Chapter 16
Logan
You know the phrase “Up the butt”? Well right now, I literally have it up the butt. I never understood the hype around butt stuff. Jasmine and I tried it exactly once, and that was enough for me. It didn’t feel pleasant then, so I assumed it wouldn’t be pleasant this time around either.
How wrong I was.
Austin brushes my prostate again, and electricity shoots down my spine. “Oh, fuck.” I shudder again, and again. I’m a whimpering mess, a bundle of nerves that shiver and alight with need, coiling tighter as he lightly strokes me, slow and unhurried. He’s driving me crazy. My heels dig into the bed, and I lift my hips and sink them down, in time with Austin’s strokes. I need more. More stimulation. More friction. More Austin.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be doing dirty things with my best friend in Paris, I wouldn’t have believed them. Up until two days ago, I thought I was straight. I love women, love everything about them. And even the times I’d questioned my sexuality, I never felt the pull of attraction to any man I’d met. But maybe I hadn’t met the right man. Austin presses all my buttons. In this moment, there’s nothing different between my attraction to him and my attraction to the opposite sex. My body tingles. My ass is on fire. My heart sputters in my chest like it’s a car running out of gas.
“Don’t stop, baby. Please.” Words fall from my mouth, but I have no idea what I’m saying. They’re mumbled gibberish, a fever dream. The pleasure zone that is my prostate has reduced me to an incoherent mess.
Austin pushes in a second finger to join the first. My body accepts it willingly. “Tell me what you want.” His deep voice ripples near my ear. My eyes open, and I stare into his green gaze: intense, raw, open. My pulse soars from what I see there.
You, I think, and that scares me more than anything. It’s not the answer he’s looking for. What did Austin tell me? He doesn’t do relationships. Whatever this is, whatever we have, it’s temporary. My throat tightens at the thought, but I push it away and return my focus to the present.
What was his question again? I can barely think straight.
Austin begins to remove his fingers, and I cry out, “Wait!”
“Tell me what you want.”
My voice is like gravel. “I want you to fuck me up the ass.” It’s true. He’s fucking me with his fingers, but I want more of the burn. I want something harder and longer stroking in and out of me. This man is driving me crazy, giving me things I didn’t even know I wanted.
“We’ll get to that eventually.” He nips along my jaw as he speaks, lingering near my ear. He blows a stream of warm air into it. “But not today.”
“Then give me more. I want more.” The desperation in my voice seeps into the room.
He adds a third finger. The slick sounds of them pulling in and out of my hole fill the air, along with my ragged breathing, the fractured groans. Every brush tightens the spring. He’s killing me. My friend is slowly and surely killing me.
“Austin, please.” And now I’m begging. I don’t care how I sound. Anything to get me closer to release.
“You want it?”
I writhe on the bed. My face is sweaty. “Yes.”
“Right now?”
All right, now he’s just fucking with me. “Yes.”
“Come for me, baby.” The endearment rolls off his tongue and lights small fires under my skin. I’ve never experienced this level of intimacy with any of my previous partners. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always been this way between us. I don’t know why I thought sex would be any different. “I’ll give it to you nice and slow.”
Except he doesn’t go slow. Suddenly, he’s finger-fucking me in earnest, licking the tip of my engorged cockhead in time. And, fuck, I can’t last any longer. It’s too much pleasure, too much pain, too much everything.
I bear down on his finger, and my orgasm obliterates my senses. I cry out, and Austin keeps stroking me, keeps drawing every last drop of pleasure from my body, sucking my cock as I shoot, swallowing my seed. My body jerks through the throes of release, my back bowed, my ass muscles contracting. Fuck. Fuck. This is the best I’ve ever had. No question. And it’s with my gay best friend.
At the end of it, I sink into the covers of the bed, breathing like I sprinted five miles without stopping. My limbs feel like limp noodles, utterly useless. Austin takes care of his own needs, stroking himself until he shoots onto his stomach. Then he collapses beside me.
I can’t move. “That—” My voice dies. Yeah, I have no energy for words anymore.
His body shakes with laughter as he tucks his face into my shoulder. “I know.”
“Seriously, man. That was insane. Like a goddamn roller coaster ride. But with my prostate.”
He shakes harder. “Glad you liked it.”
Liked it? I fucking loved it. And I want to do it again. As soon as I recover.
I scoot closer to Austin, and his arm snakes around my shoulder, pulling me against his warm body. This is nice. Laying here in companionable silence. It’s really damn nice. “When I woke up and you weren’t here,” I say, “I didn’t think you wanted to do this anymore.”
“This?”
“You know. Messing around.”
He makes a sound in his throat. I’m not sure what it means. “I needed to clear my head. I thought you’d be the one to change your mind, considering you’ve never been with a guy before.”
I get what he’s saying, but that’s not the case. “Sex is sex,” I say. “It shouldn’t matter the person if you’re happy, right?”
“It shouldn’t,” he agrees. “But a lot of the world doesn’t see it that way. I’m lucky my family loves and supports me. I’m lucky my teammates at Duke didn’t care who I was dating. Even in my day-to-day life I’ve gotten shit from people just by holding a guy’s hand. It sucks.”
