16. 16

16

Robbie McGuire

I can’t think of a time I’ve been more excited to get on a plane. Or off one. Or onto a bus. Or to a hotel. I swear, I don’t think a single full minute has passed since Decker told me what happens to sluts that I haven’t thought about it. I’ve been so spaced out that Bodie’s been looking at me funny and asking if I’m all right. I am. I’m better than all right.

I’m excited.

And nervous.

I’m so nervous and excited, and I can’t really tell those emotions apart from each other anymore. My palms are sweaty and my stomach is fluttery. A low hum of apprehension has been waking me up at night, twisting and turning in my gut until it changes into something that makes me hot. I’m overly aware of my skin. It feels sensitive and too tight. I’m aware of my breathing and my heartbeat all the time .

I remember this feeling. I felt like this before I lost my dick virginity too. I’d been dating this girl Dana for a while, and we’d talked about having sex a lot. She’d told me she was ready and wanted to do it, so I knew it was in the cards. I knew it was coming. I felt exactly like this. Like I was wide awake. Wired when I should’ve been tired. Like every moment was filled with a sense of possibility. Opportunity. Risk and reward.

I was nervous then, too, but for different reasons. I was worried I’d be bad somehow, that I’d hurt her or come too quickly or not make her feel good, or something like that. This time, I’m worried about totally different things. I’m worried it will hurt me, I won’t be able to handle it, and I’ll have to ask Decker to stop. Or that I’ll do something that makes me seem inexperienced. Or that something will go wrong with my prep, and I’ll paint him.

I’ve been pretty obsessive about reading up about other guys first times to try to combat my fears. There’s a ton of information out there. Maybe too much. I know if I spoke to Bodie about it, he’d say, “Bud, you’re over-researched.”

And maybe I am, but I’m someone who’d far rather be over-researched than under-researched. Especially for this kind of thing. I bought a douche kit yesterday, and I must have checked my luggage seventy times or more last night to make sure I’d packed it. I packed lube too. Three kinds—in addition to my usual jacking-off lube—because the results of my extensive research were kind of divided on what the best brand for anal is. I fell down the rabbit hole pretty seriously. I must have because while adding copious amounts of lube to my cart, I threw in a couple of pairs of lacy jockstraps for the hell of it. A white one and a pink one.

I left those at home though. They were too much.

I didn’t even try them on.

Seriously, I didn’t. They’re still in their packaging, I swear. I didn’t even open them. I stuck them in the bottom of my underwear drawer and covered them with socks.

I’ve been having a mild panic about it since I boarded the plane. Almost as soon as I took my seat, I remembered my mom has a key to my house, and so does my sister Beth. If either of them finds those jockstraps, they’ll never let me hear the end of it. They won’t. They’ll both laugh their asses off. And my dad will ask why they’re laughing, and they’ll tell him. They’re like that. No filter. Any of them.

Not that they make a habit of going through my things. They’re not like that .

In fact, when I think about it, I know for sure that neither of them has ever gone into my house without me asking them to. I’m a public figure. I have a shit ton of security, and I have an app that lets me know every time the alarm system is turned on or off. I get a message and a photograph sent to my phone every time someone so much as rings the doorbell. It’s never happened that my mom or Beth have come or gone without me being there. Not once.

It’s not something I need to worry about.

I’m spiraling.

The nerves and excitement about getting fucked have gotten a little too rich for my blood. That’s what’s happened.

I text Decker as soon as Marcus, our team operations coordinator, starts handing out the key cards.

Don’t come up

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he reaches for it immediately and reads the message. It’s clear he can’t make heads or tails of it as he looks at me blankly.

I’m going to prep for fucking, and I don’t want you around

Go to the bar and have a drin k

He looks at his screen and blinks hard. His jaw drops slightly, then he overcorrects and does a truly crappy job of trying to look indifferent. His tongue slips out between his lips. Up and to the right. He scrapes his lip with his teeth as he types.

Three dots appear on my screen and then disappear.

They appear again.

And disappear.

They reappear, and this time, thank fuck, he hits send.

k

K? The letter K, not even the word? That’s what he has to say for himself? If I didn’t have so many other things to think about, I’d give him a big piece of my mind.

K?

What the fuck? That’s it? And lowercase. I don’t even get a capital letter. Jesus.

Okay, so the good news is I’m the proud owner of a squeaky-clean ass. The bad news is I’m spiraling a lot more than I was earlier, and that’s saying something. I’m now positive nerves and excitement are the exact same emotion.

