaking cock, stroking me fast and tight in time with every thrust. Every drag of his cock over my prostate made my vision blur.
“Fuck, Peter.” The folder slipped from my fingers, pages fluttering onto the bed beside us. “Baby—”
I couldn’t read anymore. Could barely think.
All I could do was moan and take it, hips jerking up to meet every powerful snap of his hips.
Diaz leaned down, mouth brushing my ear. “You don’t need the story anymore, tesoro,” he growled. “You’ve got the real thing.”
That was all it took to send me skyrocketing over the edge.
I came with a shattered cry, spilling hot and messy over his fist and across my stomach. My hole clenched tight around him, pulsing with every wave of pleasure. Diaz groaned, burying himself deep as he followed right after me, spilling inside the condom with a low, guttural moan of my name.
We collapsed together, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. Diaz pressed soft kisses along my jaw, murmuring how much he loved me, how perfect I was, how good I felt around him.
I turned in his arms and met his lips with mine. It felt like my heart might genuinely burst out of my chest any second now.
For a long moment, we just lay there, tangled together. I traced lazy patterns on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my fingertips, and something inside me settled into place.
I used to think love had to look a certain way. Clean, simple. The kind of thing you could plan out like a five-year renovation schedule. I had spent years trying to be the perfect son, the perfect teammate, the perfect version of myself I thought everyone expected.
And then, Peter Diaz had come along—all five-foot-nine inches of loud, impossible to predict chaos—and blown every one of my carefully drawn lines to hell.
Somehow, in the middle of all that beautiful mess, I’d finally learned how to let myself be happy.
“I love you,” I whispered against his lips.
The words felt easy now.
“Not just tonight. Not just when things are good. I love you on hard days, too. When we’re losing and I’m overthinking everything and you still look at me like I hung the moon.”
Diaz’s eyes softened. He brushed a strand of hair off my forehead, thumb lingering on my temple.
“I love you too,” he said quietly. “Every version of you—the anxious one, the bossy one, the one who calls me out on my shit. All of them.”
I smiled, pressing my forehead to his.
“But mostly, the bossy one.”
I laughed softly. “I bet.”
“It’s true. It’s all worth it,” he said without hesitation. “As long as I get to come home to you.”
Home.
I let the word settle in my chest.
“Just don’t expect me to bake you another cake anytime soon.”
Diaz laughed and pulled me closer. “I’ll settle for burnt toast and morning sex.”
I kissed him again, smiling so wide it hurt.
“That . . . I can do.”