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“Sit next to me,” he said under his breath.
I was more than happy to oblige. Once everyone else had found their seats on the bus — which conveniently was just the right size for the team — the only seat left was next to Simon. As a rule, people hate sitting next to the coach. I felt differently, for what might be obvious reasons. Girls threw me pitying looks, as though it must suck that I had to sit next to him. Little did they know.
We settled into the plush seats. ULA springs for fancy buses for game trips, and the girls immediately turned around to gab with one another, play music from tiny speakers and eat trail mix. Theoretically, per my instructions, they were supposed to be discussing strategies and ideas for the game tomorrow, but I didn’t really see that happening. Besides, I planned to be rather busy myself.
Because Simon and I were flush up against one another, our thighs and the tops of our arms touching.
“Are you excited about the game tomorrow?” he asked me loudly.
“I sure am,” I replied with equal volume and enthusiasm.
Simon smirked and asked, “Was that performance enough to throw everybody off our scent?”
“Honestly? I don’t care. I miss you.” I hoped the ache in my heart wasn’t tangible in my voice.
He sighed, and placed a hand on my thigh. “I missed you, too. I’m sorry it has to be like this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I reminded him, and slid my hand parallel to his own, right along his thigh — though I sneaked mine a little further, moving it from the top of his thigh down to the side, so that I was cupping the meat of his inner leg. Needless to say, I was inches from his dick.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Oh, you know. Passing the time.”
Simon groaned softly. “Do you always have to live so dangerously?”
“Nope. Just with you,” I replied, truthful.
He shifted, and I could feel that his cock had already grown erect to my touch.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “At least wait until they’re more distracted, or sleeping.”
This wasn’t a bad bet. The girls always fell asleep on travel trip buses. It was like some kind of weird tradition, or hard-wiring that athletes have. Approximately four and half hours into a bus ride, they’d be asleep on one another’s shoulders, curled up like puppies.
While we waited, Simon and I talked, catching up on one another’s weeks, stealing furtive strokes when nobody was looking. We shared headphones, listening to one another’s music, occasionally humming along. To the outside world, it would’ve looked like a coach and a player. To us, it was almost the closest we’d come to a date.
For the record, I was right almost to the minute — it took four hours and forty-five minutes for the entire bus, minus the driver of course, to be fast asleep. When I finally looked back and found them conked out, I immediately turned back around to Simon, saying:
“Take off your sweatshirt.”
“Why?” he asked, confused. “I’m chilly. Unless you’re cold, in which case, I’ll toughen up.”
I chuckled. “I’m not cold, and you’re about to be very hot, if you catch my drift.”
He did, indeed, catch my drift, and Simon promptly whipped off his sweatshirt, revealing a thin blue T-shirt underneath that matched his eyes. It was ripped in a couple of spots, like it had been well-worn for years.
“You know,” I observed, “you can probably buy a new T-shirt now. ULA pays enough for you to hit Target.”
He jokingly swatted at me and said, “This T-shirt covers me up fine.”
“Well, except for these,” I replied, and poked my finger through one of the holes. “Though it does show your abs, so actually, keep the shirt.”
My finger was against his bare skin, and both our bodies tensed with the realization. We couldn’t wait any longer. I threw the sweatshirt over his lap, and removed my finger from the hole, then stuck it back underneath the shirt. I allowed it to glide down his inhumanly taut stomach, right to the first button on his jeans.
Simon’s breathing deepened as I undid the button and slowly, very slowly, pulled down the zipper. I could almost hear his cock twitching with desire, and I could absolutely hear the accompanying quiet moan.
“Shh,” I chided him. “Or do I need to get a ball gag?”
He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, trying his best to be subtle, perhaps even to pretend to be asleep, like the rest of the bus.
I slid my hand deeper inside his trousers until I felt the shaft of his hardened cock. My fingers wrapped around it and squeezed gently. His brows knitted together, and his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was exerting great effort just to stay silent.