What I don’t understand is why no one has ever noticed it before.

It’s so obvious. Dry mouth, difficulty swallowing, heart palpitations, jumping at the slightest sound. Nerves and excitement. I’m telling you, they’re the same thing.

I check myself out in the mirror and towel-dry my hair a little more. The shower I just took was piping hot, so my face looks a bit red and blotchy, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I wrap a towel around my waist and walk out of the bathroom.

My hand shakes as I type a message to Decker.

I’m ready

Once I’ve hit send I realize I might not have been clear enough.

To be fucked.

Come upstairs.

To our room.

Now .

It occurs to me that a porter brought our luggage up, so Decker may not know what room number we’re in. I mean, they always write the room number on the little envelope the key card comes in, but still, no harm in clear communication.

We’re in 1023.

Tenth floor. Make a left when you get out of the elevator, then turn right at the end of the hallway.

Okay, there. That’s enough. I think I’ve got my point across.

I watch with bated breath as two blue ticks appear next to my messages. And…nothing.

He doesn’t reply.

One minute turns to two, then four, then seven. Nerves and excitement congeal. They thicken and solidify, slowing my thoughts as they transform into a base rage that completely takes me over. It’s an ancient rage. A heart-thumping, sneering, snarling rage. An old, familiar feeling from a different time. A simpler, dumber time. My amygdala lights up and my prefrontal cortex shuts down .

I stomp my feet into a pair of jeans and throw on a top and sneakers with no socks, hopping from one foot to the other as I head for the door.

I’m done with this.

I’m done with Decker’s shit.

I’m going down to that bar, and I’m giving him a piece of my mind. A big fucking piece too. I don’t care who’s there or what they have to say about it.

I’m at the door, arm outstretched, handle within reach, when the door opens, and who should breeze in but Decker. The sight of him like that, his big, beautiful dumb face rapidly arranging itself into a series of surprised circles, takes the rage I’m feeling, pours gasoline all over it, and lights that bad boy up.

I drag him into the room by the scruff of his neck and kick the door shut. “Where the hell have you been?” He opens and shuts his mouth, and for some reason, that triggers me. It makes me stiffen and tense everywhere. Abs. Jaw. Fists.

I want to punch him. I want to push him and shove him. I want contact. I want to come into contact with him. I crave it. I want to lay hands on him, so I do.

Hands. Knuckles. Palms .

Mouth.

Tongue.

Teeth.

He correctly senses I’m not in full control of myself and takes me by both shoulders, shaking me almost hard enough to jolt me out of my stupor. Close, but not quite. I’m still frothing, swinging wildly. I’m so blinded that most of my blows don’t land, which only adds to my rage.

“McGuire,” he says, holding me at arm’s length with an easy smile that slices through fury and makes my brain splutter. “Are we fighting or fucking?”

“You left me on read, you dick.” I attempt to jab at his chest. My reflexes are slowed to the point he catches my wrist easily and twists it behind my back. He does it hard. Hard enough to send a deep burn down the right side of my body that subdues me. He keeps my wrist where it is, curled up to my spine, and uses it as a rudder to steer me forward. I take two steps forward and brace with one hand against the wall.

He lets go of me and leans in. “Had to.” Warm breath hits my neck and spills down my arms. Hot liquid runs down me and settles between my legs. “I was at the bar with Luddy, and you were blowing up my phone. Your name was all over my screen.”

He turns my head and presses one side of my face against the wall in front of me, brushing my hair out of my face, smoothing it down with a big hand. His face is so close to mine I can smell him. So close I can almost taste him. A sweet-and-salty combination that tastes like a challenge. Like victory. Like winning.

I want him.

I snap at his jaw, teeth glancing off coarse hair and a stubborn jaw. He cradles the back of my skull in his palm and pries my mouth open with his other hand. “Want to put this mouth to use, huh?” he murmurs. “Fine. Open. Make yourself useful.” I do. I let my jaw drop, and he thrusts two fingers into my mouth. “Make ’em wet, Princess.”

Arousal hits me hard. Harder than anything has before. My dick, which has been hard off and on since we left the ice, stiffens irrevocably as I swirl my tongue around his fingers like he told me. As I do it, he pushes my jeans down just below the shelf of my ass, exposing me and making me feel undone and a little humiliated at the same time.

