Three

three

Incendiary: extremely hot or capable of causing a fire

TJ

The next day, I’m leaving Markson Hall after a boring-as-fuck econ prime class when a small guy with curly hair and high boots flanks me.

“Hey, football star,” he greets me with a cheery voice. He’s wearing a black kilt skirt with a red sweater under a long coat. Brown curls escape from his pink knit cap, and he’s holding an expensive bag. He screams money and confidence.

“Me?” I ask, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ah, apparently ignorance is bliss.” Did he just insult me with a sweet smile? His upturned nose is red from the cold, and his pink-lipsticked mouth has a perfect cupid shape. Objectively beautiful, but I prefer the naturally red, full lower-lipped mouth of a certain someone with a taste for baggy clothes and fancy words. Fuck!

“I’m Lori, a friend of Spencer’s.”

I blink at him, taken aback by his words. “TJ,” I utter. Then an anxious feeling makes me hold my breath. “Is he okay?”

He frowns. “Do you know what happens when some wankers decide to hurt a friend of mine? I don’t only get even, I like to pile up on it.”

Fuck, I get that. I’m still fucking angry at Josh and the others—and myself. “Look, it was my fault if my teammates assaulted Spencer. I mean, I didn’t tell them to do it, but I should have handled it differently. I had no idea they’d attack him. But they already got what they deserved. From Spencer.” And me. I told them I got the security camera video on iCloud, ready to be sent to Coach Morgan and the dean. Assault is a serious fucking offense. I don’t really have that video, but I know how to deal with this kind of people since unfortunately I am one of them.

“And you? Did you get what you deserve?” Lori narrows his makeup-defined brown eyes at me.

I drop my backpack on the floor and turn my cap backward. “Go ahead,” I tell him, spreading my arms wide. “I won’t fight back.”

“Blimey! What’s the bloody fun in that, Thor?” he grumbles and childishly stomps his foot on the ground. He crosses his arms in front of his narrow chest and then taps a gold-nailed finger on his chin, pondering.

“Thor?”

“You have brown eyes, but the rest?” He waves in my general direction. “You could be his twin. Hammer included.” He points at my groin with a knowing expression.

Did he just allude to the size of my dick?

“Is the air fresher up there?” He then asks, “How tall are you? Six feet and a mountain and half of inches?”

I drop my arms at my sides. “Habitual mockery is a strong indicator of depression; did you know that?” I ask him.

“No, but thank you for clarifying that, mate,” he replies distractedly. “I guess there’s still hope for you.”

“I get the sense that thinly veiled insults are your daily bread.”

“You’re wrong on one account, there’s no veil there.” He winks.

“I gotta go, are we done here?” I ask, already picking up my backpack.

“Where are we going?” He skips a couple of times, following me.

We? “I’m going to pick up a bicycle.”

He smirks at me. “And is that bicycle by any chance going to be gifted to a sexy redheaded bloke with a quarter-bouncing arse?”

Spencer’s round butt pops into my head, I feel my cheeks getting warm as my step falters for a moment.

He chuckles and snorts. “You’ll be all over him like dressing on a salad.”

“I… What does that mean?” I stop to look down at him.

“It means you want to shag that meaty tushy.” He talks…weird.

“So you say.” I resume walking.

“I've got a twenty that says the same thing.”

I shake my head, trying hard to push the image of Spencer’s ass away.

“Spence and TJ kissing in a tree. K-I-S-S-I?—”

I stop his singing. “You’re on, fifty bucks.” Spencer hates me, and I’m a mess. Nothing will ever happen between us. I’m just trying to fix a wrong.

“Okay, brown-eyed Thor. But if you have ill-willed intentions, I’m warning you to do like a rock and roll right now.” Ill-willed? “Because if you hurt him in any way, I’ll nail your big knob to the scoreboard. Do you get me, football guy?”

He sounds serious. “Football guy?”

