Page 103 of Shut Up and Score
“You good?” he asks again, squinting.
I nod quickly, shoving a bite of pizza into my mouth as if that can hide the heat crawling up my neck. “Hot cheese,” I mumble. “Burned my tongue.”
Micah doesn’t even look at me, which somehow makes it worse. He leans toward Luke, all casual, all team-player charm, while his foot slides into my lap.
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose.
My sweats do nothing to hide the way I’m already half-hard, and the first brush of his toes against me is like an electric shock. My hips jerk, the table rattling just enough to make Caleb glance at me again.
Micah keeps talking to Luke, voice easy, smooth—acting as though he’s not using his toes to stroke along the shape of me through thin fabric.
My fingers curl tight around the edge of the table.
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to beg him for more. I don’t even know anymore.
When his big toe presses just under the curve of my cock, heat explodes in my gut. I hunch over a little, trying to mask the way my breath stutters.
“—Colt?” Caleb says, nudging my arm. “You were saying?”
I blink, struggling to remember what I was even trying to say. “I—uh—yeah, no, uh?—”
Micah flexes his toes against me, cruel and perfect.
A sound leaves my throat that isn’t words, and I finally snap. My hand darts under the table, grabbing his foot and holding it still, my grip tight enough to make my knuckles ache.
He finally looks at me. Just a flick of his eyes, sharp and knowing. And his lips curl into that infuriating, devastating half-smirk.
I’m sweating, panting like I just ran a two-minute drill, while he eats another slice of pizza, the picture of innocence.
“I—uh—bathroom,” I mumble, already sliding out of the booth. My chair scrapes the tile, earning a couple curious glances from the team, but no one stops me.
I walk fast—too fast—my sweats doing nothing to hide how hard I am. My pulse hammers in my ears as I push into the single-stall bathroom and lock the door behind me.
I lean against the sink, trying to breathe, to get my body under control.
No chance.
I’m still hard as steel, the phantom memory of his toes against me making my whole body ache.
The handle jiggles. Then the door clicks open, lock bypassed by the tiny coin on the outside—restaurant staff style.
Micah slips in and shuts it behind him. He closes the space, and his hands are on my waist, moving me where he wants me. And, of course, I go willingly, because I am gone for this man. He’s right. I’m basically his.
He’s all heat and broad shoulders as he presses me against the door, the wood cool against my back, his chest solid against mine.
“You really thought you were getting away from me?” he murmurs, his nose running along my earlobe as he breathes me in.
“Micah—someone could?—”
“Shh.” He presses his palm over me through the thin gray sweats, and I almost fold in half.
A sharp hiss escapes me, my head knocking lightly against the door.
“Maybe gray sweats were a bad idea,” he taunts, voice dripping with sarcasm and heat. His hand cups me fully now, the heel of his palm pressing just right. “Shows everything, Colt.”
I choke on a sound halfway between a whine and a moan.
“Bet the whole team would know exactly what I’m doing to you,” he continues, slow and cruel, his thumb brushing over my length. “Maybe they already do. You left the table looking like you were ready to beg.”
