* * * *
Most of us change while a few give interviews. Coach has already given us his next-time speech. We buy into it. We have to, but all of us know our offense lacks the ability to execute plays. We struggle on third downs and miss opportunities in the red zone.
Irus is hangdog, his expression morose, and I know he’s thinking about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been hurt. I can see it in his dark eyes when he looks at me. He’s so expressive. He’s funny, sort of, I mean—his eyebrows point down when he frowns or when he’s in the middle of intense thought, and it makes him look scary. I’m not afraid.
On the bus to the airport, Irus is quiet. He’s dressed in a chocolate-colored suit with a cream shirt. I lean into him, admiring the cut of his clothes, and say, “You look good enough to eat.”
He glances up, his eyes darting quickly around to see who might’ve heard me. When no one reacts, he smiles. “Thank you, I think.”
Then his smile fades. He’s back in his head. I know it, but there’s nothing I can do to help him. Truth is, I want to distract myself from my own frustration. There’s nothing like flying home losers.
Someday, we won’t fly coach, but we don’t have the kind of money the larger organizations have on tap. We’re just a lowly expansion team. They treat us that way. I know what’s been said about us in locker rooms and on the field. We’re the redheaded stepchildren of football. I’m glad I got traded. The Highlanders feel like home. I’d rather be a misfit than a Terry Branson.
We get into the airport with a bit of time to kill. Irus heads to the bar. I go to the gate. Bars aren’t my thing, especially in airports, where they’re high-priced and the service leaves a lot to be desired. I drink on occasion but not much. In my experience, liquor makes people mean or horny. Neither a good combination.
On the plane, Irus sits a row away from me and Mal. I check him out every once in a while, but Mal wants to talk shop, so I let him. Irus is still drinking. Not a lot, but he gets a drink on the plane. I don’t know how many he had in the airport.
“Are you listening, Jackson?”
“Yeah, Mal. Gotcha covered.”
“Cool. Tomorrow we’ll practice these routes.” He closes the playbook. “Nail our timing. Got to be ready to go. Haines is getting pummeled out there, man. We can do this. Get into the play-offs maybe as a wild card this year.”
I agree with Mal. We can make this happen. I’m confident. This is our first loss of the regular season. Highlanders have been winning by the skin of their teeth. I glance at Irus as the plane descends. His posture tells me he’s still angry at losing. It’ll pass. Next week is another game. We’ll do this all again. Home games are always better.
Also, I have something to prove to Terry-fucking-Branson.
* * * *
Same Night
Highlanders’ Athletic Facility
The facility’s empty. Everyone has gone home except Harold, one of the equipment guys. I’m running routes, working out using the jugs machine, and Harold loads it for me.
“Jackson, go home. It’s late,” Coach Bryant says.
The loss tonight only drives me to work harder to get back on the field. “Can’t, Coach. I’m almost done anyway.”
Coach looks contemplative. “All right, don’t overdo it. Harold, keep an eye on him.”
“Will do, Coach.”
We work out for a while longer before Harold calls it quits. Probably for the best. The workout was good, but now I’m regretting it because my muscles are tightening up. Must’ve been the tension from this evening, running up and down the sidelines, chasing after Coach.
Time to cool down and ease my sore muscles. First the ice bath. Nothing like feeling my nuts shrivel. Next is heat. I’m soaking in the whirlpool when the cramp hits worse than any of the cramps in Orlando. The back of my head hits the tub as I jerk in reflex, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain. Someone grabs me. I open my eyes. Two big, black, football-gnarled hands yank me from the tub. Irus throws me to the ground. I hit the floor hard, my leg slung painfully over Irus’s shoulder. Those strong thumbs zero in on my pain.
“Fuck, Iris.”
A wide palm stings my naked ass.
“That’s not my name, boy.”
God, does he know I’m lusting after him? Does he realize how good his hand feels on my ass?
“Breathe,” he orders.
I grit my teeth to a fresh wave of agony.
My leg drips water on his nice suit. The one he wore to the airport after the miserable loss.