“Don’t know the technical terms. It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“You’re like a feral Frodo,” I tell him as I reach my jeep.

“Who?” He leans against the driver’s door, blocking it.

“The hobbit, from the Lord of the Ring s.”

“I’m used to worse names.” It’s not hard to believe him.

He suddenly erases the distance between us and proceeds to slap me hard on the cheek.

“We have eyes on you, Thor. Behave! And remember, pecker-nail-scoreboard.” He then growls in my face, pushing himself onto his tiptoes. He only reaches my shoulder and I still loom over him which kind of nullifies the…warning.

He sashays away from me as I massage my aching cheek. He surely knows how to land a hard slap. That doesn’t stops my eyes from falling appreciatively on his butt. My dick doesn’t seem to be interested, though. An image of another plump, round ass fills my head again, and the half chub inside my pants lets me know how much my body is on board with the idea of fooling around with a tall, no-fucks-given badass named Spencer.

I don’t know why I stuttered yesterday when he pointed out I got hard for him. It was self-preservation I guess; my brain tried to fight the automatic denial, and all I got out were incomprehensible words. I’ve never talked about my appreciation for a man’s bod before.

But the truth is that I…I’m bi. I’ve always tended more toward girls, and while still glancing at and lingering on a nice male figure, I never felt real attraction toward a guy.

Until…him. There’s something about him.

Those hard amber eyes in contrast with his kind acts and his unpredictable personality combative one moment, playful the next urge me to discover more.

That’s one of the reasons why I’m knocking at his apartment door an hour later. He opens after a long moment with only a towel around his waist and another in his hand. My lips part in surprise as my eyes eagerly run down his long and very defined torso covered in tattoos.

He runs his inked hand through his wet hair, leaving it a wild tangle of waves, as drops of water start rolling down his lightly freckled skin, one catching on his hard pale pink nipple.

I swallow hard, unable to stop my eyes from ogling and my dick from lurching inside my jeans. He must have just gotten out of the shower. The smell of jasmine envelops me for a moment, and I take a big breath, hoping it will stay with me a little longer.

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and I jerk my gaze to his unhappy face. He has a bruise under his eye and another on his jaw. The sight pours cold water on my libido.

“Here for round two?” he asks, bringing the towel to his head to rub it over the wet locks. The eye tattoo on his hand looks lifelike, staring at me too deeply.

“I…” I clear my voice and repeat, “I brought you a new bike.” I open my palm and show him the lock keys. He doesn’t say anything nor attempt to take them from my hand.

He pushes me to the side and walks barefoot to the landing, leaning over the railing to look down at the parking lot.

“You can’t see it well. It’s under the bike shelter. It’s the yellow one,” I say awkwardly.

“Why?” he asks, turning toward me.

“It’s from me and the guys. They won’t give you any more trouble,” I assure him. When he remains silent I add, “Hard to believe, but in the shower, when I pushed you, I was actually trying to protect you.”

He scoffs scornfully at that.

“I thought that acting like nothing happened in front of those idiots was the right choice, that not giving them an explanation would make them let go of the whole thing. But I was wrong.” I quickly say, “And also I was protecting myself. I’m still trying to understand a few things about myself. One in particular.” I tuck my lips inside my mouth, unable to say more than that; my tongue feels like one of those heavy weights I lift in the gym.

The heavy silence that falls between us is broken after a few, interminable seconds by his sigh. He walks back inside his apartment without saying a word but leaves the door open. I take it as an invitation and step inside, closing it behind me. After dropping the bicycle lock’s keys on the small table on the right I make my way in.

“Heyyyy, wanker! I don’t like to be kept waiting.” That’s his feral friend’s voice—Lori—coming from the phone on the flamingo pink sofa’s armrest.

“Shut your trap,” Spencer replies, dropping himself on the small, comfortable-looking sofa. He tosses the damp towel on a chair and pushes his hair back, revealing another tattoo under his arm. Fuck, he looks good. All that ink gives him a bad boy charm. I didn’t think I was into that, but I also never thought I was actually into men.

