8. Chase #2
I squeeze his waist with the other hand, and with every stroke I lay on myself, I let my tip slide between his cheeks, just a little. It’s not going into his hole, just going between.
Just an idea of what it might be like if I actually were going to fuck him.
“Chase,” he whispers again in a hoarse voice a minute later, as I’m spreading his cheeks just to drag my precum-slicked tip over his hole.
“I told you. You don’t have to worry.”
I take my hand away from his ass and his cheeks close around my tip again. My whole fucking body responds, and I get goosebumps at how hot it looks.
I grip my base and start stroking again, feeling the soft pucker of his hole at my tip, just gliding against it with a steady, gentle pressure.
“Oh God,” he utters.
“You can touch yourself,” I tell him. “Do you need to come?”
“Yes,” he hisses.
As he starts to stroke his own cock, his body moves even more. It makes more friction on my tip.
A couple of times, Logan tenses up, and my cock is so close to breaching his hole.
I can’t take it.
“Going to come right here,” I tell him, pushing a little on his hole. “Because I waited too many days to see you again, and it’s your fault you looked this hot when I walked in.”
Even the sound of his broken breath is enough to spur me on. “Thought I wasn’t your type. Having a change of heart?”
“Yeah. I am.”
He purposely squeezes the back of his ass around me hard at that point, and I lean over to bite the back of his shoulder gently.
I love when he’s like this.
A little bit defiant, while still giving me everything.
The pressure and squeeze of his cheeks along with my fist takes me right up to the edge, and then I let go.
“I have to have you. Fuck.” I slam my palm into the wall with a sharp smack beside him as my abdomen tenses, cum spilling from my tip into the cleft of his ass. I stroke myself through it, dripping white right down the center, the side of my face pressed up against the back of Logan’s shoulder.
I slide my finger through a streak that ended up right at the bottom of his back, watching it like I’m watching paint drip.
Exquisite.
I bring it up to his face, pushing up against his lips. His tongue comes out, sliding over my slicked finger as he takes my cum.
And it fucking makes him finish.
He exhales as he comes, all while I’m still dragging my fingertip on his tongue.
I hold him through it, gripping his waist with my free hand as he paints the wall in front of him. I slowly slide my finger lower, grazing his lower lip and then releasing him.
I feel like I just finished a marathon.
That good afterburn feeling that only comes from feeling completely satisfied, which is unfamiliar to me.
“Big mess. As usual,” I tell him in a teasing tone, stepping back and reaching over to give him a little smack on the ass. “Let’s clean this up and then you have to come cuddle on the couch with me.”
He gives me a wide-eyed look, glancing back at me from over his shoulder. “Is that right? I’m required?”
His eyes are so beautiful it feels like a kick in the chest.
The silver-grey is so clear right now, and I realize for the first time I don’t feel any distance in his gaze.
He’s right here with me.
And I wish to God I could keep him like this all of the time. He makes me feel like I matter, when for so long, I’ve felt like I’m just floating through life.
“I don’t make the rules. Cuddling is mandatory.”
His smile is so genuine. I couldn’t have even imagined seeing him smile like that back when we were on the rooftop and he was closed off from me in ways I couldn’t understand.
Stay like this.
Don’t go back behind your walls.
Because being let into your world is better than being in my own life, anyway.
I go up to Logan’s hotel room again the following afternoon, and I realize I’ve made a mistake from the moment he opens the door.
Logan clearly didn’t expect me here.
He’s wearing head-to-toe football gear, which is the first thing that clues me in.
“Um, is this a sex thing?” I ask. “Because I could really get into it, if you want me to do a thing where I dominate my former bully, but just give me a moment to get used to it.”
He puffs out a quick laugh. “Chase, I’ve got a photoshoot going on in here for a magazine.”
I peer behind him and see the edge of a tall flood light and reflector at the end of the hall.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
Of course he’s not just wearing football shit for the hell of it. This is for Yard Line promotion, and there’s a whole production team in here right now.
“Who’s at the door?” someone calls out from inside.
I whisper near Logan’s ear. “Uh, you can say it’s just a hotel worker.”
I nod at him, encouraging him.
“A guy from the hotel,” Logan calls back. “He’s… here to take inventory of the bar.”
I shrug. He swings the door fully open and I step inside. The living room is like a full-on zoo, and when we walk into the main area there are at least eight people inside. Photographers, stylists, and other assistants are by their sides.
