Page 23 of Second Shot

Oh, fuck no.

The memories hit me like a freight train: climbing onto Jacobs’ bed, begging him not to hate me, him telling me to... and I did. Jesus Christ, I actually did it. I put my mouth on his cock and swallowed his cum like some desperate—

I bolt upright, ignoring the way my head threatens to split open, and look across the room. Jacobs’ bed is empty, sheets rumpled but no signof him. The bathroom door is closed, and I can hear the shower running.

Thank God. At least I don’t have to face him immediately.

I collapse back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling and trying to piece together what the hell happened to me last night. I’ve never... I mean, I’ve been with lots of guys before, but never like that. Never so desperate, so willing to do whatever someone told me to do. I never once submitted like that to Tam. Sure, I sucked him off, but not like that. Shit. The way I begged Jacobs, the way I submitted to him completely, it’s like I became someone else entirely.

Someone pathetic.

My stomach churns, and it’s not just from the hangover. What must he think of me now? His new teammate, supposedly this hotshot trade acquisition, crawling into his bed at five in the morning and agreeing to suck his dick just so he wouldn’t hate me.

But the worst part, the part that makes me want to disappear into the hotel carpet, is that I remember liking it. Liking the way he took control, the way he commanded me, the way he made me wait for permission to come. I’ve never experienced anything like that before, that complete surrender of control, and it felt...

It felt right.

Which is fucked up on about seventeen different levels.

The shower shuts off, and panic shoots through me. I grab my phone from the nightstand, pretending to scroll through messages while my heart hammers against my ribs. What am I supposed to say to him? How do you have a normal conversation with someone after they’ve seen you at your most desperate and needy?

The bathroom door opens, and Jacobs steps out like a wet dream made flesh. The steam curls around him, clinging to his skin. The towel slung low on his hips is a fucking tease, barely hanging on, the fabric damp and clinging to the curve of his ass like it’s begging to be ripped off. Water droplets glisten on his chest, catching the light as they slide down the hard planes of his pecs, tracing the ridges of his abs, disappearing into the shadowy V that leads to, fuck, I can’t even think about it without my pulse spiking.

His shoulders are broad and thick with muscle, veins snaking up his forearms. His skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, pink and warm, and I can almost feel the heat radiating off him, smell the clean, soapy scent of him. His hair is wet, messy, dripping onto his forehead, and he runs a hand through it, pushing it back, and I swear to God, I can hear my own heartbeat reverberating in the room.

My eyes drop to the towel again, and I can’t help myself. I imagine what’s underneath. The way it’s tented slightly, the fabric straining against the weight of him. I can almost see the outline of his cock, thick and heavy, resting against his inner thigh.

My mouth goes dry, and I can feel the heat pooling low in my belly, my own body betraying me as I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the ache of my dick. I want to drop to my knees and pull that towel off with my teeth, to taste him again, to feel him in my mouth, full and weighty against my tongue.

Apparently I’m alone in my lust because he doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all as he moves to his suitcase and starts pulling out clothes. It’s like last night never happened, like I’m just his roommate who happened to oversleep.

“Morning,” I croak, my voice coming out rougher than intended.

“Good morning,” he replies without turning around, his tone completely neutral. Professional.

The casual dismissal stings more than it should. Of course, I expected awkwardness. I wasn’t sure if he’d want to acknowledge what happened between us. Doesn’t look like it. If anything, he appears unaffected by what we did with each other. He seems completely indifferentto the fact that I had his cock in my mouth last night.

“About last night—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” He pulls on his underwear under the towel with practiced efficiency. “We were both drunk and keyed up after we lost the game. We came back here and released some tension. End of story.”

The message is clear: drop it. We’re pretending it never happened. Which should be a relief, except it feels like another rejection. Another reminder that I’m the one who wanted reassurance, while he was just... what? Doing me a favor? Taking pity on me?

“Right,” I manage. “End of story.”

He nods once, still not looking at me, and continues getting dressed. I watch him move around the room with quiet efficiency. He drinks a cup of coffee from the little coffeemaker the hotel provided. He seems so unfazed by what happened between us, I can’t help but wonder if he does that kind of thing all the time. No, probably not because Kincaid was usually his roomie on away trips, and Kincaid is straight.

Unless Kincaid is bi?

My gut clenches unpleasantly at the thought of Jacobs and Kincaid fooling around together. Kincaid is a good looking guy. Smokinghot body. Black hair and blue eyes. I tell myself that’s none of my business, but the thought of them together still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I force myself to get up, ignoring the way my head pounds and my stomach churns.

He’s still standing near the coffeemaker and my flight bag is across the room, which means walking past him to get to it. When I do, he doesn’t even glance at me. But at least he doesn’t seem to hate me like before. He doesn’t shoot me dirty looks. He’s simply ignoring me as if I don’t even exist. I guess that’s better?

The shower helps, washing away the smell of alcohol and sex. But it doesn’t wash away the memory of how good it felt to let Jacobs take control, to not have to be Ryan Caldwell the star player for a few minutes. To just be someone who existed for his pleasure. I’ve never given into that pathetic need before, and while it was freeing, I have to admit, I’m embarrassed. Mostly because I have a vague recollection of begging Jacobs to not be mad at me. I groan softly at the memory.

Jesus, how will I ever live this down?

He doesn’t want to talk about what happened with me, but will he tell the other guys? Will he use my pathetic behavior to humiliate me to the team? I reassure myself that he won’t because he made a point of saying no one could ever know what we did together. Hewouldn’t have said that if he planned on telling everyone.

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