“So rude!” I hear Lori scolding him. “Are you gonna do it? If you decide to indulge me, I’ll stop. It’s a promise.”

I studiously avert my eyes from Spencer to stop the ogling and look around instead. The place is nice. The small kitchen to the right looks untouched. The airy living room I’m standing in has only the essentials: a big TV, a desk with a laptop and notebooks on top, shelves filled with books, and a door that must lead to the bedroom.

Spencer huffs with what sounds like exasperation. “It’s always a negotiation with you. I’d like to say I’m gonna hold you to that promise, but nobody can hold you to?—”

Lori cuts him off. “Gabe and Bez did just that yesterday when they bent me over the kitchen counter and poun?—”

Two guys? Wow, that sounds…hot.

“Hanging up now,” Spencer lets him know.

“Tomorrowsixo’clock. Havefun,youslut!” Lori quickly says, all in one breath before Spencer ends the call.

I’m still standing in the living room, but now, he’s the one staring at me. From my old gray baseball cap to the tips of my sneakers. I usually don’t mind. I have a great body, and enough girls hit on me to make me feel confident about myself. But under his amber eyes, I feel self-conscious and second-guessing.

“Nice place. Comfortable.” I was going for a light tone, but my voice sounds stilted and awkward.

“Better than your opulent frat house, you mean?” He raises a challenging dark red brow at me. How does he know I’m part of a fraternity? Did he ask around about me? The thought pleases me more than it should.

“Definitely. It’s peaceful here.” I nod. And I’m not lying. I love my bros, but I’d like to have more fucking privacy. Since I’m a frat legacy, though, I need to stay put.

“Beer?” He stands and walks toward the small white fridge in the kitchen.

“Uhm, no thanks.” Why am I so tense? I follow and lean my hip against the small counter.

I suddenly feel the need to tell him, “Sorry about your job. I talked to your ex-boss, but he already hired someone else.”

He gives me that scrutinizing, sober stare before going back to sit on the sofa. He takes a long sip from his can, and I find myself hypnotized by his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. My head goes straight to the gutter in half a second, and I have to force my eyes away from him again. They fall on the pile of sociology books on the desk.

“You following Professor Corder’s class?” He nods in reply. “He’s a bore,” I state, remembering his endless lessons as he spoke in that monotone, sleep-inducing voice.

He shrugs.

“Wanna become a sociologist? Or a psychologist?”

“Nope.”

He’s a damn hard nut to crack. And for some inexplicable reason, I want to crack him open, even though the odds for a positive outcome are not on my side. “Nice tattoos.” I wave my hand toward his torso.

He sighs. “Are you always so loquacious?”

“Do you always use fancy words?” I counter.

“It’s a hobby of mine.”

My lips kick up because it’s not at all something I’d attribute to him. But I know literally nothing about the guy, so I guess every new little thing would be a surprise.

Those deep, inscrutable eyes continue studying me with grim insistence. I feel like I’m under a microscope, which makes me both uncomfortable and excited.

He looks away before turning his eyes back to mine. I hear the click of his tongue, then he points at the tattoo on his hand. “The evil eye wards off wicked intentions and gives personal enlightenment. It keeps me on the right path.” He takes another sip from his can. “What does yours mean?”

“When did you see mine? Oh, right.” The shower.

“Yeah. Oh,” he repeats with a hint of mockery.

I ignore it as I take off my jacket and make my way toward him. “The sleeping bear was the mascot of my high school football team. It’s where I fell in love with the sport, and every time I see it, I can remember an echo of that feeling. The weight of the ball in my hand, the smell of freshly cut grass, the adrenaline running in my veins.” I stop near the sofa and raise my shirt to give him a good look at it and at the same time show off my incredible abs. Chicks love them, and it seems Spencer is no exception. His eyes slide down my torso with interest, stopping on the crotch of my pants.

