Unnecessary Roughness

by Alison Hendricks

  “Stop dicking around,” I growl hoarsely. “Man up and fuck me already, Collins.”

  My taunts must get through to him, because it’s not a gentle, tentative stroke I feel next. No, Collins thrusts his hips forward so hard they smack against my ass, and his beautiful dick surges past that tight ring and all the way into me.

  And God, he feels so. Fucking. Good. I let out an unrestrained moan, my fingers curling tight against the sheets as he starts to move. He draws all the way back only to slam forward again, pushing me against the mattress and driving it into the wall.

  “Fuck, yes,” I whimper, and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

  Collins doesn’t take the time to build to a satisfying rhythm; he just starts there right out of the gate, pounding me harder and harder with each thrust. His cock stretches me and fills me, hot and powerful as his balls slam against my ass again and again.

  I lift my head to try and look at him, and he uses his now free hand to shove me back down, his fingers clenching tight in my hair. It feels so fucking amazing to be completely overwhelmed and overpowered, and I let out a breathy laugh that only makes him work that much harder.

  His knees shift down on the bed, his thighs flex against me, and my mouth flies open in a silent gasp as he hits my prostate.

  “Oh, fuck. Right there. Don’t fucking stop.”

  If he actually hated me, he’d do everything in his power to avoid hitting that spot. But Collins holds his position so he can hit it with every thrust, sending white hot bolts of pleasure arcing through my whole body, making me writhe beneath him.

  I try to get a hand under my body, to jack myself while he’s fucking me, but there’s no room. He’s got me pressed so hard against the bed that I wouldn’t be able to manage it without moving.

  The longer he fucks me, his thrusts relentless, the more I realize I don’t even need the extra help. My dick’s being ground against the mattress with every thrust, my balls tightening more and more as he drives me closer to ecstasy.

  I could get mine and leave him to fend for himself, but as I hear him moaning and gasping above me, it becomes a point of pride to make this an experience he won’t ever fucking forget. I want him to think of this no matter who he’s with—to think about how much better it was with me—and so I squeeze around him, purposely milking his dick for everything I’m worth.

  “Oh, fuck,” he moans.

  I slam back against him, fucking Collins as much as he’s fucking me. His strokes start to become wild and erratic, his grip even tighter in my hair, and I know he’s getting close before he even says anything.

  “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

  Collins pounds into me one last time, hitting my prostate in just the right way. Every muscle tightens, then the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had rips through me, making my whole body buck and writhe against him. He cries out, and I can feel him shooting inside of me even as pleasure wracks every cell of my being.

  By the time my orgasm finally ends, I’m left shaking and totally spent, and I know one time isn’t going to be enough. I’m going to want him again and again, in a way I’ve never wanted anybody else before.

  And that is fucking terrifying.

  11

  Owen

  Panting heavily, my sweat-slick torso slumped against his back, I try to figure out what the fuck just happened.

  Not that it's all that hard, considering my dick is still inside of him, but how the hell did we get here? One second we were talking, and the next we were fucking like two lust-driven animals. There wasn't much in between, honestly, aside from me wanting to punch Nate in his stupid smirking face; feeling his hard body pinned under mine. Not to mention the way his pupils dilated as I manhandled him like he weighed nothing.

  And all of it started because he was trying to be nice; trying to empathize with me by bringing up how awful my dad was today, and how much it sucks to live in the shadow of somebody who never gives you credit for who you are and what you do.

  It wasn't a conversation I wanted to have with him. Not when I'm still half-convinced he'll find a way to use it against me. But this was the last place I expected us to end up.

  Somehow it still hasn't crossed into "what the fuck are you doing" territory, though. That doesn't come until I catch sight of Nate's dreamy smile as he rests the side of his face against the pillows. His eyes are closed, his lips are tilted upward, and he looks almost vulnerable like this. That urge to lean down and kiss him returns, and it takes a crazy amount of effort for me to tamp it down.

  It's bad enough that Nate and I have hate-fucked our way into amazing climaxes. We don't need to lock lips. That implies closeness and intimacy we don't share; affection that's not present between us and never will be.

  But without it, what we did feels... hollow. Hot as hell, but the same as any other meaningless hookup I've had. The fact that Nate is a guy is irrelevant. I still barely know him, and any connection we had was more primal than anything else.

  There's a part of me that wants to know him, though. It's insane, considering we can't fucking stand each other under normal circumstances. I just can't help wondering why Nate is so against kissing.

  "You trying to keep your cum in me, or what?" he says, his voice muffled against the pillows.

  I back off, pulling out of him and trying to stand on shaky legs. The second we're apart, I feel that cold grip of reality slamming into me hard.

  Fucking didn't change anything between us. Nate still hates me, and he's still an asshole who gets off on provoking me. The only difference is now he has a lot more fuel for the fire, and somehow I have to share a room with him while knowing how good it feels to be inside of him.

  Wanting to kiss him feels irrelevant now, but it's still on my mind as I search for my underwear and tug them on.

  "I know that look." Nate flops over onto his back, not seeming to care that he's totally exposed. "That's the look of a dude who just loved the hell out of fucking another guy but doesn't want to admit it."

