Page 122 of Shut Up and Score
He does. Big, open eyes that hit me right in the chest. I could live in them forever.
I push in, slow at first, watching his mouth drop open, the soft curse spilling out of him. My own breath shudders as I sink deeper, until I’m fully seated inside him, every muscle in my body straining not to lose it immediately.
“Fuck,” I groan, dropping my forehead to his. “You feel…so fucking good.”
He clings to me, nails dragging down my back, and when he whispers, “Move,” I nearly come right then.
I start slow, letting him adjust, but it doesn’t last. The room fills with the slick, obscene sounds of our bodies, the wet slap of skin against skin, his soft, broken noises that make my head spin. His legs lock around my waist, dragging me closer, and I give up any pretense of control.
We’re a rhythm of need—messy, frantic, perfect. I kiss him through it, swallowing his moans, tasting sweat and heat and the sharp edge of something that isn’t just lust. Every thrust feels like a confession I can’t say out loud: I want you. I want this. I don’t want to stop.
“Micah—” His voice cracks, high and desperate.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, fucking him harder, faster, until he’s shaking apart under me, until I feel him clamp down and spill over both our stomachs. The sight and the sound of him coming undone is enough to rip my own orgasm out of me, and I groan into his shoulder.
For a long moment, all I can do is breathe against his neck, my body pressed to his, our hearts pounding in the same uneven rhythm.
I ease out of him with a shiver, the aftershocks rippling through both of us. My thighs tremble as I stand, shaky on my feet, and peel the condom off, tossing it in the trash. A quick grab for the towel from the desk chair, and I wipe us both down, my hands lingering a little too long over the sharp planes of his hips, the warm skin of his stomach.
He just lies there, boneless and spent, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, voice rough from panting.
I barely have time to drop the towel before he’s snagging my wrist, yanking me back down. I land against him with a grunt, and he immediately curls into me, tucking his face against my chest like he belongs there.
The world goes soft and quiet, nothing but his breath fanning against my skin and the slow, steady drum of our hearts finding the same rhythm again. My arm comes up on instinct, pulling him closer, and for the first time, I let myself just…hold him.
Everything else can wait. Right now, it’s just him and me and the dangerous thought that maybe I’ll never want to let go.
THIRTY-ONE
COLTON
The first thingI notice when I wake is warmth.
Not my dorm. Not my bed. The sunlight slants differently through Micah’s blinds, spilling over the dark comforter and cluttered desk. A hoodie is draped over his chair, and his cleats are kicked half under the bed.
Micah’s sprawled on his side, arm draped heavy across my stomach, his face pressed against my shoulder. His hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in soft, messy tufts that make him look younger, softer. The sheets are tangled low around our waists, leaving most of his chest bare.
I should get up. I should think about practice or about what this means—about all the ways this could go wrong.
But I don’t.
I lie there, memorizing the way he looks in his own room, unguarded and completely mine for just this one quiet morning. The faint smell of his laundry soap clings to the sheets, warm and familiar, and something deep in my chest aches.
I can’t help myself. I lean over and press a kiss to his shoulder. Then another, along his collarbone. My lips follow the curve of muscle down his chest as I nudge him onto his back, slow and careful, drinking him in.
He stirs with a sleepy groan, arm twitching as I ease him onto his back. His face tilts toward me, eyes still closed, and a faint smile tugs at his lips.
“Mm…Colt?” His voice is gravel and warmth, and it makes my stomach flip.
“Morning,” I murmur against his skin, kissing the center of his chest. My fingers trace the sharp line of his ribs, the smooth dip of his stomach, and his muscles jump under my touch. I love that I can do that to him.
His hand finds my hair, loose and lazy, and his thumb grazes the side of my face. “You’re trouble,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.
I grin against his chest, then close my mouth around his nipple, teasing it with my tongue. His breath hitches, a low sound rumbling in his throat, and he arches just slightly into my touch. God, he’s so responsive it kills me.
“Can’t help it,” I whisper, trailing kisses across his chest to the other side. “You make me want to stay here forever.”