It sends a prickly sensation straight to my balls while my dick gives a twitch.

“Do you like any sports?” I ask him, letting the shirt fall down and then dropping next to him. The sofa is small, there’s only a couple of feet between us, and I’m assaulted by that jasmine scent again.

Instead of giving me an answer, he abruptly asks, “Why are you here?”

My wooden voice doesn’t help my attempt at sounding convincing. “Uhm, the bike.”

“Why are you still here, TJ?” he insists.

My lips part, but nothing comes out. His head tilts slightly to the left as his gaze turns intense once again. He lowers it on my lips and holds it there. Then he spreads his legs, letting the towel part slightly, although without revealing more skin.

“Tell me, why are you really here,” he perseveres, using a softer but commanding tone. My eyes focus on his fingers brushing the eagle tattoo on his pec, then going around one nipple and trailing down the intricate orange and black ink to his flat belly. My cock grows inside my jeans until it turns painful.

“Mm, if you have nothing to say, maybe you should go.” His hand drops flat on his leg. He wants me to confess my reason for coming here. Which was the bike, wasn’t it? An innocent gesture. Totally innocuous, right? I’m not so sure anymore. Because it morphed into something completely different—way far from innocent and innocuous.

I take a deep breath. “I-I need to know.”

“Need to know,” he echoes.

“If…” I stop because the towel starts tenting, and fuck, is that the pink head of his cock? Is he getting hard? For me?

“If the scintilla is real?” he utters in a sultry tone. His hand lifts once again, and the middle finger stops on the edge of the towel around his waist, drawing circles there, making me burn and sweat. Body tingling. Balls filling. I want to see him so fucking much.

Now is my turn to repeat, “Scintilla?”

“The faint hint of attraction you feel toward someone, a guy you just met.”

Fuck, but he’s right. I open and close my mouth like a damn fish, fidgeting on the sofa as I try to give my cock some relief.

He hums. “You are in need of a dude-on-dude exploration session. That’s the reason why you’re here.”

My eyes find his for a moment, seeing lust starting to darken them. I nod vehemently, uncaring of the consequences while so damn captivated by the sight of the leaking tip peeking through the white towel. Spencer tugs on it, and the fabric falls open on each side of his hips. His long, hard, slightly left-curving cock springs out in all its glory. And a shiver rushes down my body, ending in my boiling balls.

It’s not the first dick I’ve seen—I take daily showers with my teammates. But it’s the first one I want to touch, explore, maybe even taste. Spencer slides his hand between his legs to cup his balls, and pulls on them, letting out a rumbly growl that makes my cock weep.

“Ever been with a guy?” he asks.

“No,” I choke out, following the massage he’s giving to his nut sack. My hands flex and ball up repeatedly.

“But you’ve had sex before, right?” He finishes his beer, crushes the can, and tosses it on the floor. Now that his other hand is free, he uses it to pinch his nipple.

“Not a virgin,” I finally reply. I’ve even done some butt stuff, some experimenting with my fingers.

He releases his balls and wraps his hand around his uncut dick, giving it a slow, hard pump, pushing the foreskin further down. I almost jump off the couch. I’ve never felt this fucking horny in my entire life. He’s a fucking vision, legs wide open, eyes getting lost to the pleasure as he jerks himself off with purpose now.

“Take your cock out and beat it off,” he tells me without stopping his hand from going up and down. “I won’t touch you unless you ask.” I know he won’t, I trust him for some weird reason.

I pull on my jeans button and push down my boxer briefs, releasing my aching, dripping shaft.

“Fuuuuck! It’s massive.” He licks his mouth, and all I can think about is feeding him my nine inches, stuffing his lips with my fat cock until they stretch wide. He sinks his teeth into that larger lower lip, and holy shit, I want to suck on it.

His cockhead looks red now, so much pre-cum rolls down his shaft, making it easy for his hand to slide. He grunts sexily as his hips start to buck.