“I’m sorry.” I guess I never realized how privileged I was to be able to walk down the street without anyone making snide remarks about whose hand I was holding, who I wanted to kiss, who to love. It can’t be easy.
“What about you?” he asks. “What did you do today?”
I hesitate. “About that. I actually went to a gay bar.”
He leans back to look at me. I can’t read his expression, which worries me. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I shift closer to him, enjoying the warmth of his hand as he strokes my torso. “I just wanted to know if what I was feeling was a one-time deal, or if I could be attracted to other men too.”
“And what was the verdict?”
“I met someone while I was there. Nice guy.” Jaden was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the guy for me. “He asked me if I wanted to go home with him.” I laugh. “I’ve never been picked up by a guy before.”
“I see.” Some of the light dims from his eyes.
Oh, I know that expression. It’s the one Austin gets right before he retreats inside himself. Not going to happen this time.
“Hey.” I place my hand on the back on his neck, pressing a kiss to his mouth. And another, because I can. “I’ll tell you a secret. Sure, I found the guy attractive. But the entire time I was sitting there, wishing you were with me instead.”
He looks skeptical. “Really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” There’s literally zero space between us, but it feels like a mile. I wrap one arm around his waist and curl around him. I enjoy cuddling. So sue me.
He glances over at his bed, and I narrow my eyes. “You’re not going to freak out on me now that we’re cuddling, are you?”
He huffs a laugh, tucking his face into the crook of my neck. “Do you want me to?”
“No.” I pull him to my chest. “I like you fine right here.” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, I reach over to turn off the lights. “Night, Austin.”
With his head resting on my
chest, his breathing evens out. I smile into the dark.
The next morning when I wake, I expect to find the space beside me empty, Austin having slipped away before dawn. Instead, I find strong arms wrapped around me, warm breath on my neck, and morning wood pressed against my ass.
Not a terrible way to wake up, if I do say so.
With a happy smile, I sink deeper into his embrace.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice delightedly low and sleepy.
My eyes slip shut. For a moment, I let myself feel. His strength. The way our bodies fit together. The rightness of it all. I turn around to face him, touching the pads of my fingers to his jaw. His eyes are bright and clear, the green of new growth in spring. His hair is a tumble of blond curls. “Morning.”
We smile goofily at one another. There’s really nothing else that needs to be said beyond that.
Waking up with a man in my bed isn’t as shocking as I thought it’d be. One, it’s Austin. Two, our minds are on the same page, because I have a boner too. No embarrassment needed.
“You hungry?” I ask. A second later, our alarm goes off. Breakfast starts in twenty minutes and I’m looking forward to eating a shit-ton of bacon.
A wicked glint enters his eyes. “As a matter of fact—” His hand slips down my body and curls around me. He begins stroking me at a leisurely pace. “I am kind of hungry.” It’s a question without a question.
I glance at the clock. Conditioning starts in forty minutes. Getting breakfast will probably take twenty. Honestly, I only need like five minutes to get off, if that. I’m already halfway to release.
“All right.” I smother a laugh. “But make it quick.”
“Or,” he says, “we can do two for one.”
He shifts his hand, strokes me and his dick in the same hand. We’re both leaking out the tip. I press closer and give him a deep kiss, my breathing already ragged.
It doesn’t take long. Two minutes, and I’m shooting into his hand. Austin comes a few seconds later. We fall into each other’s arms, our stomachs and thighs sticky with our seed. Can I say it’s so nice not having to worry about getting someone pregnant? Gay sex has its perks.
Since there’s not much time, we take a quick shower, our hands wandering as we wash each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of contentedness to the act. I enjoy touching Austin in a sexual way, but I enjoy it platonically too. We were friends before lovers, so this shouldn’t change. We exchange a few soft kisses under the hot spray. Then we dry off, change, and head downstairs to breakfast.
On the weekends, the cafeteria is usually deserted in the mornings, since people try to catch up on sleep after partying. On the weekdays, it’s packed. If you don’t have fuel in your body, you’re going to have a miserable time sweating your balls off on the field in the hours before lunch.
Austin and I sit with Christian and Manuel. We’ve become good friends these past weeks. They’re already halfway done with their breakfast, shoveling food into their mouths with a sickening display of happiness. I start on my toast, asking, “You excited for all the drills we’re doing today, or something?” Austin takes a bite of his banana, and I’m momentarily distracted by the image of him shoving something long and thick into his mouth. As if he can read my very dirty mind, his eyes shift to mine. He chews, swallows. Then he smiles, and my dick gives a twitch.
Bastard.
“You didn’t hear?” Manuel says. “Some of the members from Paris Saint-Germain are visiting today. They’re going to work with us.”
Austin blinks in surprise. “Seriously?” he asks.
“Yup.” This from Christian. “They’ll be working with us all morning, so make sure you ladies are up to your best stuff.” He grins like he just told the most hilarious joke.