But because I’m in my hotel uniform, no one questions it as I walk into the suite.
A couple people smile or give me a polite nod, but they’re very focused on their own task at hand.
“Logan, have Anne redo the gel in your hair,” someone tells him.
“Got it.”
I walk over behind the bar and pull out my phone, periodically looking at it as if I’m checking boxes on an inventory list. I pull down bottles of liquor, pretending to check how full they are, but I go slowly, watching Logan after a minute.
After he gets his hair fixed, the stylist nods. “Okay. Next few photos are going to be without the jersey. It’ll be shirtless, with just the pants.”
People help Logan remove his giant shoulder pads, and it turns out the jersey is a fake with a zipper down the back so he doesn’t mess up his hair. They pull it off of him, then pose him in front of the window.
Seeing all of these people fussing over him is just another glimpse into how his daily life must feel.
So many people pawing at you.
I also look over at the photography equipment, studying each piece like I’m taking a class.
I’m burning with jealousy. I’ve always wanted to be a professional in some creative field, but I’ve never been on a real, live photo set for a major publication.
I watch one of the photographers instruct Logan to lie on his side on the ground. I still think I’d get better angles than she’s getting, but it still looks cool. She steps over him, pointing the camera down, flashes from various light sources going off around the room.
“Okay, time for the kiss prints,” she calls out.
An assistant brings over a little rubber object that she presses onto Logan’s cheek.
I realize it’s a stamp, and when she pulls it away, it leaves a red lipstick kiss mark on Logan’s skin.
She presses another to his forehead. His neck. A couple along his chest.
“Want them down here?” she asks the photographer, pointing at the bottom of Logan’s abs.
“Absolutely.”
When she walks away, Logan is covered in kisses.
“Okay, Logan. Part your lips a little. Yes. Like that.”
Logan’s mouth hangs open a little and I stand behind the bar, forgetting entirely that I’m supposed to be pretending to work.
I can’t stop staring at him.
I want to make those marks on his body.
Mine wouldn’t be with lipstick, but real marks. I want to suck them onto his skin, little hickeys and bruises all over him, and I kind of fucking wish I had already done that last night, so those photo assistants would have to cover my marks with makeup.
I’m heated now.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, watching closely.
And it doesn’t help that Logan’s confusing my whole body. He’s wearing the clothes that the guys I hated in high school wore. The football uniform my father always wished he could see me in, too.
I’ve successfully avoided watching any Yard Line episodes or even online promo. Other than the ad I saw on the side of a bus, I haven’t seen Logan like this.
A thread of rage curls itself around my stomach.
The rest of the world has fallen in love with this version of Logan. And it’s so unfamiliar to me. Logan isn’t Damien Vance. He’s not “Big D,” or a football player on a show I would never watch. I like my version of Logan better.
His fans have no clue how sensitive he is. How much fame affects him, and how deeply he needs to recharge but never gets a chance to. His fame is just a reason he still has to hold back around me, and a reason his eyes end up looking so tired at the end of long days.
But I also recognize how good he looks like this.
Logan looks like a star.
I thoughtlessly reach for the silver tequila bottle in front of me, unscrewing it, tossing some in a glass, and taking a long swig, not bothering to see if anyone is watching.
I’m just a hotel worker.
A hotel worker who needs a fucking drink.
The liquor hits my blood and I watch Logan in front of that window, being touched and ordered around as a fire stokes in my chest.
None of them can touch you like I do.
I’ve never felt it so strongly until now.
I want to walk over there and drag him into the bedroom. Or skip the bed entirely and take him up against the wall.
I want to claim him.
I want to fuck him.
It’s so clear, right now, not layered underneath murky levels of doubt. It doesn’t matter that he’s a man, or that I’ve never thought of doing that to another guy… I just want to possess him, like I’m some feral animal watching my favorite person get pawed at by some other undeserving creature.
I’m crazy.
Fuck, I’m really this kind of person, aren’t I? Obsessive. Impulsive. Greedy.
Not that I’ve ever felt this for anyone else.
I take another gulp of tequila, knowing it’s bad. I know I’ve been drinking too much all week. Logan has, too. It’s toxic, just like this selfish thread that’s been coiling its way around my chest this whole time.
I curl my fingers around the cool, glass neck of the tequila bottle, wishing I could grip hard enough to crush it in my hand.
I’m probably bad for Logan, too.
Deep down, I know it.