Chapter 16
One king-sized bed was centered against the far wall, its white duvet pulled tight and smooth. A single chocolate mint was placed dead center on the pillow as if the hotel was mocking us.
Evan dropped his duffel at the foot of it and stared. I stood in the doorway, my hand still on the key card, my brain attempting to reboot.
“Well,” Evan said.
“Well,” I parroted.
Behind us, the hallway erupted.
“OH SHIT!” Reed’s voice hit a pitch that dogs could hear. He was craning his neck past my shoulder, his eyes locked on the lone bed. “YO! JENKINS AND brOCK GOT ONE BED!”
The news traveled down the corridor. Doors opened, and heads popped out. Within ten seconds, six members of the Wildbrook baseball team were crowded around our door frame, and the commentary was merciless.
Caldwell cupped his hands around his mouth. “brOCK FINALLY GETS TO SECOND BASE!”
“Third base by midnight!” Thompson yelled back.
“Nah, nah—” Reed was already wheezing. “Jenkins is gonna bunt.”
“What?! Jenkins couldn’t find the plate if you handed him a GPS!”
Garcia had his phone out, filming. “Say hi to the fans, boys.”
Evan turned to face them, leaning against the dresser and crossing his arms. His eyes were hooded, his lips a flat line. “Y’all done?”
“Not even close!” Thompson pumped his hips.
“Brock, you need protection?” Garcia was still filming. “I got a spare rubber if—”
“Get fucked, Garcia.”
The hallway howled, and my neck burned. My gaze locked on a coffee stain near the baseboard. I clung to it, tracing its edges with my eyes, focusing on the story of a stranger’s spilled drink. Anything to avoid the guys in the doorway.
“Alright, alright.” A voice cut through the chaos, deep and authoritative, and the hallway went quiet in the span of a breath.
My father pushed through the cluster of players, his Wildbrook polo crisp, his cap pulled low.
He surveyed the room over my shoulder, his eyes landing on the single bed, then moving to Evan, then to me. “Everyone, back to your rooms. Now.”
The hallway emptied with a rattle of closing doors. The silence that slammed down in their wake rang in my ears. Far down the hall, the elevator chimed a single piercing note.
My father stepped into the room and pulled the door shut, the click of the latch final. He planted his hands on his hips, his gaze making a slow, methodical sweep of the room as if he were scanning an infield for weaknesses.
“I’ll call the front desk,” I said quickly. “They can move us. Or get a cot. Or—”
My father shook his head. “Hotel’s booked solid. Some conference has every room in the building. I called ahead when they sent the rooming list, but there’s nothing available.”
“Nothing?” My voice cracked.
He turned to Evan, who still hadn’t moved from the dresser. “Brock, you alright with this?”
Evan shrugged. “It’s a bed, Coach. I’ve shared worse.”
“That’s the attitude.” My father pointed at him, then swung his finger toward me. “Thomas. It’s a three-game series. You’ll survive.”
“Dad—”
“I’ve spent entire road trips sharing a bed with teammates. When I played for state, we had four guys in a double room. Two to a bed. Nobody died.” He said it matter-of-factly. “Petrie and I did it more than once back in the early days when the budget was tight. You deal with it.”
Petrie. Walgreens. My dad’s hand reaching for that gold box on the top shelf.
My vision tunneled, the room shrinking to a pinpoint of white duvet. My father’s mouth was still moving, forming words I could no longer hear over the roar of blood in my ears. My skin went hot, then cold, then hot again.
I was across the room in four strides. The bathroom door shut behind me, the lock engaging with a deafening click. I gripped the edge of the sink, pressing my fingertips hard into the porcelain.
My father had shared a bed with Petrie.
I turned on the faucet and splashed my face three times. The cold was a welcome shock, and I focused on a single drop of water crawling toward the drain until my breathing steadied.
From outside the door, I heard my father’s muffled voice. “Get some rest tonight. First pitch is at one tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thomas?”
I shut off the water. “Yeah, Dad?”
“You alright in there?”
“Fine. Stomach thing.”
A pause. “Drink some water. I’ll see you both in the morning.”
The hotel room door opened, then clicked shut.
I stayed in the bathroom for another five minutes, gripping the sink and breathing through my nose until the wildness in my eyes finally receded. When I finally emerged, Evan was sitting on the edge of the bed—our bed—unlacing his shoes.