That’s it. That’s the moment it hits me.

This is happening. It’s real. It’s not a dream. I’m here, and so is he, and we’re about to do the thing I’ve been thinking of since the first time he kissed me.

He kicks my legs open and lifts the hem of my T-shirt to the middle of my back. Despite the fact I’m still almost fully clothed, I feel naked in a way I’ve never felt before. Naked to my bones. Naked to my marrow.

His knuckles bump over the knobs of my lower vertebra. It’s a light touch that makes my ass quiver. He chases it with one that’s firmer. One that’s lower. Thick fingers slip between my cheeks, drawing a line down the middle of me. I’m instantly breathless. Panting into the wall, pressing my lips together to stop the whimper that threatens as his fingers move lower.

He moves fast, his touch sure and completely lacking in hesitation. A blunt finger circles my hole and finds the path of least resistance. There’s no time to prepare. I’m alone in my body one second, and the next, his finger is inside me. It’s a shock. An explosion of sensation. A sting and a burn and punch of arousal that makes me cry out.

He freezes immediately. Not just his hand but the rest of him too. He’s pressed up against me, so close I can tell he’s stopped breathing. I can almost hear the cogs of his mind turning.

“McGuire,” he says eventually, “you’ve done this before, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I mean no. I mean, yeah, like…not, not specifically. ”

“ Not specifically? ” He eases his finger out of me and steps back from me. “It’s a yes or no question.” His voice lilts up in a way my dick doesn’t like. “Either you’ve taken a dick, or you haven’t. Which is it?”

I pull my pants up and make an unsuccessful effort to steady my voice before turning to face him.

“Well,” I start, “I-in that case, I haven’t.”

My cheeks—the ones on my face—are on fire. Shock, rejection, and humiliation jostle for pole position. It’s a fight, a close race. It ends in a three-way tie.

He takes another step away from me, eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen them. He motions weakly to the wall he just had me up against and says, “I can’t fuck you like that if you’re a virgin.”

I hear a voice bouncing off all four walls of the room, though I’m not completely sure what I’m saying. I definitely hear myself yelling, “I prepped for this, you fucking asshole,” a couple of times, but mainly, I lose my shit to the point things go a little hazy.

I’m so angry and embarrassed and horny. My vision is blurry, and I can’t tell if I’m going to start punching him again or burst into tears. Neither are good options.

I pick up the wallet he set down on the counter when he came in and hurl it in his direction. I miss by a mile. While I’m at it, I pick up his duffel, fully intending to throw it at him as well, but I don’t get a good grip, and instead of sending it sailing through the air, it lands on the floor near his feet with an unsatisfying plop.

Common sense, or something resembling it, lets me know it’s urgent that I make an exit, so I shove my wallet and phone in my pocket, slam the door behind me, and get as far as possible from Ant Decker.

Since it’s late and I don’t have my jacket on, the farthest I can go is the sky bar on the top floor of the hotel. By the time the elevator opens, the worst of the red mist has lifted and the full insanity of my behavior is starting to hit me.

I run into Bodie, Luddy, and a few of the guys at the bar. They’re getting ready to call it a night. Pejic pleads exhaustion, and I get it. I remember all too well how hard a rookie season is. Luddy says he needs to call Amber and check on her and the kids, and I can’t hold that against him either. Luckily, I manage to talk Bodie into having a drink with me because I’m in no mood to be alone.

“Whiskey,” I say to the barman, taking a seat at the bar. It’s a vast space with dark timber floors and a dark timber bar. It’s dimly lit with so much glass and crystal on display that I feel underdressed, out-of-place, and even more stupid than I was already feeling. “And make it a double, please. ”

“You okay?” asks Bodie, casting a concerned glance my way. I nod and shake my head and attempt a smile that wobbles and ultimately fails spectacularly. He doesn’t like what he sees, so he slings an arm over my shoulder and pulls me in for a hug. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.” I down my drink in two big glugs that make my eyes water.

“If Decker’s being a dick, you can sleep in my room. We can call down for a bed, or I’ll take the sofa, I don’t mind. Coach is way out of line on this. You shouldn’t have to room with a guy who’s a constant asshole to you.”

The whiskey seeps into my blood and takes effect. Some of the tension in my joints releases, and I take a couple of long breaths, leaning into the firm pressure of Bodie’s hand on my shoulder. The haze is lifting, and I’m getting a really bad feeling when I think about what went down in our room.