“Jackson, what’re you—”
“They’re gonna cut me if I can’t perform.”
Yeah, that shut him up. He hurt me. Took me out of the game. Now we’re losing. What’s he gonna say? Sorry?
“Don’t be a fool, Jacks. We couldn’t put you in tonight. Coach doesn’t want to risk your getting hurt again. Quit taking on all the guilt. It’s my fault. All of it’s my fault.”
The cramp eases. His wonderful hands slide up and down my thigh. I’m naked. Open. Exposed. I sit up, but he doesn’t give me an inch. Our noses touch. I smell the whiskey. A hint of his expensive cologne. My dick wants his hands. The head brushes my belly, so fucking hard, and he can see his full effect on me.
“Irus?”
His fast hands knot in my hair, holding me immobile, and his lips collide with mine. All his weight crushes me to the floor as his tongue explores my mouth. I wrap my wet legs around his hips, dragging him to me.
Isn’t exploration violent? God, I hope so. I need it hard. Let him inside. Expose all of me. Irus is all I want. “Fuck me,” I whisper between sloppy kisses. I’m still afraid, even as his tongue dances down my throat to lavish my hollow, his lips skimming my clavicle.
His hands flex in my hair. He pulls away. I feel a loss more intense than the game tonight. “Not here,” he says. His voice is tight, angry, but in control.
“Take me home, Irus.”
“My place is closer.”
The idea scares me, going home with a teammate again, but this is Irus. The man who, down deep in my soul, I know I need. I feel safer, though, more comfortable in my own home. I’ve been away so long. The idea of Irus in my bed, washing away the memories of Terry Branson, makes me insistent.
“Can we go to my house?” The long ride will give Irus a chance to back out. The thought kills me, but I should be fair to the man. Give him a chance to prevent a mistake.
Irus kisses me. The taste of whiskey nowhere near as repulsive as it had been on Terry’s lips. He’s different. So unlike Terry. I trust Irus. He groans into my mouth as he grinds against my hard dick. The length of his shaft pressed to mine.
“I’m getting you wet,” I whisper.
He takes my mouth again. Harder.
God, I want him out of his clothes. The image of him in nothing but his jock pops into my head. His cock so long and thick. The memory of those dark curls dancing their way up his belly teases me. I reach for him, rubbing his shaft through the soft material of his trousers. He looks good. I bet he tastes even better. I want to suck his cock. I’m breathless with need.
“I’ll take you home, Jackson.” He removes my hand from his dick. “Let me get under control. It’s a long drive.”
* * * *
In the back of my mind, I know it’s a mistake going through the door first. The flash of anticipation makes it worth the bruises. Irus hits me from behind, sprawling me across the floor, clinging to my backside. Hard muscle and sinew. All power, speed, and grit, amped up from my playing with his cock in the car. He was still erect, so I had to suck him through his pants. The poor man almost wrecked his precious Charger.
His full erection now grinds against my ass. I thrust back roughly, wanting him inside me.
We grapple. He tears at my clothing. My dress shirt is left in shreds. All I have left is my T-shirt. I twist in his grip, ripping open his pants, pulling at his shirt, needing his fucking abs. My tongue finds his belly button. He hisses, thrusts agai
nst me, his cock hitting my chin. I’m on him, sucking his black shaft. His hand buried in my hair guides me, rough at first, and then tender.
“You’re all I could think about after the game,” he says.
“Wish I could’ve been on the field,” I say, reluctant to leave his exquisite dick.
“Shit, how’s your leg, bro?”
“Trust me, I’ll always be able to handle your tackle.” I stroke him, looking up into his dark eyes full of concern, and smile.
“Still, I’m sorry. I know how much the game means to you.”
“You mean more,” I whisper.
“It can’t be easy, watching me play, when—”
“Are you gonna fuck me?”
The heat’s back in his eyes, but the concern’s there still. He blames himself. I don’t. Not anymore. My desire overrides everything. Part of me still can’t believe he’s here in my home, wanting me as much as I want him.
“Let’s go upstairs.”
