Page 97 of Shut Up and Score
I drag a hand over my face, muttering a curse, and sit up in the hotel bed we shared. Colton’s gone probably already downstairs, grinning at everyone and pretending he didn’t let me ruin him last night, as though his lips weren’t wrapped around me until he cried against my skin.
I shove into my hoodie and sneakers, jaw tight, and stalk toward the door.
Luke falls into step with me in the hallway, bright-eyed and annoyingly chipper.
“Morning, sunshine.”
I grunt. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He smirks. “Say good morning? Jesus, you look like someone stole your playbook and set it on fire.”
I stab the elevator button hard enough to bruise. “I said don’t.”
Luke studies me for a beat, brows raised. “You’re off. More than usual. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I snap.
“Yeah, okay.” He leans against the wall, watching me as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You look like a guy with…complications. Like six foot, golden boy shaped complications.”
I almost laugh. Complications is one word for letting your ex-best-friend-slash-quarterback deep-throating you and then waking up aching for it again.
But I just mutter, “Drop it.”
Luke lets it go, for now, but I can feel his eyes on me all the way down to the lobby.
And under the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of bad hotel coffee, all I can think about is last night.
The way Colton’s throat squeezed around me. The way he shuddered when I praised him and told him he was my fuck-toy. The way I already want to shove him back down and watch him take it all over again.
I ball my hands into fists. I’m so goddamn screwed.
The lobby smells of burnt coffee and those pre-packaged muffins no one ever actually eats. A couple of my teammates are already sprawled across the breakfast area, laughing at something on one of their phones. I can hear the low rumble of ESPN from the mounted TV above the cereal station.
And then I see him.
Colton.
He’s leaning against the counter by the juice machine, still in his travel shorts, hair a perfect mess that somehow looks deliberate. He’s got that easy, Golden boy smile plastered on his face—the one that makes coaches, cheerleaders, and donors eat out of his hand.
And I hate it.
Because all I can see is his mouth swollen from my cock. The way his throat flexed when I pushed past his tongue. The way he whimpered like he wanted it, like he wanted me, even if he’ll pretend otherwise in daylight.
He spots me, and for a split second, that smile falters. Just a flicker. Then it’s back, bright as the sun.
“Morning,” he says as if nothing happened. As though he didn't rut against me until he spilled in his shorts, and I didn’t fuck his mouth until he whimpered like a desperate little?—
I yank open the mini-fridge and grab a bottle of water before I can do something stupid, like cross the room and remind him what that throat is for.
Luke slides into the chair across from me with a plate piled high with bacon. He glances toward Colton and then back at me, eyebrows raised. “Oookay. Whatever that is…” He gestures between me and Colton as though he’s tracing a live wire. “I can practically smell the drama.”
I glare at my water bottle. “Eat your bacon, Luke.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I could get popcorn instead.”
I bite back a curse and focus on peeling the label off the bottle, because if I look at Colton again, I’m going to remember the way his lips went slack around me, the little choked sound he made that made my whole body shudder, and the way his thighs trembled like he wanted more.
And I shouldn’t want to see it again.