  "You don't know shit about me," I say, shooting him a glare. He just grins. "Jesus, Nate. Do you always have to be such an asshole?"

  I tug on my jeans, already feeling the ache in my thighs. No doubt I'll be paying for this tomorrow, and probably until the next game. Not like the Mavs are going to give me a pass because my muscles are tired from fucking my roommate.

  "Nah. Sometimes I top." He folds his arms behind his head and smirks at me, arrogant as always. "Why? You wanting to be my switch, babe?"

  I ignore him and search for the rest of my clothes, throwing him some of his own in the process. Beyond getting a shower, I have no idea what my actual plan is once I leave this room. It's not like I can avoid Nate, and asking for a room transfer would probably be ignored. Not to mention it makes it look like I punked out and couldn't handle it.

  I can be around Nate and his gorgeous body and sexy little smirks. I just have to learn to control myself and not let him bait me into this shit again.

  "I'm gonna get a shower."

  I don't know why I bother to announce it--it's pretty obvious when I grab my caddy and a change of clothes. I guess I just don't want him thinking he managed to send me off with my tail between my legs.

  "Guessing you don't want company?" He sits on the bed and looks up at me with big brown eyes that I swear have just a hint of longing in them.

  But no. I'm seeing things. The only thing Nate wants is to see me squirm. I just flip him off and try not to think about having him in there with me, his big body crowding mine in the tiny stall, hot water pounding between us.

  It doesn't work out at all, and by the time I finish my shower, I'm all wound up imagining where that look could lead over and over again in my mind. It loops back on the one thing I keep desperately wanting after we do this--the one thing that would make me feel like an actual human being instead of just a robot that happens to be in control of a working dick.

  "What's the deal with you and kissing?" I blurt out once
I'm back inside our dorm room.

  Nate's half dressed now, his skinny jeans hugging his ass. He's combing his hands through his hair when he looks up at me, a little bewildered.

  "What?"

  "After you sucked me off. You acted like I was throwing out a marriage proposal when all I wanted to do was kiss you. So what's the deal? My dick’s good enough for your mouth, but nothing else is?"

  That sudden defensiveness makes me feel like an asshole, especially when I have to force myself to look him in the eye. I'm exposing a part of myself, though. I shouldn't care about this shit, but I do, and Nate could definitely use it against me.

  "Why do you give a shit, Collins?"

  He bristles, defensiveness creeping into his tone, too. This is going great. A+ communication skills. Really top notch.

  "I don't," I lie, "just curious what's wrong with your damaged ass that you can't handle it."

  Hurt flares in his eyes for the briefest moment, and I instantly regret my words. I open my mouth to apologize, but his gaze turns hard, his jaw squaring.

  "Because straight boys get real testy when you do something they think is 'gay.'"

  Wait… what? I can’t even process that sentence. "Getting your dick sucked by another guy isn't 'gay?'"

  What the hell kind of repressive bullshit is that? Even when I was struggling with my own sexuality in high school, I would've never gone that far. At least I don't think I would.

  "A mouth's just a mouth, Collins. A hole's just a hole."

  The casual lift of his shoulders, the dismissive tone of his voice... it makes my heart hurt. Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Not even Nate Vincent.

  "Do guys actually say that to you?"

  His eyes cast up at me. A smirk tugs at his lips, but it's not anywhere near as convincing as it usually is. "They don't need to say it--it's understood. That's what you get when you fuck with closeted jocks."

  I just stare at him, trying to wrap my head around it. Is this really what he wants? Is "turning" guys who won't admit their own bisexuality really that exciting for him? Is it worth being used and treated like trash?

  Nate must see me struggling, because he adds, "Jesus, Collins. Don't take it so fucking seriously. It's not like I'm a call boy. Thanks to you running your mouth, every dude in the area knows I like dick, and they know where to go when they want something quick and dirty, no strings attached." He shrugs again. "Best thing to ever happen to my sex life. Guess I should thank you."

  The weight of his words hits me harder than I expected. He's playing it off, acting like he's totally fine with it. But there's an underlying bitterness to what he's saying, and I feel guilt stab at me for what must be the hundredth time since it happened.

  Nate pushes to his feet though, and that bitterness is replaced by anger. "You don't get to look at me like that."

  "Like what?"

  "Like you pity me. I can get laid any time I want, day or night. I don’t need your fucking pity, Collins."

  He gets up in my face again, his finger poking into my chest. For once I don't take the bait. It's not anger I feel right now, it's just... I don't even know what it is. Guilt. Pity. Sadness. All of the above.

  Mostly I feel like my stupid decision to tell a teammate what I saw three years ago completely changed the trajectory of who Nate might have turned out to be. Not just in his football career, but as a person.

  Maybe it's self-centered; maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. But all I can think is that I fucked things up way worse than I ever thought--worse than Nate ever let on.

  "Don't you want more?" I ask, my voice so quiet I'm not even sure he hears me.

  The look of surprise that flashes across his features makes it clear he did, though. "What, some guy who's going to be up in my business, begging me to move in with him after we fuck? No thanks."

