Scoring With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “Do that again,” I tell him.

  He does as he’s told.

  “Yes. God. I want this so much,” Grant says, and every single word sends sparks shooting across my skin.

  Knowing he’s saying them for the first time, that he’s feeling this for the first time, that he’s never rubbed off with a man before is such a high.

  But I want it to be even better for him.

  I want him to be in control.

  And, not gonna lie, I want to watch him as he takes over. As he experiences the power shift.

  I push up on one arm and reach for the lube on the nightstand with the other. “Get on me,” I murmur, then I flop onto my back next to him, the bottle by my side.

  The man needs little instruction. In an instant, he’s lowering his big body onto me, and oh yes, I like athletes very much.

  I’ve never been with a man the same size as me, the same width and breadth. Never been with someone with shoulders like Grant’s, a chest like a wall, abs cut from the same daily regimen.

  And I like it very much, especially when that fine dick rubs right against mine, making me hotter. Hornier. Ready to take us over the edge.

  “Let me help us out,” I say, breaking contact for a second.

  “Right. Yeah.” He blinks as I grab the lube, flip it open. Rising up so he’s on his knees and I’m on my back, he watches me with avid eyes, like he’s never seen anything as enticing as me slicking up my hand.

  “Love it when you watch me, rookie,” I whisper as I reach for my cock, stroke up and down, my breath coming in fast, hot pants.

  Then, I wrap a hand around his dick for the first time. “Nice to meet all of you,” I say as I weigh that big cock in my palm.

  His eyes float closed, and I stroke him, as his moans fill my chest with pride, fill my body with pleasure. I up the ante, taking both our shafts in my palm, my fist sliding up and down.

  I stare at his carved chest, his cut abs, watching as pleasure ripples down his body.

  “Wrap your hand around mine,” I tell him.

  With one hand on my knee, he wraps his other fist over mine, and we jerk together.

  “Yes, fucking yes,” he grunts as we go, finding a rhythm for a few quick pumps.

  Then, I give him a new instruction. “Now rub that beautiful cock against mine, rookie.”

  Grant covers me again, slides his arms under me, loops them around my shoulders, and unleashes all his desires on me. I grind up against him, and he pushes down, pumping and thrusting. I make room for him, legs open, hips jerking, dicks rubbing.

  He doesn’t say a word, but he can’t shut up. He’s all grunts, and sighs, and moans. It’s the sexiest song I’ve ever heard. His noises, his breaths, his growls of desire.

  But I know he likes it when I talk. Good thing I’m a chatty guy in bed. “Mmm. You feel so fucking good like this, rookie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So good,” I say, gripping his ass, tugging him tight, letting my finger drift down his cheeks to the seam. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna play with this perfect ass.”

  “Oh God, yes, please, yes,” he pants as he grinds and thrusts, and we are covered in sweat and lust, in longing and lube. It’s intense and exhilarating and so damn good.

  “I’m close, Deck,” he grunts.

  That’s my cue. Another bit of lube in my hand, then I shift our weight, sliding out from under him, moving us side to side. I reach down, grab our cocks, wrap my hand around our pulsing shafts.

  His eyes are glassy, lost in another world as he swings his gaze down to our dicks, shiny and hard. I jerk us together, my hand a blur, my fist a tight, hot machine. I am aching to come. But I want to come with him. I want him covered in him, me, us.

  My balls tighten. Pleasure twists and writhes in me as Grant grips my hip, his fingers curling tight.

  “Give it to me,” I rasp, urging him on.

  His lips part; his face contorts in exquisite torture. He twists his hips, spearing his cock into my fist.

  “Gonna come,” he grunts, thrusting in my hand and growling in my ear.

  That’s enough for me too. My nerve endings are on fire. My climax marches through my body, storms through my cells.

  He unloads on my stomach in hot, white jets, and seconds later, I return the filthy favor, spurting all over him as wave after tsunami wave of pleasure wracks my body.

  “Fuuuuuck,” I groan as I shoot onto his chest. “Yessssss.”

