Page 73 of Hiding in the Outfield

“You love it, don’t you?” His gaze darts down before coming right back to mine. “Does having my dick down your throat get you hard, Jackson? What if I fucked your face? Does that make you ache with want?”

I moan, and my hands tighten—around his shaft, on his thigh. If I don’t, I’ll reach for myself, and this will all be over.

His fist clenches in my hair, stilling me. Then he slowly drags his cock out of me inch by inch. I whine and try to chase after it, but he doesn’t let me, holds me captive while he denies me. That glistening ruddy tip is right there.

Need.

It pulses in my cock.

Need.

Throbs in my groin.

Need.

I glance back up at him. Pleading for him to let me have it.

Those plush lips tilt up at the corners. “Can I fuck that pretty mouth, Jackie? Can I use you?”

A thrill shoots through me, and I nod.

“Words.” His tone is harsh. Brooks no argument. “Yes means yes, Jackson. Silence is not consent.”

“Yes. Please,” I beg.

His eyes flutter shut, and his features tighten. He lets out a shaky breath, then that glinting black gaze locks onto mine. He rubs his dick over my lips, and my tongue darts out.

He grins and shakes his head. “So impatient.” His smile fades. “If you need me to stop at any point, pinch my thigh. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. I learned my lesson. Always use words.

He pushes off the bed, and with a slowness that borders on torture, slips his cock back into my mouth. He hums. Drags himself back out just as slowly.

“How far can you take me, baby?”

He slides back in.

Pauses.

Pushes further.

My gut tightens, my body trying to gag even as I fight it.

Further.

I gag, and he groans. He does it again. Pulls out. Tests my limits.

I try my best, but I can’t stop myself from gagging. Tears leak down my cheeks, spit dripping out of the corners of my mouth. And he just stares at me like I’m the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

“Look at you.” His words are scraped and raw, so much so that their roughness scratches over my skin. He grips my jaw and pets me with his thumb. “You want to be my good boy, don’t you? My big, desperate-to-please ballplayer.”

I half moan, half whine around him.

He slides deep again and holds. I struggle to breathe, but I focus on that thumb stroking me, and I manage.

“Beautiful.” The word is wrecked, just like those blown-apart irises staring down at me.

He pulls back, then snaps his hips forward in a shallow thrust. “Tighter,” he grunts.