  "Somebody who actually treats you like a person instead of a hole they can stick their dick in."

  Nate snorts, his shoulders shaking a little with his amusement. But when my own expression doesn't change, he looks at me, searching my eyes.

  I have no idea what he sees there, but it makes him turn away from me before he asks, "You volunteering?"

  The question catches me so off guard that I just stand there, thoughts racing, unable to voice any of them. Am I volunteering? There's no way anything would work between us. We can't stand each other. It'd be way too volatile, and we'd be lucky if we didn't kill each other a week in.

  Something in me wonders, though. Something in me has wondered about that since the day I realized I was into Nate Vincent.

  But he doesn't see any of this struggle. All he sees is me standing there, stock still and silent, looking every bit the asshole I've acted with him.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought," Nate says, before pulling on his shirt and heading out the door.

  12

  Nate

  I can't stop thinking about what Owen said.

  All week it plays in my mind, over and over. When I'm lifting weights in the gym, running routes on the field with Brody and the rest of the boys, even when I'm trying to fucking sleep. All I can hear is Owen Collins telling me I deserve better; all I can see is this sincere-ass expression in his dark green eyes as he says it.

  It's fucking with my head, and I spend the whole week even more pissed off at him than usual. We've both got school shit to keep us busy, and prepping for actual games wears us out by the time we make it back to our room, or I'm pretty sure we would've gotten into it by now.

  How that would end up, I don't really know. Half of me wants to deck him and tell him shit was just fine before he came here, and the other half of me wants to ride his dick until I come so hard I can't think about it anymore.

  I'm one sick motherfucker, and I know I need to get it sorted out one way or the other. I can't keep going like this, because right now every time I see his stupid face I'm caught right back up in it again.

  Thursday night, my boy Brody has the perfect antidote. His girlfriend's out of town for the whole weekend, and his lonely ass asks me to come over and keep him company. While it may be the way a ton of gay porn videos start, I don't go over there because I want to take advantage of my friend. Even if he were a little queer, he's more like a brother to me than anything else, and he's head over heels for this girl he's been seeing for over a year now.

  I might be an asshole, but I'm no homewrecker.

  So mostly I'm going for the company, because being around Brody should at least get me out of my own head for a while. That and the huge quantities of alcohol we're going to throw down without campus police or any well-meaning citizens around to give us shit for it.

  We head over to the place he and his girlfriend share after practice, and like usual, I'm a little jealous. It's not huge or anything--just a two bedroom apartment. But it's furnished and looks a lot more like a home than any of the dorm rooms.

  "You got a lot more stuff in here than last time," I tell him as I set my bag by the front door.

  Normally I don't have a problem just dropping it wherever, but it feels wrong to dump my old ass duffel bag near the light gray carpet or the charmingly mismatched furniture.

  "Yard sales," he says with a big grin, making his way to the kitchen. "Last week we got a whole set of bar stools for twenty bucks, no joke."

  I give the stools a skeptical look. They're not the nicest things in the world. The pleather upholstery is torn in a couple places and the paint's chipped. But for twenty bucks? The fact that they don't just bust up and collapse when I slide into one is impressive.

  "When the hell do you have time for yard sales?"

  "Sunday morning." He pulls a beer out of the fridge, uses the edge of the counter to get the cap off, and hands it to me. "Real early. Gotta get there before the churches let out, or else all the good shit's gone."

  I suddenly get an image of 6'2'' Aiden Brody fighting with a sweet old lady dressed in her Sunday best and losing out in a battle to win a $10 couch or somet
hing. I can't help but laugh, and some of the knots inside of me start to untie themselves.

  "Jesus, man. You and Alicia got real domestic real quick."

  If he cares about me giving him shit, it doesn't show on his face. He just grins, and this distant, glassy look comes over him. It took me a while, but I eventually figured out that's the way he looks when he's thinking about his girl.

  It's fucking adorable, and it also makes me want to gag on principle. No two people should get to be that cute. Should be some sort of law against it.

  It's nice to see him so happy, though, and it does a lot to knock down the bad mood that's been wanting to take hold in me all week. Brody's a good guy and a solid QB, but he's realistic about his career. The chances of him making it to the NFL are slim, and I'm glad he's able to focus on what he'll do after, and who he'll do it with.

  I envy him, too. It's not something I wanted to admit to myself at first, but some part of me really likes the idea of that sure thing--somebody who will support you through thick and thin, whether you make it or not.

  Of course the second that thought crosses my mind, I can see Owen's face again; his eyes burning with an intensity that took my breath away.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and down half the bottle in one impressive gulp, earning a raised brow from Brody.

  "What's up with you? You've been off your game all week."

  He's right about that. Dropped passes, fucked up routes, and a whole lot of getting brought down way before I should. It's not just on the field, either. I haven't been able to pick a guy up since that night. Every time I pull up Grindr or catch a guy's eyes across the gym, I start feeling like there's something wrong with me.

  Like I'm out here letting guys use me when I know they'll never be anything more than a quick fuck. Most of them don't even acknowledge my existence after we hook up.