The front door shut, and I heard the sound of clicking locks. Simeon didn’t react to the sound, but it reverberated right down to my core. We were alone for the first time since I’d watched him slob my knob to the tune of sloppy, wet sucking sounds. I took a deep breath.
“You said I won that round, but I didn’t.”
Simeon arched a brow. “What does that mean?”
“It means you said I won, but I didn’t.” Another deep breath as the words fought me the entire time I tried to force them out. “I was okay with the other stuff, but the last part got me pretty damn nervous.”
Simeon snorted and looked up at the ceiling. “Lord, please save her from denial and protesting way too much.”
“Her? What?”
He smirked. “Never mind. I forgot you don’t speak gay just yet.”
“You lost me.”
“You’ve been lost for a while.” Simeon was smiling evilly, but he hadn’t walked away, which I took as a good sign. “So you’re saying me blowing you and swallowing your come was A-okay, but putting my tongue in your mouth made you nervous?”
My mouth went dry. All moisture in my body pooled at the tip of my dick. I fucking hated him. I swear I hated him and the effect he had on my traitorous asshole of a body.
“Yeah, however you want to say it. I freaked out. Shouldn’t have pushed you and sent you home with, uh—” I licked my lips again, glancing down at his crotch. The heavy curve of his dick was clearly visible through his track pants. “With—”
“Blue balls?”
I exhaled with a whoosh of air. “Yeah.”
“It’s okay. There’s still time to redeem yourself.”
“Redeem myself,” I repeated slowly. “I dunno about all that.”
“I thought you were inviting me over for wings and football and all that bro shit?”
“Oh. Right.”
Simeon’s evil smile went up several notches. “What’d you think I meant, boo?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, Bravo. I’ll think about it.”
He was backing me into corner after corner, and I kept following and slamming into walls that had apparently encircled my common sense. The last thing I needed was to keep stretching this out after the gay rumors had just started to fade. Instead of pairing us up, they were implying we were sitting on a pressure cooker due to our teams playing not even a month after the brawl.
But even knowing all that, I couldn’t stop myself. He was talking to me again, giving me a shot, and agreeing to once again spend time with me even after I’d flipped out on him. I needed to nurture that willingness before I lost it again. Considering how precarious our moments of getting along were, I was gonna have to make a comeback in a big way.
“Hey,” I said in one last rush of desperation as he turned for the door. “Why don’t we do it at your place instead of mine? That way you’re not coming into the city for nothing after I piss you off and you wanna bounce after half a minute.”
Simeon paused with his back to me. Some higher power had put a lot of effort and artwork into designing this man. Everything from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist and round yet still rock-hard ass was difficult to look away from. I punished my body to keep it in shape for the game, but I’d never thought of myself as a perfect specimen. Simeon was. Even his profile, when he looked over his shoulder, was straight out of somebody’s fantasy. It was why he’d first caught my attention back in the Predators’ training camp. Those big, pretty eyes and wide lips flashing ridiculously infectious grins had caught me then, and even now, they weren’t letting me go.
“Sound like a plan?” I pressed.
“Yeah, Adrián. It sounds like a plan.”
Simeon
“Do you ever think about how football culture is a total load of bullshit?”
This was the moment when I knew inviting Adrián Bravo into my house was the worst idea to ever take hold of my brain. No—scratch that. Allowing him to invite his damn self had been the worst moment of weakness to ever occur in my brain. There had been no reasoning or thoughts behind the decision. It’d just happened.
A few minutes of a beautiful straight boy showing absolutely unaware thirst, and I’d forgotten that he’d damn near given me a concussion after shoving me off him. Over a kiss. Good enough to swallow his jizz, but not good enough to brush my lips to his. Wasn’t that always how it went? But I’d given in because he was fine. Fine and blind about the extent of his own bisexual-as-fuck need to mount my ass.
“Shut up and eat your wings.”
“I’m serious, man. There’s so much psychological shit we put up with, and it really has a way of fucking with your head during the game.”
Adrián had barely touched any of the random crap I’d spread out in the kitchen. Since the game had started, he’d sat hunched forward with his forearms braced on his knees and his dark brows drawn down. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, and his jaw was clenched. He flinched every time his team fumbled or was penalized or failed to get a first down. They were only down by six points, only needed one touchdown to pull ahead, but I could tell they weren’t gonna make it. Judging by Adrián’s sudden desire for “fuck football” trash talk, he knew it too.
“So your team is losing and now you hate football?”
Adrián finally tore his big dark eyes away from the screen to pin me with a glare. God, he was hot. I loved it when he was like this and not being a smarmy, sneering fuckboy.
“I didn’t say I hated football,” he growled. “I’m talking about football culture. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“Are you asking if I know what the word culture means?”
Adrián scoffed. “Forget it, man. Fucking never mind. I’m trying to talk to you about something serious and—”
I reached over to shove the side of his head. “Lighten up, Bravo. I was messing with you.”