So that’s why it’s so lively this morning. Let me tell you, soccer players in the morning? We love the game, but more than that, we love sleeping. Yet we don’t improve by dreaming. It’s blood, sweat, and tears. Broken bones and pulled muscles, bruises and scrapes, concussions, bloody noses. But also the smell of freshly cut grass, that high you feel upon making a goal or intercepting a pass, the thwack of your foot hitting a ball. Comradery. Family and friendship.
Victory.
Chapter 17
Austin
Growing up, I had two heroes. I was a kid with very little stability in my life, and even less hope. My mom wasn’t around a lot of the time. Some days, there was no food in the house. Other days, I had to walk miles just to reach the soccer field where my games were played because we didn’t have a car and I didn’t have enough money to take the bus. I remember winters with no heat. Vermin and bugs in the summer. No water or electricity.
My heroes were who I looked to in those times of need. They were stable. Inspiring. They experienced hardships but didn’t let anything or anyone bring them down.
My first hero is my sister. I’ve never told her this, but Lydia was who I aspired to be when I grew up. Though she’s a year younger than me, she has the instincts and drive of someone ten years older. It was hard for me to stay organized when our lives were in upheaval. She made sure I got to my soccer practices and games. She taught me how to read, stayed up late to help me with projects. When we had no food in the house, she went out and bought some. I never learned how she got that money or from where, but at the time, I was just grateful to have something to eat. There is no doubt in my mind that Lydia is the reason I am where I am today. She was—is—my motivator, my champion. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
My second hero is Tommy Buchanan. And right now, he’s standing less than five feet away, talking to Christian and I about what makes a good goalkeeper. He’s a tall, lanky guy with arms covered in tats and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s been talking for probably five minutes and I don’t remember anything he’s said, as I’ve been too star-struck to pay attention. Now I force myself to focus.
He’s talking about how he became a goalie.
“I almost didn’t,” he says. “I was recruited for Chelsea, but two months out I broke my ankle. The bone had shattered. My ankle wouldn’t set straight.” He stares out at the field. We’re standing inside one of the goals. My other teammates work with the Paris Saint-Germain players around the turf. I catch sight of Logan with the other forwards, who work with the team’s starting striker. He’s young. Not even twenty-four, I think. He’s also one of the few openly gay professional soccer players.
“I missed that draft due to injury.” It’s obvious the memory still haunts him. “I was twenty-five years old. A washed-up player. I felt like my chance had come and gone. They would never take me.”
“How did you end up playing for Saint-Germain then?” I ask.
Tommy laughs, and it honestly sounds like a horse giving birth. “It’s a funny story, actually. There I was, feeling sorry for myself. I went to a bar for a drink. Well, more like six drinks.” He smiles in self-deprecation. “So I was sitting next to this guy watching a soccer match. Italy versus Germany, I think. Anyway, we started talking. I was really fucking drunk at this point. Embarrassingly drunk. I must have said something about my situation, or told him the entire sob story. I went home that night, not remembering much.”
Seems familiar.
“The next morning I wake up with the hangover of all hangovers and there’s a message on my phone from a guy named Ben telling me to call him. Never remembered meeting a guy named Ben. I was pretty sure the guy I spoke to at the bar was named Steve. Regardless, I returned his call, not knowing who this guy was, or remembering if I’d met him last night. Turns out he was the president of Paris Saint-Germain, and he thought I was funny as fuck. He’d looked up my story, made a few calls to make sure I was legit. He was willing to give me another shot at making the team. So I had a tryout. I was so nervous I about pissed myself walking onto the field.” His smile widens. “Guess I did something right, becau
se they wanted me. Two years later, here I am.” He opens his arms, lets them fall to his sides. His grin tells me he’s a lucky son of a bitch, and he knows it.
“That,” Christian says in awe, “is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
It’s also pretty much impossible. A once in a lifetime coincidence. Some people, I guess, really are lucky.
I don’t try to sugarcoat my life. It’s been hard. I know what struggle is. But I worked my ass off to get to where I am—with the help of Lydia and my teammates, of course. Was it worth the struggle? Yes, in a way. But sometimes I can’t help but feel envious of how easy things come for other people. Tommy Buchanan is the best of the best, and he never would have made the team if he hadn’t the talent and skill. But he also wouldn’t have made the team if he hadn’t walked into the bar that night.
“All right, let’s see what you got.” He claps his hands and puts Christian in the goal while I stand off to the side to watch. I’ve seen some great goalies in my life, and Christian is no exception. It’s like he knows where the ball will go before Tommy’s foot makes contact with it. Maybe he has a sixth sense. I hope he gets noticed by a deserving team.
Christian stops every shot. But then Tommy shakes him up a bit by dribbling close, drawing him out of the net. The young goalie lunges toward the ball, but it’s already gone past him. Ah. See, now I know what his weakness is. Tommy begins to make shots.
After probably twenty minutes in goal, Tommy calls for a break. He waves me over so I can hear what he says to Christian. “I don’t need to say that your long blocks are amazing. Seriously, I doubt anyone would ever get past you. But—”
“My close blocks suck,” Christian finishes for him, one corner of his mouth tilting up. That’s one of the things I like about Christian. He’s not too proud. A good player knows when to listen.
“I wasn’t going to be that harsh, but yeah.” He laughs, as does Christian. “They kind of do.”
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