Page 124 of Shut Up and Score
Micah’s usually the one in control. He’s the one who pushes, who takes, who makes me come apart with just a look. But now he’s on his back, spread out beneath me, eyes dark and a little uncertain, and my heart feels too big for my ribs.
“Colt…”
“Shh,” I murmur against his lips, sliding a hand down his side, feeling the tremor in his muscles. “I’ve got you.”
I prep him carefully; I’ve felt him do the same to me, so I know how it feels. Lube-slick fingers sliding inside, curling, coaxing soft breaths and small noises from him that make my whole body heat. He clutches at my shoulders, head tipping back against the pillow, and I kiss his collarbone, his throat, every inch I can reach, worshipping him.
“Please,” he finally whispers, barely audible. It’s all the permission I need.
Sliding into him is everything. Tight and hot and overwhelming, but more than that—it’sus. My chest presses to his, my forehead resting against his temple as I sink in inch by slow inch, letting him feel every heartbeat.
“Micah,” I breathe, voice breaking, “you feel…fuck, you feel so good. So fucking tight.”
He exhales a shaky laugh that catches in his throat, his arms winding around my back. He doesn’t tell me to go faster. He doesn’t try to flip us, even though I half-expect him to. He justlets me have control.
So I move. Gentle, slow rolls of my hips, rocking into him like the whole world’s gone quiet except for us. My mouth finds his again and again—soft kisses, open-mouthed, desperate and tender all at once.
It feels like more than sex. It feels as though I’m giving him every piece of me I’ve been holding back.
“I want you,” I whisper against his lips, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I’ve always wanted you.”
His fingers tighten in my hair, his chest heaving under mine.For a second, I swear I see it on his face—the thing he can’t quite say back.
When he comes, it’s with a low, broken sound against my shoulder, his body clenching around me, pulling me under with him. The warmth of his cum between us is all the proof I need that he’s enjoying this. I follow a moment later, burying myself deep and holding him tight. Maybe if I don’t let go, the world can’t take this from me.
After, I stay there, panting, my face pressed to his neck. He smells of sweat and warmth and home. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it against his ribs. I pull out slowly, tugging the condom off and tying it off before tossing it into his wastebasket. I cuddle into his side, and he lets me as we catch our breath.
The sunlight through Micah’s blinds is sharper now, brighter, catching on the sheen of sweat and cum cooling on our skin. My heart’s still hammering, my body still buzzing, but the world is already intruding—somewhere across campus, I feel as though I can hear the distant whistle of our coach and the echo of pads colliding on the practice field.
Practice. Coach. Teammates. Life.
I don’t want to move. My arm is still wrapped around Micah’s waist, my chest pressed to his side, and for one stupid, selfish moment, I let myself imagine that this is our life. That I can wake up next to him every morning and kiss his shoulder, and he won’t flinch when I whisper his name.
But I feel it, the shift in him.
Micah’s hand slips from my hair to the sheets. He takes a breath that sounds like it hurts. “We should…we should get up,” he says, his voice rough and frayed. He won’t look at me.
“Yeah,” I whisper, even though I don’t move.
He finally meets my eyes, and it’s a punch to the gut. He’s all raw edges and bitten lips, his gaze shuttered in that way I’ve started to recognize—the one that means he’s building a wall brick by brick, trying to shove everything we just did into the box labeledmistake.
“Micah…” I start, but the words stick. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
“Don’t.” He swings his legs off the bed, the mattress dipping as he stands. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t reach for me. He wipes off his stomach with a discarded towel and tosses it to me to do the same, then he digs through a drawer for clean boxers, his shoulders tight, his back a map of tension I want to smooth with my hands.
I sit up slowly, the loss of his warmth making me feel suddenly exposed. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” he says flatly, though his voice wavers as if the words cut his own throat on the way out. “We have practice. And we’re late.”
I swallow hard, staring at his back. My chest aches with everything I can’t say, with the way last night—and this morning—feels carved into my bones while he’s trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
I drag on my clothes in silence, watching him pull his hoodie over his head like armor. He finally glances at me, and for half a second, all the walls drop. He looks raw—not just from the sex, but fromus.
Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
“We should go,” he mutters.
I follow him out, my heart in my throat, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to run plays and smile for the team when all I can think about is the way he felt under me, like maybe, just for a second, he was mine.