  He answers me with a shudder, an oh God, and then a long, satisfied sigh. A pause, a breath, then he says, “Holy fuck. Did that happen?”

  I can’t talk yet. I’m still basking in the orgasm. In the shudders. The shockwaves. My eyes are closed, and my body is floating, and I feel incredible.

  When my eyes open, I am looking at the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

  And he looks like all my dirty dreams, with eager questions in his blue eyes.

  I answer them instantly. “You were perfect,” I tell him.

  “I was?”

  I nod, then jerk him against me, so our release smears together.

  He rubs that hot body against mine, getting in on the action.

  When I stop, I slide a hand down, swipe a finger across his abs, dragging it through the mess.

  I bring it to my lips and suck off the taste of us. Then I stare at the man in bed with me. “Want to know what we taste like?”

  He trembles, his eyes shining with a fresh new round of lust. I lie on my back, gently bring him onto me, and give him my lips.

  He sinks down, our two spent dicks resting now as his lips find mine and he tries something else entirely new.

  This kind of a kiss.

  Grant is more tender. He’s soft and sensual. He lingers, exploring my mouth like it’s the first time he’s kissed me.

  These kisses feel like they’re happening to me for the first time too.

  22

  Grant

  Declan waves a hand at my right pec. “So, what’s the story with the arrow? Were you an archer in a past life?”

  Laughing, I park my hands behind my head, but don’t answer right away. I’m kind of amazed he’s still here ten minutes later.

  What’s the protocol on that? Are we screwing around more tonight? Is this pillow-talk time? Pillow-talk-before-more-sex time? I have no clue how this post-hookup stuff works. But we’re still naked in bed, albeit cleaned up, courtesy of a washcloth break.

  I thought he’d leave after that—tug on his shorts, give me a tip of the cap and say, “See you tomorrow, rookie,” then wink and shut the door, leaving me to my thoughts.

  That’s what most of my hookups have done.

  They’ve been quickies.

  Trading BJs in college.

  Quick hand job for quick hand job.

  But they never lasted. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to pursue anything more. Or the skills, to be honest. I don’t do relationships because I’ve never done relationships.

  I’ve never had a boyfriend.

  Is this arrow question normal post-hookup talk? Or maybe post-sex-Sherpa talk?

  What am I supposed to make of this guy lying next to me asking about my ink, wanting to know me?

  It’s all so uncharted. But it’s also cool.

  And natural too, like I’m just lying in bed chatting on the phone or FaceTiming a friend. Gone are the nerves and excitement of sex for the first time, the worry whether I’m doing it right. Now it’s just us connecting, and I like it. I like it a lot.

  “Was I an archer in a past life?” I repeat as I run my finger across the artwork Echo made. “Maybe I was. Maybe I was the god of archery.”

  He seems amused. “Were you Apollo once upon a time?”

  I preen a bit. “If I were to be any god in a past life, it would totally be Apollo.”

  He chuckles. “Somebody thinks highly of himself.”

  “Dude, it’s not because he’s hot. It’s because he was clearly one of the gay gods.”

&n
bsp; Declan tilts his head. “Have you studied the gay gods?”

  “I was a history major in college. So, I took Greek and Roman history, and that got me interested in taking a mythology class too.”

  Declan pushes up, resting on his elbow on his side. “Tell me more about all the queer gods, then.”

  This, I can do. I know how to talk about history. Plus, Declan has such a casual way about him, especially when he asks questions the same way he does when we work out in the morning. “Apollo had lots of relationships,” I say, shifting to my side too. “With lots of men and lots of women.”

  “So, he was the original fuck boy?"

  I crack up. “I’m sure that’s his nickname on Mount Olympus. Anyway, he was quite generous with the gift of his body. But one of his most important lovers was a nature god, who was also a Spartan prince named Hyacinth.”

  His expression is dubious. “So, the fuck boy’s favorite lover was named after a flower?”

  Shaking my head, I laugh. “Actually, I believe the flower was named after him. Legend says a dark blue hyacinth sprouted from Hyacinth’s blood when he was killed.”