With his hand in mine, I drag him into the living room, flipping on my grandfather’s elk-horn chandelier. A soft glow highlights the pale logs of the lodge. I love every timber of the place. We mount the curving stairway leading to my loft bedroom. The last man in my bed was Terry, during spring camp for the foster kids. Since then I’ve slept alone.
This may be weird, but I honestly feel like my favorite part of all this will be waking up not alone.
We’re halfway up the stairs when I turn to make sure he’s still on board. His eyes, black in the dim light, tear through me. It’s either lust or hate. The urge to ask seizes me. I stop on the step above him. His hand tightens on mine.
“Do you still hate me?”
He licks his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs, revealing his nervousness. “I’ve never hated you, Jacks. Just hated how much I wanted you. I—I’ve never fucked a teammate before. Hell, I never fucked a football player. They’ve always been off-limits.”
I feel dirty luring this man, who’s kept his football career so pure, into my bed. Should I tell him about Branson? Do I tell him the things that could make him walk away? Fuck. Why can’t this be easy? I want him so badly. My stomach hurts with need. Christ, my balls ache for release.
“Stay with me here, Jacks.” Irus moves up the steps. His strong hands curl around my biceps, shaking me, and I look into his troubled eyes.
“I wish I could say I stayed away from football players,” I whisper.
For a second, I don’t think he understands what I’m trying to say. He kisses me. This time it’s slow. His tongue lingers on mine. His mouth takes over all my functions, breathing for me, tasting so fucking good, and I’m at a loss. Irus is in control. Instead of hurting me, he’s making love to me with his amazing tongue.
Talented fingers find the buttons to my jeans, releasing my straining cock. I groan into his mouth as he strokes me. Irus draws back and smiles.
“I don’t care who you fucked as long as I’m the only one you sleep with now. I want you for myself. I don’t share. We do this, Jacks, I want a commitment.” He’s adamant. The sternness in his voice draws me from my lust-induced stupor.
“What?”
“I want you to only sleep with me.”
A frightening image of Terry Branson claiming me, saying he owns me, thrusts itself into my mind. Something must show in my eyes. Irus backpedals. He takes a step down, away from me, and I feel the chill of the air.
“Jacks?”
I look at the blackened fireplace with the dead logs half-charred. I feel the same way. Half-charred inside. My stomach churns with nerves. I want Irus to own so much more than my body. My stupid heart’s already in love with him, but what if he turns out like Branson? God, what if he turns out to be like—
“Jacks? You with me?”
“You sound possessive.”
Irus moves up to me, slipping his strong arms around my body, his solid chest pressed to mine. “I’d never hurt you, Jacks. I want this to be for the long haul. If I’m gonna throw my ‘no football player’ rule out the window, I want to know it’s not for a one-night stand. You feel me?”
Relief spreads through my body. I nod, not sure I can respond verbally. He grabs a handful of my hair, tipping my head back so he can devour my mouth. He drives me up the stairs, his tongue dominating our kiss. I stumble backward. My jeans slip below my ass. I’m afraid I’m gonna tumble, but Irus has me. Somehow we make it to my bed. Irus stops just short of pushing me onto the mattress.
He shoves my shirt up my stomach, his palms flat on my belly as he slides the material across my chest. It’s over my head and on the floor in a second. The heat in his dark brown stare sends more blood rushing to my dick. He’s checking me out; his gaze rakes over my body along with his hands. I like the contrast of his black fingers exploring the ridges of my white skin, the grooves of my abdominals.
My cock twitches. I confess, I do it on purpose to get his attention. Irus glides his fingertip over my slit, spreading my leaking fluid, closing his palm around my shaft. I groan into his neck, nipping as I thrust into his hand. He smells like game day. I don’t even know if he showered. The idea turns me on, and I inhale his scent, licking his skin, tasting the saltiness.
The mellow light from the living room silhouettes Irus, making him look formidable. I’m only about four inches shorter, just enough to make me tip my head back to kiss him. I like my men bigger than me. I don’t know why.
I lean back to let Irus take control, and it’s like he knows what I want. He takes his time stripping me of my clothes. He touches me, explores every inch of me with his hands and tongue, tweaking my nipples, making my whole body flush with heat. The tingles go straight to my dick.