He raised one eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“Your dad sharing a bed with Petrie really fucked you up, huh?”
“Let’s just file that under ‘things I’m never thinking about again.’”
He nodded, the corner of his mouth ticking up, and went back to his shoes.
I sat on my side of the bed, the mattress sighing. The rejected mint was now on the nightstand. I unwrapped it and let the waxy chocolate and sharp mint dissolve on my tongue. The artificial taste was a stark contrast to how overwhelmingly real the situation was.
The first two nights, we didn’t bother with words.
Evan came back from game one electric, the 9-2 win humming under his skin. He kicked the door shut, dropped his bag, and pinned me against the wall before the latch had even clicked.
He tasted of victory and salt. I took him deep, my throat stretching around the thick ridge of his cockhead.
He groaned, the vibration traveling straight down his shaft into my mouth.
When his thighs started to tremble, I moved lower, nudging his legs apart.
He let out a shaky breath, his body going lax under my hands.
I buried my face between his ass cheeks, inhaling his musk. When my tongue pushed inside, the sound that tore out of him was raw and unhinged, swallowed by the hotel pillow.
He came without me touching his cock at all, a guttural roar muffled by the pillow as he bucked hard enough to slam the headboard against the wall.
Ropes of hot, heavy semen shot onto his face and chest, pooling in the hollow of his throat.
His eyes were squeezed shut, his face a mask of strain and release.
The last few drops beaded at the slit of his cock. He was completely undone—a fallen god—and the sight of him covered in his cum sparked something fierce and tender inside me. I wanted to lick him clean.
Game two was another win. Evan took a shot in the seventh that cleared the bases. Back in the room, he was impatient, pulling his pants down before I’d even kicked off my shoes.
“Get over here.” The command in his voice made my cock throb instantly.
I rimmed him until he was incoherent, his face buried in the mattress. When he came thirty minutes later, it went all over the sheets. I licked a stripe of cum from near his knee.
The taste hit my tongue—tangy, thick, warm.
My nose wrinkled on reflex, but I didn’t gag.
I met Evan’s wide eyes as I swallowed it down.
His jaw went slack, and the sound that escaped him—a broken, disbelieving groan—was the hottest thing I’d ever heard.
It sent me over the edge after two pumps of my fist.
“You like that, Slugger?” I asked.
Evan gawked at me, that familiar gleam in his blue eyes warped now into something hungry, reckless, and stupidly sincere. He hooked his hands under my knees, jerked me closer, and took my cock in his mouth.
It was clumsy. No two ways about it: he was an all-star baseball player, swinging for the fences, choking up and choking down.
He nearly gagged himself on the first lunge, coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then glared at my dick as if it had personally offended him.
Then he dove back in, sheer stubbornness bending him to the task.
My brain short-circuited at the heat, the pressure, the way his tongue pressed clumsy bands along the underside and the tightness of his lips as he tried to figure out the pace and rhythm.
He went way too fast at first, then slowed to a crawl, then just bobbed and made these intense, determined little sounds in his throat every time he took me deeper.
He alternated between working me with frantic, uncoordinated pulls and just letting me sit in his mouth while he stared up at me, annoyed and horny and almost competitive about it.
It should have been hilarious, but it wasn’t. It was the hottest shit I’d ever experienced.
I shoved a fist in my mouth to keep from moaning loud enough to bring my dad running from the next room. Sweat rolled down my temples. My toes curled, heels digging into the bed as Evan’s big hands anchored my thighs and he found a groove—finally.
“F-fuck, Brock—” I hissed, unable to help it. My whole body was vibrating, and my eyes were doing their best impression of The Price is Right wheel. “I’m gonna—”
He popped off me, forehead shiny with sweat, eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna bust?”
I nodded, and he shoved me back, but there was nothing cruel in it. It was almost like he was proud—he’d done what he came to do, and now the rest was mine.
I stroked myself twice and exploded, striping his cheek, the pillow, my hair. A spurt caught him across the lips; he wiped it with his thumb and flicked it onto the floor, shaking his head in disbelief but not disgust.
I lay there, shuddering, my chest hiccupping for air. Evan collapsed next to me, his face flush and smug.
“It’s okay,” I said, even though I knew he wasn’t the apologetic type. “Cum is an acquired taste.”
He snorted, rolled onto his back, and let out a wild, nervous laugh. “You’re telling me.”