“That’s the thing, Bodes,” I reluctantly admit, “I’m pretty sure I’m the asshole this time.”

“What? You? Being an asshole? Never. Come on, bro, when have you ever treated someone like shit? That’s not who you are, you know that.”

Um, well, I’m pretty sure it was textbook asshole behavior when I yelled at Decker and threw his wallet at him because he didn’t want to fuck me. A fresh wave of burning heat washes over me. It creeps up my torso and settles in a heavy band across my chest. Oh God, did I really do that? Oh please, no. And did I seriously try to throw his duffel at him as well?

And did I miss both times? Oh Jesus. How embarrassing.

Why the fuck did I do that?

Who the hell do I think I am?

It’s too much. I hate it. I’m not like this. I’m literally never like this. I’m not this person. Of course he doesn’t have to fuck me. Why would I think he does? No one’s entitled to someone else’s body. I hate that kind of thinking. I look down on it. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t like it. I can’t act like this. I can’t go around throwing tantrums because someone doesn’t want to put his dick in me.

To make matters worse, now that I’m calmer, I keep seeing what Decker’s face looked like when I was losing my shit. It wasn’t anger or even surprise. It was concern. I was too hot-headed to slow my role, but I’m almost one hundred percent sure that as I walked away from him, he called after me. His voice was gruff like usual but laced with something quiet and gentle .

Now that I’m calmer, his words ring in my ears. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I don’t want to hurt you.

The heavy feeling in my chest sinks down to my belly as the last of the angry fog dissipates. Despite the whiskey, the extent of my overreaction sobers me, and the longer I’m at the bar, the more it dawns on me that I need to get back to our room.

I owe Decker an apology.

I order a water and keep Bodie company, trying not to rush him as he finishes his drink. We chat about the game tomorrow, and Bodie asks after my family—my mom and dad and, like always, Beth in particular. Conversation is a little stilted as I’m finding it really hard to act normal. After every sip he takes, Bodie throws me a furtive little look. I can tell he’s doing an assessment of my mental state, and he’s not happy with what he’s seeing.

“I better go,” I say when he finishes his drink and sets his glass down.

“Are you sure? ’Cause I’m serious, Robbie, you can take my bed. I’ll hit the sofa. You know me. I can sleep anywhere.”

“Nah, it’s all good. I’ll be okay. I took something Decker said the wrong way, that’s all.”

The curtains are drawn and the lights are out. It’s dark in the room. Almost pitch black. Decker’s breathing is long and even. So quiet, I have to hold my own breath to hear it. I brush my teeth and wash my face, taking care to close the bathroom door before I switch the light on so I don’t disturb him. I undress in the bathroom and tiptoe to my bed in my boxers.

I get into bed and pull the covers over my shoulders, turning on my side, away from Decker. I lie as still as possible because God knows I’ve disturbed this man way more than I should have for one day. I try to relax and let sleep take me, but I’m still just as tense as I was earlier when I was waiting for him and the low thrum of unsated arousal still flows through my veins. Even though I’m almost positive Decker’s fast asleep, his presence is hot and loud and the silence in the room is unbearable.

“Sorry,” I whisper. The first time I say it, I do it so softly it’s little more than a breath. It’s still a relief to hear myself say it. Such a relief that I say again. This time with meaning. “Ant, I’m sorry.”

A sigh and a strangled hum lets me know he heard me .

I close my eyes and will myself to sleep, feeling a little better now that I’ve apologized, but still not great.

After several long minutes, Decker’s sheets rustle and two heavy feet land on the carpet. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. Chill , I tell myself, he’s probably going to take a piss. Not everything is about you . I’m so still and alert that when I feel the first hint of a tug on my covers, I think I imagined it.

“W-what are you doing?” I ask.

“Giving you what you want.”

My mouth dries and I’m left repeatedly swallowing and trying to catch my breath as Decker stands at the foot of my bed and pulls my bedding off me painstakingly slowly. My shoulders are exposed first, then my side, then my boxer-clad ass, and finally my legs and feet. There’s a light caress of fabric, a kiss of cotton on skin, followed by a cool breeze that reaches its icy claws inside me, takes hold of my insides, and squeezes until I can’t tell ice from fire.