“See something you like?” he whispers darkly, letting out a small chuckle. His fingers pull on his nipple again, turning it pointy. I want to touch him so bad.

Instead, I spit on my palm and curl my fingers around my dick, and with my eyes on his pumping hand, I imitate his movements.

I can’t believe I’m getting off in front of another guy. But it’s really happening, and it’s by far the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

After a few seconds, he releases his length and extends his hand toward me. “Spit.” I follow his order without a second thought, or a first.

He gives me a smug smirk before opening his mouth and letting more saliva slowly fall on his dick. Holy shit. He moves his extended hand back to his cock, closing his eyes and opening his mouth as his fingers—slick with my spit—curl around it.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, upping the tempo. Jesus Christ, he likes it dirty. I can come just from the thought of that.

I spread my legs wider until my knee touches his. It's a small connection, but it sets my blood on fire. And his heated eyes tell me he likes it too.

Obscene, squelching sounds fill the room, and I fucking love it. All of it. So much that I keep grunting and groaning. So many images shuffle in front of my eyes: my dick in his mouth, on his tongue, my cum shooting on his face, chest, inside his throat, choking him as he begs for more.

God, I’m dying to come, but I want Spencer to do it first, want to see him losing control, shattering in front of me. I don’t have to wait long.

“Faster,” he moans. “Fuck your hand faster like you’d fuck my ass.”

Jesus. Christ. I want that. I so fucking want that.

He focuses his blown pupils right on my face and growls, “TJ.” My name is on his lips before his body tenses, his back arches, and he lets out the sexiest moan as his dick starts to shoot on his chest. He keeps jerking and grunting until the last rope comes out. Cum rolls down to his abs, making his torso slick and shiny. He rubs his index finger in it, scooping some up and then sucks on it, making a pornographic sound I’ll forever replay inside my head when I beat one off.

His cheeks hollow around his finger as he drives it in and out his mouth, and I almost come right then and there.

He slides his finger out and says, “I can clearly see what you want in your eyes. Are you too scared to ask for it?”

The hand on my dick halts, and I grit my teeth at the thought of what I could get from him.

His hand keeps spreading jizz over his chest as he stares at me. Waiting. But my tongue won’t work. My head is fuzzy, body stiff. I feel like a caveman ready to pounce.

He smirks again, eyes glazed with lust. “I’ll lie down, and if you want what I think you want—straddling my face while my mouth sucks you dry—just take it.”

God have mercy on me. The hand holding my dick is trembling now. My whole fucking body is. I can barely control myself. And all because of this guy.

He shifts on the sofa, placing his head on the armrest, belly up, soft cock lying on his thigh, knees bent, hands at his sides. He’s a wet, hot sex dream, and I don’t want to waste even a second. I yank my sneakers, jeans, and boxer briefs off and straddle his shoulders—cautiously adjusting a bit, not wanting to hurt him with my big bulk.

My cock bumps against his lips, and he licks the tip with his wet tongue, making me grunt. It’s so fucking carnal seeing him like this, under me, at my mercy. The smug smirk on his beautiful face wakes up a wicked, lewd part of me that urges me to take and wrack him.

“Fuck my face, TJ,” he says darkly, opening his mouth wide.

Guided by immeasurable lust, I spread my legs wider, grab his damp hair, and feed him my whole dick, slowly but forcefully. When the tip hits the back of his throat, I stop and groan like a horny animal. Hot, wet, tight, squeezing paradise. No gag reflex.

Only one girl was ever able to take my entire size, but I had to rein my libido with her. I’m big and strong, could easily hurt her. That’s why even though engulfed in breathtaking pleasure, as soon as I see tears forming in Spencer’s eyes, I start pulling back. His hands fly upward and grab my ass, holding me there, pushing me even deeper.

“Holy shit!” I growl, tightening my grip on his hair. All I can think about is fucking his strangling throat fast and rough until I nut inside it.