  “Did Apollo kill his lover, or was it one of those crazy god-gets-jealous-and-accidentally-offs-someone things?”

  I tap my nose. “Good guess. One of the stories of Hyacinth’s death is that Zephyrus, the Greek god of the west wind, was jealous of Hyacinth’s relationship with Apollo. So, when Apollo was teaching Hyacinth how to throw a discus, the god of the wind blew it off course and killed Apollo’s lover.”

  Declan mimes an explosion. “Wait. Wait a hot second. Not only was Apollo gay, he was part of a three-dude love triangle?”

  “Homosexuality has been alive and well for centuries. And in spite of the debauchery, the infidelity, and the raging jealousy, the Greeks were pretty good flag bearers for LGBTQ back in the day.”

  “Things you learn,” he says, a little delighted. “I suppose we owe them a debt of gratitude.” He presses his palms together prayerfully and gazes heavenward. “Thank you, Apollo.”

  “Gods and poets, right?”

  “Yeah, there were definitely a lot of poets who traveled on this side too.” His eyes go thoughtful for a few seconds, like he’s lost in time. “I think there’s a hyacinth in a T.S. Eliot poem. The Waste Land. ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago . . .’”

  I quirk a brow. “From Guns N’ Roses to T.S. Eliot? You’re quoting poetry now, shortstop?”

  Declan rolls his eyes. “I took a couple poetry classes in college. Helped me a lot with some stuff. I’m not just a jock. But I know the body might make you think that.” He gestures to his firm, fit frame. Then he points to my arrow again, seeming determined, almost like he doesn’t want to linger on the topic of poetry. “All right, Apollo. What’s the story?”

  “I got the arrow about a month ago. Right before spring training. It’s all about forward momentum. Focus. Goals. Funny thing, though—I planned to get this long ago.”

  “You had a tattoo picked out when you were a kid?”

  “Yep. My grandpa is covered in them. The dude has a full sleeve on his right arm,” I say, running my hand down my arm to demonstrate. “I always loved his tattoos, and I used to trace them when I was a kid.”

  Holy hell, it is as easy to tell Declan these things as it is to talk to Reese. For a second, I wonder if I’m saying too much, but the eager spark in his dark brown eyes tells me to keep going. It’s like the coach waves me past first and I’m running hellbent toward second.

  “I love ink that means something. So, for me, when I was five or six and I knew I wanted to be a baseball player, I told myself I was going to get a tat if I ever had a chance at making it to the Major Leagues.”

  Declan smiles. “That is awesome dedication from a very young age.”

  “I’m sure it was the same for you. Well, maybe not a tattoo. But didn’t you know that you wanted to play ball?”

  He laughs softly. “Absolutely.” He inches a little closer, his voice turning reverent. “Do you remember the first time you stepped up at the plate when you were a little kid? And you dug in there, staring down the pitcher?” He sounds mesmerized, lost in time.

  I nod, a tingle running down my shoulders as I picture it. “Like it was yesterday.”

  “Yeah, and it was just magic, wasn’t it?”

  I shake my head, amazed. “Nothing like it.”

  “It was all I ever wanted to do.” He takes a beat. “Now, what about this?” He slides a finger down my bicep to the bands, black ink sketched like water, with waves. “Water is life? Go with the flow?”

  “Sort of,” I say, a touch embarrassed. “It’s kind of cheesy.”

  He wiggles his fingers. “Bring on the Swiss, rookie.”

  “My grandpa has this one. On his arm. It’s the first one I had done.”

  “Did you want to be like him?”

  “Yeah. He took me to his shop. And he’s an athlete too. Not pro, but he runs marathons, and as I said, I always liked his ink as a kid. So, I wanted to have the same.”

  He smiles. “Not cheesy at all. More like . . .” He stares into the distance. “Like a strawberry. Sweet.”

  “Okay, now you’re making fun of me,” I say, but I’m smiling too.

  “Nah. I think it’s cool. I like that you have the same one.” His fingers travel down my arm to the compass tattoo near my wrist. His touch warms my skin. “And this one?”