He tosses something onto the bed beside me, and I know from the weight and the way it lands that it’s a bottle of lube. I don’t move a muscle. Not my head or my eyes. I just lie on my side, frozen, as he tucks himself behind me. Hope starts to beat against my rib cage. His chest makes contact with my back. The heat of his skin warms me and makes me forget everything except where we’re touching. He’s big, even bigger than I am, muscular and hard, and bulky enough to wrap himself around me, and while it’s not a feeling I’m used to, it is a feeling I like.

It’s so dark that I can’t see anything other than the tiny red light on the bottom of the TV and the barely-there outline of the doorway that leads to the bathroom. I blink to get my eyes to adjust, but it doesn’t help. I can’t see, so I have no idea how or where Decker will touch me next, and he uses that to his advantage. He touches me lightly. A big hand on my upper arm. The back of his fingers trailing down my arm, then up again. The next touch is harder. He grips my bicep, feeling me up and moving downward. He confuses my mind and senses, alternating soft touches with hard ones. Fingertips dance on my side, following the lines of my ribs and counting them one by one, gradually curling around my body and traveling up my chest. He finds a handful of pectoral muscle and gropes it roughly. Stroking and groping, hard and soft. When I’m so turned on I can’t feel my legs, he takes a pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb and rolls it gently. A sharp jolt of pleasure blooms in my chest and spreads into my core. It makes me moan. I can’t help it. He’s so hot and so close to me, and I can’t remember ever wanting anyone as much as I want Decker.

I can’t remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this.

It’s an ache more than a want. An ache to be filled, to be taken. An ache for the unknown. An ache for something more. An ache for the man at my back.

His hand moves down, trailing over my navel, dusting my cock in a way that’s hardly a touch, more like a disturbance of air, and quickly moving away. He’s not touching me anywhere now except for where his chest is pressed against my back, and that makes me ache worse. I have no idea where he’s going to touch me next, and the anticipation that builds is hard to describe.

My breathing becomes ragged. Hard and fast. In and out.

I consider shifting and wriggling my hips backward so I can rub my ass on his dick, but I’m so scared to do the wrong thing that I don’t move. When he touches me again, it’s on my outer thigh. The pressure is firm and grounding as he tucks his hand into the bend of my knee and folds my leg up against my chest.

I know what he’s doing. I’ve done it to women before. Lots of times. He’s getting me ready for penetration. He’s arranging my limbs to ease his access to my body .

It turns me on hard.

He plays with my ass, sliding his hand under the waistband of my boxers, pushing them down and kneading my cheeks when I’m free of them. He strokes every inch of my ass until I’m on fire. There are blunt nails on my skin, barely there, barely there, and then they’re there hard. When it’s hard, big handfuls of me are manhandled and opened, pulled this way and that. Spread wide before reverting back to a soft caress that makes me see stars.

He teases me like that until I can’t think. Until I’m so blind, I can’t see the red light on the TV or the outline of the bathroom door. It’s as black when my eyes are open as when they’re closed. I have both hands fisted, clamped against my mouth to keep from begging for more. When I’m like that, moaning and reaching back, trying to grab any part of him I can lay my hands on, he reaches over me and feels around for the lube.

There’s a hollow click as he opens it, followed quickly by a slick digit at my backdoor. Even though I’m fully expecting it, the shock makes me draw a short breath. The lube is cold and his finger is thick. It makes me feel interfered with in the best possible way. He takes his time, coating my opening, circling it slowly, massaging me until my ring softens and I can make sense of what I’m feeling. Good. It feels good. Really, really good. Sensitive in a way I wasn’t expecting. Sensitive in a way I didn’t know I’d like. He waits until my bones turn to liquid and my blood starts to boil before nudging a fingertip into me.

My eyes fly open. I can’t see a thing. I’m surrounded by darkness, swallowed whole by it. All I can do is feel. A nudge and a rub. A nudge that becomes a little more. A fingertip worms its way into me. In, then out. More. Less. Each time, he works it into me a little deeper than before. I feel it intensely. Deeply. It’s a strange invasion, an unfamiliar feeling that delivers a slight burn that makes the seam of whatever has been holding me together all these years disintegrate.

He pulls out of me completely and then replaces one finger with two.

Now that I really feel. I feel it everywhere. It’s more than a slight burn. More than a slight stretch. The pressure is deep and sustained. Decker moves his fingers slowly, swiveling them around inside me and finding my prostate with well-practiced skill. Jesus ! I’m not just seeing stars. It’s an asterism now. A night sky with no clouds. No manufactured light to compete with. Just a heavy black screen with a million tiny lights burning through it .