He moans and hollows his cheeks, making me see stars. I drive out and then all the way back in—slowly. Fucking hell, I don’t want to leave this slutty mouth ever again. So good. So. Good.

“You can take it rough. Fuck, tell me you can take it,” I almost beg him.

He nods and tightens his throat around my cock again, sucking pre-cum out of my damn slit. It makes me feral. Fuck control. I start a merciless tempo, stretching his lips to the maximum as I fuck his eager mouth. I savor every gurgling sound, tear, and trail of saliva. My balls hit his chin with every thrust of my hips, and I feel so fucking high.

His tongue keeps working the underside of my dick while his fingers slide between my butt cheeks and find my puckered hole, brushing over it. Nobody has ever touched me there. Only me. And damn, it feels exhilarating. His soft finger on my sensitive hole makes me ram my cock even harder inside his throat.

I don’t need to rein in my strength with him, because he can fucking take it. More, he wants it. This is the best fucking blowjob of my life. When the tip of his finger breaches inside, it’s like a bomb goes off. I push all the way in and come like a freight train.

“Swallow!” I hiss completely lost in the ecstasy, as I spurt deep down his throat. And Spencer drinks it all, moaning his enjoyment, watery eyes filled with pleasure.

Damn, I can’t believe how amazing face fucking a guy is. I never completely let lust possess me before. It’s freeing, intoxicating. So much that I’m looking forward to doing it again.

I pull slowly out, still trembling, and I slide down his body until we are face-to-face. I remember to use my arms to hold myself up, not wanting to crush him under me.

“You…okay?” I pant.

“Fuck, yeah,” he rasps with a small smile. I look into his sparkling amber eyes, and I just can’t stop myself. I need to taste him.

My lips crush his, and my tongue invades his mouth. He freezes for a second but then melts under me. His lips are just as soft as a girl’s, but the hand gripping the back of my hair is bigger and stronger, adjusting my head to the left. I can feel his light stubble scratching my chin, and the way he kisses me back is commanding and imposing. It makes me fucking moan for him. All of the new sensations do. I once again let go and let him lead; he bites my lip and then licks it better before whispering, “Like the taste of our cum on my tongue?”

I feel my sedated dick twitch, telling me he could go for round two.

I smile. Sinking my tongue inside his mouth for a long, slow lick is my reply. We taste so fucking good, I never want to stop. The kiss grows all-consuming and I shudder against him, dick twitching next to his flaccid one.

My phone starts ringing inside my pants, and I reluctantly turn my head toward the discarded garment on floor.

“Answer it. I need to drink some water,” Spencer says, tapping my thigh. His gruff voice makes me feel quite proud of myself, urging me to sink my cock inside his throat again.

We untangle ourselves, and I unabashedly ogle his amazing bare ass wandering toward the kitchen. What would it feel like to sink inside that instead? It’s too soon. Way too soon.

When I finally grab my cell, it has stopped ringing, but my father’s name on the screen sends an arrow of poisonous dread straight into my chest. It spreads quickly, filling my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

I grab my clothes from the floor and yank them back on, leaving the button of the jeans open as I pull on my sneakers.

“Gotta go,” I mutter, as I make my way to the door without looking at him.

“Right.” I hear his hesitant reply as I close the front door.

I don’t stop. I can’t. Instead I run down the stairs and quickly unlock my car, scrambling into the driver’s seat. I take off my shirt and hoodie, hoping it will help me breathe easier. I place my hand on my running heart and close my eyes, trying to will my pulse to slow down. I hit my head on the headrest one, two, three times before letting out a scream filled with hopelessness.

The beep coming from my phone makes my teeth grind. I grab it and read the text.

Father:

Coach Morgan told me you could be eligible to play in the NFL. That won’t be happening. You already have a job waiting for you, Taylor.

Father:

Don’t disappoint me.

How did I go from experiencing one of the most defining events of my life to hyperventilating, pathetically alone in my car?

I fucking hate myself.