  I swallow. Do I tell him? This one is even more personal. But he seems determined to know its meaning, since he doesn’t wait for my answer. He asks another question. “Is it for travel? Did you just want to see the world?”

  “No. It’s a reminder,” I say, a little heavily, wondering if I should voice it. “To find my way out of the dark.”

  Declan shifts, studying me more intensely, his brow furrowing. “Is this about being gay, like how you came out? Or something else?”

  Lord knows it could be about the way I came out. Or really, the way I was outed. But nope, that’s not what this is.

  “It’s not about sexuality.” Dragging a hand through my hair, I push past the discomfort. “It’s just shit from my parents. I told you they weren’t happy with each other. They weren’t happy with a lot of things. There were things they said to each other in the heat of the moment that were hard to hear.” The words taste like acid. Something black and tar-like twists inside me as memories jostle to the front of my mind, the terrible things they said to each other.

  About me.

  About my sister.

  I swallow those down, tucking the dark truths into the far corner of my mind where nobody can know them.

  His voice softens to a warm rumble. “I’m sorry you went through that. It’s not easy.” He sounds as if he understands what it’s like to have to deal with shit.

  Something in me wants to get to know Declan more. “Spoken from experience?”

  “Yep. Absolutely.” His eyes darken, and so does his tone.

  I’m tempted to ask about his family, but that would be way too much for tonight. It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about that either.

  His eyes stray to my mountain tattoo. “And what about this?”

  “Actually, this is the one that’s for adventure and travel,” I say, easy and breezy now, because that’s the nature of this ink in some ways. “When I was a kid, we didn’t go to many places. I never got on a plane until high school for state championships. And when Reese and I were younger, we used to plan all the places we would go.”

  “What made the list?” he asks, more curiosity in his tone than I would have expected.

  “Back then, we didn’t care. We would pick the globe, spin it, and put a finger on it. And then we would just pretend. When we were really young, we would grab our backpacks and wander down the street pretending we were escaping to China or Alaska or Canada. Then later, we would talk about what it must be like to live in New Zealand and Australia. Honestly, I just wanted to get away.”

  De
clan heaves a sigh, drags a finger absently down my arm. “Man, do I ever know that well.”

  This is my chance to understand him. Maybe he keeps mentioning it because he wants someone to open the door for him. But I’m not sure how much I want to hear or how much he wants to say. I take only the most tentative of steps. “You were trying to escape from shit at home too?”

  “My dad.” The word contains the weight of the world.

  “You don’t get along with him?”

  “I did. Incredibly well. For a long time. When I was really young, he was my hero.” Shaking his head, Declan blows out a long breath. “He was a ballplayer. A Minor Leaguer for a couple of years. A coach. But things changed . . .”

  He’s quiet for a bit, contemplative. I don’t push. I don’t know how to ask or if I should.

  “He left when I was at the end of middle school. And honestly, Grant, it was for the best.”

  It’s as if Declan just skipped a period of his life in that pause. Maybe that’s the span he wanted to escape from. “Did you see him again?”

  “Sometimes. He would show up now and then. He lives in Oakland now, and he still gets in touch when it’s convenient for him, usually to ask for stuff. Know what I mean?”

  Do I ever. “Sounds a bit like my mom. She just told my grandpa this week that she wants to come to my first Major League game, assuming I make the roster. She never went to a single one in the minors. My dad is just the same. So yeah, I know what you mean.”

  He settles back into his pillow, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “It sucks, right? When I was younger, I wished I could fly away from it all sometimes.”

  A few Declan puzzle pieces snap into place. “That’s why you like birds,” I say.

  Shifting back to his side, he taps my temple, a smile playing on his lips. “You’re too observant for your own good,” he says and yawns. “Damn, I’m tired. That was a day.”

  A second later, he gets up, pulls on his shorts, and pads to the door.

  My chest tightens.

  Did I say the wrong thing? Did I push too hard? It didn’t even feel like I was pushing, but now he’s staring through the peephole, his attention elsewhere.