He doesn’t stop when I squawk or call out. He doesn’t slow either. He keeps stimulating my spot. Hitting it like it’s his job. It fucks me up. It undoes me so much that when he pulls his fingers out of me, I’m a puddle of goo.

“Noooo,” I wail, frantically reaching back and trying to find his hand or his cock, anything I can use to fill me. “I need it.”

“Relax, Princess.” There’s a smile in his voice. A dark smile buried under a threat. “I know what you need, and I’m gonna give it to you.” He leans in and kisses my cheek, scraping my skin with coarse hair and teeth. “Imma make you into the perfect pussy boy you were born to be.”

I groan in reply. A long, loud sound that makes the whole room vibrate and spins every star in the room clockwise.

The lube cap flicks open, and I hear the slick sounds of Decker coating himself behind me. He moves closer to me, sliding his lower arm under my neck and curling it around my chest, using his free hand to line his cock up with my ass.

His head feels slick and warm against my hole. Thick and unforgiving. If I had any presence of mind left, I’d be nervous and or excited. I’m so far gone, though, I can’t remember how to feel anything but horny.

I’m still on my side, curled in a ball with my legs bent to my chest. I rock my hips back, offering myself to him. When he doesn’t act as fast as I’d like, I take my ass cheek in my hand and spread myself as much as I can. He strokes my hole with his dick a few times and then pushes in.

He’s prepared me well, and God knows I want it, but damn, I feel it. There’s a quick shock as muscle is forcibly stretched. A sharp sting that makes my eyes water. Decker knows what he’s doing though. He must because as soon as his head is inside me, he takes my dick in his hand and strokes it firmly.

The feeling of a hand on my cock soothes me. The familiar push and pull of skin sliding up and down mingles with the brand-new sensation coming at me from behind. Pleasure mingles with pain, quickly mixing and becoming indistinguishable from each other. They drown each other out, competing, changing, turning into something more powerful than anything I’ve ever felt.

He inches himself farther into me. I grit my teeth and forget to breathe as my sphincter gives way. He thrusts into me until he encounters resistance and then backs up. It happens again and again, and even though I know I should thank him, even though I know he’s doing me a huge favor by taking me so gently, it drives me crazy. It makes me feral.

I take a deep breath, and the next time he pushes in, I arch my back hard to meet him. It makes me cry out, and when I do, he pulls all the way out of me, waiting until I’m swearing and begging before stuffing himself back inside me. The shock of being empty is awful. I don’t like it. I hate it.

“Don’t pull out,” I grind out the third time he does it. “Stay in. Please . Want it. Need it.”

“Aw, Princess, it’s gonna go in so nice and smooth this time, you’ll see. Push out for me, okay?” he rasps into my ear, lips warm and intoxicating on the back of my neck. “Relax, Babygirl.” I groan at the words. Let me tell you, there are groans, and there are groans . But there’s only one kind of groan a man can produce when he has a dick in his ass and a man like Ant Decker is talking dirty to him—and that’s a groan that comes from his soul. “Give it up. Come on, give it up for me. You know you want to.”

I nod and moan and bite down on the meat of my shoulder as I dig my fingers into my ass cheek, clawing at my flesh, doing all I can to hold myself open.

He’s right.

Sweet Jesus, he’s right .

I do want to give it to him. I want to give it all to him.

It does go in nicely this time. He’s right about that too. It’s a smooth, slippery stroke. A long, true thrust that takes me from empty to full in under two seconds. My eyes bulge in my sockets from the pressure, and when it hits me, the burst of pleasure makes me roar. A long, guttural cry that sounds exactly like what it is: the sound of a man getting turned out for the first time.

“Shh,” he threatens, moving the hand that was around my chest up to my mouth and cupping it tightly. “Quiet, baby. You don’t want people to know what I’m doing to you, do you?”

I gurgle and choke out an inaudible response. It’s just as well because no part of me could come up with something sensible right now. In fact, no part of me gives the slightest shit who hears or knows what. I don’t care if every guest on the whole floor hears me being fucked. I don’t care if the entire team, the coaches, the trainers, and all the players know what’s happening to me.

I don’t care.