“You like that, Jacks?”
“Yes,” I whisper. He holds me with one arm, teasing my nipples until my knees buckle, and he lays me on the bed.
I watch him loosen his tie, his black fingers working the knot from the silken fabric, and then he slides it down his front to wind up on the floor. The buttons on his shirt are next, the tails already hanging out from my earlier assault. Luscious abs come into view, his dark skin so sweet I have to lick him some more.
He groans as my tongue slips into his belly button, trails along the hard-cut valleys of his abdomen. With a handful of my hair, he guides me to his dick jutting from his trousers. As I suck him, he unfastens his pants, letting them slide to the floor. He’s not wearing underwear. Fuck me. I don’t stop. I can’t. The joy of his cock in my mouth is what I’ve dreamed of since the first time he ever tackled me on the field.
For nearly a year and a half, I’ve had it bad for Irus Beaumont. The reason Terry Branson hates him, and why he tried to get me to tell him who I was fucking, thinking if he said everyone but Irus, then I’d slip up. Fuck Terry. He’s so predictable in some ways. Especially on the field.
I shove Terry to the back of my mind. In my mouth, I taste the sexiest man I’ve ever met, and Irus is all I need. I’ll suck him for the rest of my life, if that’s what he wants.
“Jacks, slow down, baby. Don’t make me come. Not yet,” he says.
I lick the underside of his cock, letting it fall from my tongue. His gaze is hypnotic, but I move to suck his balls, one at a time, into my mouth. He hisses and yanks my head back by my hair. “Don’t test me, Jacks.”
“What’ll you do, spank me?” I lick the head of his cock. He makes a low, throaty sound.
“I might, or I might not.”
Irus shoves me onto the bed. He stretches his long, lean body over mine. Our cocks brush as he kisses my lips, teasing me into opening, allowing his invasion, and I imagine he can’t get enough of my mouth. I’ll never get enough of his tongue tangling with mine. I run my hands along his shoulders, down his back, grabbing a handful of ass. With a jerk, I rut into him, urging his cock to bump against mine. He growls.
Oh God, he fucking growls. “Don’t make me wait, Irus.”
He pushes up on his hands, loitering above me, and grinds between my legs. “Do
n’t what?”
“Make me wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Jesus, you asshole, fuck me already.”
“Aren’t you fucking romantic, Jacks.” Irus’s lips brush mine. They’re soft and wet. Warm. His dreads fall about my head like a curtain, hiding us from imaginary onlookers. “Where’s your lube? Condoms?”
“Top drawer. Isn’t that where everyone keeps them?”
He smacks my ass. “Boy, don’t you be smart-mouthing me.”
I can’t resist smiling.
Irus shakes his head and opens the drawer. When he comes back, he whispers in my ear, “How do you like it, Jacks?”
“I like to bottom.”
“Good, that’s so good,” he croons, rolling me onto my side and slicking up my hole. A gentle finger probes deeper, working into my body slowly, and I gasp. The invasion is something I dread and love.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
Irus climbs onto his knees behind me. I sit up to lean into his chest. Nothing like a kiss from a horny man wrapping his arms around you. Irus torques my body around with his strong hands. Twists me into a kiss. Turns me just enough to ravage. I’m light-headed. I’ve fantasized about this for so long.
Irus presses his cock into my cleft, assessing my readiness, and I thrust back, my cheeks engulfing his head. His hand grabs my hip. The grasp is bruising, yet so fucking good. He hisses in my ear. “Slow the fuck down.”
The head of his penis probes my ass, slipping up my crack before realigning with my hole.
“Christ, fuck me already.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“What?”
Irus kisses my throat, his whisper a mere breath on my skin, “Why can’t I fuck you slow?”
My whole body trembles. His low voice makes me shudder. I almost nut. Fuck. I’m so conditioned to orgasm at the sound of his voice.
“What’s the matter, Jacks? Need to come?” Irus deepens his pitch. “Does my voice do something to you?”
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