Page 96 of Shut Up and Score
I groan and cover my face with one arm, wishing the mattress would swallow me.
He chuckles darkly, leaning down so close his breath skims my ear. “You came just from rubbing on me the same way some desperate little thing would before I even got your mouth on me. And now…” He flicks his gaze to the straining outline in my shorts, then back to my eyes. “You’re still aching. Is that what being under me does to you? Gets you stupid and needy? How are you going to hide this from the world, Colt?”
I swallow hard, but my hips twitch against the mattress. I can’t help it. He notices—of course he notices—and his grin sharpens.
“God, you’re easy,” he says, all cruel amusement. “Two yearspretending you’re too good for me, and now I know all I have to do is let you hump my thigh and you’ll lose your mind. Maybe I should make you sleep like this. Hard. Aching. Remembering exactly who you belong to now.”
I whimper, humiliated by how much the words get to me. How hot they make me feel. Fuck. I have a fucking degradation kink, obviously.
Micah laughs low in his throat, shaking his head as he finally rolls off me, leaving me a wreck on the bed. “Better figure out how to deal with that, Golden Boy,” he says, grabbing his phone. “I’m not touching you again tonight. Not even if you beg.”
The room is too quiet except for my ragged breathing. My shorts are soaked—sticky, wet, humiliating—and the heat radiating off Micah makes it worse. I can’t move at first. My muscles are locked, my chest tight with the mix of shame and leftover need thrumming through me.
“Jesus, Colt,” he drawls. “You really made a mess, didn’t you?”
I jolt, fumbling to sit up, but that only makes me more aware of how damp my shorts are, how they cling to my skin. My face burns hotter than it ever has in my life.
“I—uh—bathroom,” I stammer, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
He hums, low and knowing, as I grab my duffel and retreat across the room.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands after you take care of yourself, golden boy,” he calls, voice laced with amusement.
The jab hits like a slap. I don’t answer.
I snag a new pair of shorts before I duck into the tiny hotel bathroom and slam the door, bracing both hands on the sink. My reflection stares back at me: flushed face, blownpupils, sweaty hair sticking to my forehead, and my lips puffy. I look…ravaged.
I peel my shorts down, grimacing at the sticky mess in the fabric. My boxers are no better. I rinse them in the sink with water that’s just this side of freezing, trying to calm my body and my brain all at once.
From the other side of the door, Micah’s voice carries—mocking and smooth.
“You’re lucky I didn’t make you walk through the hall like that. Bet the guys would love to see their golden boy like this.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the cold water bite at my hands.
He’s cruel because he can be. Because he knows I’ll take it. Because part of me…enjoys it.
When I finally step back into the room, damp shorts bundled in my hand, Micah’s sprawled across the queen bed, scrolling his phone as if nothing happened. He doesn’t even look up when he says, “Hope you didn’t leave any for the housekeeping staff to clean.”
My ears burn. I throw the wet shorts over my duffel and crawl under the covers on my side of the bed, facing the wall. But sleep doesn’t come easy—not with Micah’s heat against my back, his soft huff of laughter letting me know he’s still very, very aware of me.
TWENTY-FOUR
MICAH
I wake up furious.
Not just irritated, not the kind of mood a shower can rinse off. This is bone-deep, gut-twisting, what the hell did I do fury.
Because I let him in.
I let Colton Taylor put his mouth on me. Around me. God.
And it was so fucking good, I can still feel it.
The memory ambushes me before I even open my eyes—the heat of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue, the way his throat worked around me when I pushed in deeper. That desperate little sound he made when I held him there, when his jaw trembled, and he still took me like he was made for it.
I grind my teeth because my body doesn’t care that I’m pissed. My cock twitches in my briefs as if it’s ready for round two, and I hate myself for wanting it. For wanting him.