I don’t because Ant Decker is lying behind me, body curled around mine and hips as close to me as he can get them, and his cock is sawing in and out of me. We’re both naked, and he’s inside me. He is inside me. Him . The thrill it gives me is hard to describe. Physically, I’m full. Stretched out and stuffed. I’m as full as I can possibly get, and I’m moaning my ass off on a thick, throbbing cock. Mentally, I’m in a good place. I’m in a mother fucking good place. I’m as close to content as I’ve ever been. I’m paralyzed. Speared. Skewered. And I don’t just mean my body. I mean my mind. It’s vacant and still. Open and full. There’s no resistance in me.

And I don’t mind at all.

Decker has me right where he wants me. Right where I belong.

He keeps pumping my dick with his hand and thrusting into my ass at the same time. His timing is nothing short of perfection. The intensity is surreal. The pleasure dreamlike. His hand moves down on the in-thrust and up on the out-thrust. The stimulation is so intense it almost feels like I won’t survive. It fries my brain. Pleasure and pressure swirl inside me, growing in fury until I’m no longer a man.

I’m a storm.

I thrash and rage. Howling. Blowing a gale that rattles the windows and threatens to bring the entire building down. Decker keeps the hand he has on my mouth firmly in place and starts kissing my neck, biting just hard enough to sting when I get too loud .

He thrusts into me again. A deep thrust. A long thrust. And then unleashes a barrage of short, shallow thrusts that makes me see white spots all over the ceiling. My orgasm finds me with almost no warning. A distant threat on the horizon one second, exploding out of me the next. My ass clenches, trying in vain to contract. Each time it does, Decker fills me again, forcing wave after wave of pleasure up my spine, shoving his fat cock into my spasming hole until the storm has blown over. Until I’m marooned, helpless, legless, bobbing around on a flimsy rafter in an ocean becalmed.

He rolls me over so I’m still on my side but half on my belly too. My ass is raised, gaping, fucked-out, and offered up to him.

“Are you done, or can you take a little more?” he asks breathlessly.

“ More ,” I groan. “More, more.”

He thrusts into me again. I’m sensitive in a different way now. The pendulum swings and lands closer to pain this time, but I like it. It makes me feel alive. Like I matter. Like I have a purpose. It gives me something to cling to. Decker thrusts into me powerfully. Determinedly. It’s clear what’s happening. He’s going for gold, and he’s using my hole to get him there. It doesn’t take long. He has a hand on my hip, fingers digging into me, and is bracketing me in place with his other hand on my shoulder. He fucks me hard and fast until his movements become spasmodic.

He struggles to smother the sound of his pleasure between his teeth as he floods my chute with a massive load that sends a fresh, overflowing wave of pleasure through me. When he’s unloaded every drop of himself into my guts, he pulls out of me slowly and carefully. His breathing is erratic, and when he talks, he sounds nothing like himself and, at the same time, exactly like himself. His voice is hard and soft, smooth and coarse, almost wistful.

“D’you want a memento, Princess?

“Mmmemento of what?” I slur.

He smiles into my neck. A sweet smile and a quiet hum that almost lulls me into a false sense of security. Almost, not quite. “A memento of the first time you got cunted, Pussyboy.”

The word shocks me. Offends me. Ravages me. Turns me on so hard that I turn inside out and there’s nothing hard left to protect me. Nowhere to hide.

“Yeah,” I reply from a faraway place.

“Close your eyes, I’m going to turn on the light.”

I do as he says without question .

He flips on the bedside light and my field of vision under my lids turns orange and red. He moves my top leg up and spreads it a little more than it was. My chest and face are mashed into the mattress. My back is arched, and even though I’ve repeatedly told Decker I’m a slut, believe me, I’ve never done anything this slutty before.

He tosses a pillow over the back of my head and says, “Hide your face. Don’t look back.”

He gets something from the bedside table, his phone maybe. Yeah, it’s his phone. I can tell by the sound of fingers on glass. He’s silent for a few beats, and then there’s a hand on one of my ass cheeks. He pats me just hard enough to get my attention. Firmly, friendly, almost.

“Show me,” he croons, taking my cheek in his hand and spreading me open. “Show me that pretty pussy I drilled into you.” I whimper from under the pillow, struggling to stop my hips from writhing at his words. “Come on, Princess, do it. Push out and show me what I dumped inside you.”

To my endless surprise, and perhaps even interest, I find myself doing exactly as he says.

I bear down and relax my ring a little. I do it carefully. I do it tentatively—you better believe I do it motherfucking tentatively—but I do it.

“Mmm,” he murmurs as a hot, creamy load spills out of me, “ good girl .”