Relief rolled off him, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Okay, good. I try to talk about this shit with Rocky and Billings, and they tell me I’m trying to make it too psychological. But this whole thing is psychological. The pressure to win and make our fans happy so they keep spending their money turns it into this huge mindfuck. If we win, we’re national heroes. If we lose, everyone is right about hating us because we’re pieces of shit who don’t deserve the contracts we destroyed our bodies trying to get. So every week whenever we start losing ground, we get all psyched out because we don’t want to be the scum of the League.”
Well, that was depressing. The Barons’ locker room had never been that grim.
“Y’all still have a shot,” I offered. “If—”
The speakers boomed loud cheers and an excited shout from the commentators.
“Brawley is on the move!”
I glanced at the screen again, unable to keep from grinning and jumping to my feet as Gavin charged down the field with the ball. One of the Predators’ safeties went for a tackle, managed to only grab him around the waist, and Gavin just kept going. I was shocked the ref didn’t throw a flag for the contact.
“Gavin Brawley carrying Swoops,” the commentator shouted as Gavin dragged the safety a few more yards. “The beast is out of its cage, and it’s not fair!”
We watched as Rocky Swoops dropped to the turf right before the Predators’ end zone. Gavin spun, finally losing his balance, but brought his right foot down just in time to gain enough leverage to launch himself into the end zone.
Adrián sucked his teeth and sat back on the couch. “We ain’t winning shit.”
There were thirty seconds left in the game, and the Barons were up by eleven points. He was probably right that they weren’t winning shit, so I did him a favor and shut off the television.
“Look at it this way, boo. You still have the nicest uniforms in the League besides the Barons. I dig the green and n
avy.”
Adrián stared at me blankly for several seconds before breaking into a loud laugh. He leaned over on the sectional, face pressed into the cushion as his entire body shook.
“That was the gayest shit you’ve ever said, Simeon.”
“More than me telling you how nice your piece was?”
“Yes. Even more than that.”
Made sense, since this little trick thought letting me deepthroat him wasn’t a homosexual activity if it was for a “game.” Athletes were deluded about the importance of competitions.
I walked over to him, making sure my crotch was angled in front of his face. I knew for a fact the joggers I wore made my dick look great. He looked up, gaze fixed on my bulge before slowly climbing my thighs and the deep V tank that showed all kinds of skin. My plan was to torment him until he realized he wanted to fuck me. Or that was my hope. De-straightifying Adrián Bravo, the homophobic dipshit who’d screwed up my season, was a serious goal.
“What do you wanna do now?”
I shrugged. “The Patriots are playing the Bears.”
“No,” he said. “No more football.”
“Aiight, then what? Wanna watch the news?”
“Fuck no.”
“Weather channel?” I asked. “They said there’s a storm brewing in the Atlantic. May come up this way.”
Adrián snorted. “That’s unlikely to happen.”
“Never say never, doll face. I take that stuff seriously.”
He started to say something, probably to make a wisecrack, but stopped after digesting my serious tone.
“Right. Makes sense.”
The fact that he didn’t dive headfirst into a bunch of intrusive questions about my Katrina experience softened me up a bit. The guy was more intuitive than anyone ever gave him credit for. “Eat? Drink?”
“I could use a drink.”
As stressed as he was over his team, he probably could.
“Beer or bourbon?”
“Bourbon.”
“Good man. Might as well indulge since we’ll be sitting on our asses for the next five weeks.”
Adrián glanced down at his shoes, and I walked away before he could apologize again. Truth be told, I didn’t want his apologies. I didn’t want his sad faces and hangdog expressions. I didn’t want him to keep trying to be my friend.
I wanted us to fuck so he could know how it felt to be a queer in a homophobic industry, and then regret everything he’d ever said while in his feelings about something that had happened years ago. I wanted him to understand.
After turning on some music and grabbing two tumblers and a bottle of Woodford Reserve, I returned to the living room. Adrián had turned the television on again and was now moodily watching highlights. Except for the moments when they focused on his backup, most of the highlights were Barons glory moments. Awkward.
I set the bottle on the coffee table and pressed a tumbler into his hand. “Drink.” He downed it in one shot, not looking away from the television, so I poured another. I stood in front of him. “Drink again.”
He took the glass and downed it again, this time not taking his eyes off me. “You trying to get me drunk?”
“Fuck off, Bravo. It’d take ten more to get your big ass wasted.”
“Truer words have never been spoken, gorgeous.”
“You talk to everyone that way?”
“Nah. Makes Rocky and the other guys cagey. That man is severely allergic to any kind of affection between two dudes.”
I laughed and sat beside him, nursing my drink. “Like you’re not?”
“Pssh. No. My mommy raised me not to fear nicknames and hugging.”
“But not kissing.”
Adrián grew quiet for a second before launching himself to his feet. He grabbed the neck of the bottle and refilled his glass without drinking. It was dwarfed in his large hand, and I took the moment to admire him. He was wearing all black for the first time since we’d started seeing each other on a near-daily basis. Usually he wore bright colors, making sure everyone noticed Adrián Bravo—gorgeous Boricua, celebrated linebacker, and center of everyone’s attention. Now it looked like he was going to a funeral. He’d known they were gonna lose.
