Page 83 of Puck the Coach's Son
Inside it's an open-plan space with concrete walls and a low gray couch and almost no furniture and one lamp on in the corner. There's a balcony behind a sliding door. The city is a blur of lights beyond the glass. The place smells like him. Like his soap, like the gym bag he keeps by the door, like the cold coffee in a mug on the kitchen island.
He locks the door behind me.
He drops his bag.
He turns.
And the look on his face is the same look he had on the bench. The same look he had in the storage closet. Only now there is no one in the building but us and no whistle coming and no game clock running down and nothing to stop him.
“Come here,” he says.
I go.
He kisses me at the kitchen island. He cups my jaw in one big hand and kisses me, and it's slower than anything he's done to me yet. He isn't rushing. He's tasting. He runs his tongue along my lower lip and waits for me to open, and he goes in slow and deep when I do, and when he pulls back my mouth follows him. I make a sound I didn't give permission for.
“Easy,” he says. “We've got time.”
We don't have all night. We have some hours. But in his mouth,we've got timesounds like a promise and I believe him.
He walks me backward without taking his mouth off mine. My calves hit the couch. He turns me and sits me down and kneels between my knees. He pulls my hoodie up over my headand tosses it before running his hands up my sides like he's memorizing the ribs. His thumbs find my nipples and I jolt. He presses the heel of his hand to the front of my jeans.
“Already hard.”
“Yeah.”
He presses the heel harder. Slow. Watching my face.
“Been hard since the bar?”
“Before.”
He huffs a laugh against my stomach. He bends and kisses the line of hair below my navel and I close my eyes because if I watch him do that I'm going to lose control of my breathing.
He gets my jeans open. He gets them down. He puts his mouth on me. This is the first time I’ve been inside him. I think I expected him to be fast and rough at all things, but this isn’t that. He slowly takes me all the way in and holds my cock in his mouth for a moment before pulling back and flicking his tongue along the underside like he's got all night for this one thing. I put a hand in his hair. He makes a low sound. I take my hand back.
“Hand stays,” he says, coming off me wet. “I want it there.”
I put my hand back. His hair is soft and thick and damp at the roots. He goes back down.
I come in his mouth in under four minutes. I come so hard I see white at the edges of the ceiling. I come saying his name, notMaddox, justoh god oh god oh god, and he stays down and takes all of it and when he comes up his mouth's wet and he's smiling like he just won something.
“One,” he says.
“What?”
“That's one. We're not done.”
I can't talk. My body's a ringing bell. I've never come that hard before and never in anyone's mouth. I didn't know I could.
He stands up and strips his sweatshirt off over his head in one motion and drops it on the floor. He's bare above the waistand I've seen him bare above the waist fifty times in a locker room and it's never looked like this. This isn't the Maddox who shares a room with twenty other men. This is the one who lives here alone. He's lit from the side by the one lamp. He's all shoulder and abdomen and a bruise coming up on his ribs from the fight. I reach for him.
“Bedroom,” he says.
The bed is low. The sheets are grey. There's a window at the head of it with the city light coming in dim and blue. He walks me to the edge and pushes me gently down before he strips me the rest of the way and I let him. He takes my shoes. He takes my socks. He takes my jeans and my briefs together and pulls them off in one long motion. I'm naked on his bed and my cock's already stiffening again. I've never been this exposed in my life.
He stays standing at the edge of the bed and looks at me.
He takes his time with the looking.