I downed my drink and set the glass aside.
“I think it’s time to redeem yourself.”
“I’m not kissing you, man.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Adrián knocked back his drink. “I don’t want to. That’s pretty much it. I barely even kiss girls I pick up at the club. It makes me uncomfortable, okay?”
I vaguely remembered Marcus Hendricks talking about kissing as the ultimate form of romance and quoting a Meg Ryan movie in the process. Apparently, this fool was on that same line of reasoning. It was sort of true. There was nothing more intimate than touching another person’s face and sharing their breath while you explored the inside of their mouth. Unless that person was just kissing you to distract from the amateur porn flick they were secretly filming so they could humiliate you.
Bitterness surged up from my gut with enough force to choke me. I didn’t let it. Instead, I smiled and focused every ounce of my queer resentment on Adrián fucking Bravo.
“What else makes you uncomfortable?”
Adrián shrugged, still holding the empty glass.
“We should probably figure it out if we’re gonna keep the competition going, no?”
His throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. “Should we keep it going?”
“I dunno.” I sat up on the couch but kept my hands braced against the cushion and my face angled up to him. He liked me in this position. Reminded him a lot of that blowjob. How good it’d been and how much I’d taken with zero complaint. “Do you still wanna show me up?”
“I’ll always want to show you up, Boudreaux.”
“All right then, let’s see what makes you jumpy.”
I started to shift myself upward, but he put a palm against my chest and held me back.
“What happens when you lose?”
“You can have fun figuring that one out. I’m gonna leave it up to you.”
Adrián’s fingers pressed harder against my chest before falling away. There was a hint of apprehension in his pursed lips and loosely balled hands, but then he plastered on that rakish Bravo grin and lifted his chin.
“Do your worst,” he said, threading his fingers behind his head.
Every inch of him was touchable, so it was only a matter of where to start. What I wanted was his mouth, but that was off-limits. Fortunately, he had a lot more to offer.
I pushed myself up so I was kneeling on the cushion and started with his shirt. One after the other, tiny black buttons came undone on a piece of cloth that probably cost thousands just to make his body look like a masterpiece. And it did, but it was even better when I could see his flesh. Smooth, golden brown skin sliding over the bumps and ridges of violently worked muscle that had been molded into something that could have been goddamn edible if it wasn’t so hard.
He didn’t so much as twitch, even when I pushed his shirt open with my fingertips brushing his skin. Instead, he grinned and popped his pecs, leering. That was perfectly fine because I liked a challenge. He wanted to show off about how comfortable he was being naked? Unsurprising. He was naked in front of other men all the time, but they usually didn’t get on their knees and make him moan like a porn star. That was my specialty. I’d started sucking dick as a teenager, and had always gotten a thrill from the power and control I had in a seemingly submissive position. Men had always thought it meant I was their bitch boy, but they were the ones begging me if I started to slow down.
Adrián was no different.
I leaned forward and encircled his nipple with my mouth.
Adrián shuddered. He cupped the back of my head, but he didn’t yank me back
like I’d expected him to. Taking that as a good sign, I started sucking. Hard.
His breath hissed out. “Why does that feel so fucking good?”
The poor man had never had his nipples played with? I would never understand men who spent their time running their mouths over women without ever considering that sensation would feel just as good for them.
I sucked harder while running my free hand up his chest to grip his shoulder. His fingers knotted in my hair, jolting me closer. This was supposed to be about conquering my overgrown bully, but shattering him was the furthest thing from my mind once I inhaled his scent. I mapped my way across his chest with my tongue, tracing every hard line, before latching on to his other nipple.
He groaned, low and guttural, and I almost creamed myself. The air around us was hot, his skin was growing damp beneath me as sweat gathered in the warm room, and I was aching. Forget about revenge; every time he rocked that bulge against my stomach I saw exactly where I wanted this to go. Him naked and me enjoying every inch of that delicious cock as he got vocal above me.
I dropped my hand from his shoulder to undo his black jeans. Any moment I thought he’d shove me away like he’d done that afternoon in his apartment, but he didn’t. I ripped the tab down over the sizeable lump in his pants, and massaged the hardness I found there. It was straining the cotton briefs he wore, so I did it a favor and tugged the band down just enough to free it. I needed both hands and my mouth to worship that beast, but I settled for a tight grip with my thumb teasing the sticky slit.
“God,” he growled. “Fuck you, Simeon.”
It was a good time to ask if he was nervous yet, but the taste of his sweat was driving me out of my head and the idea of not getting to touch that iron length anymore was torture. I wanted it down my throat, slamming into my ass, but I’d settle for the heavy weight of it in my hand. Still suckling his nipple and pumping, I angled my face so I could see his. Lust shot through me so sharply I bucked my hips forward, chasing friction that wasn’t there. His head was tilted back, eyes shut, and he was silently mouthing words although all I could make out were “please” and “fuck.”
The mix of desperation and vulnerability in his face was my kryptonite. I knew it was a bad idea, but I surged up, still jacking him, and latched onto his throat. A moan ripped out of him when I bit down.
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