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Part of me wanted that to happen. If he backed off, I wouldn’t be the asshole for saying, ‘thanks for showing me your dick, now lets be friends.’
Wanting him to like it and hate it is fifty shades of fucked up. I need an intervention, but the only person qualified to set me straight doesn’t know his boyfriend’s teammate has a hard-on for my hard-ons. Or that mine seems to require that sexy Norse god to make a full appearance.
By the time I’m dressed in a plain white shirt–one I’m hoping Noah doesn’t realize is his since his jersey doesn't hide cum stains—he’s scooping eggs onto a plate with buttered toast and fruit. Only one though.
“Where’s yours?” I take the plate he offers and help myself to a seat at an island so big I could comfortably stretch out on top of it. That is, if it weren’t made of rock.
“My breakfast is dictated by the team dietician.” He sets a bowl of oatmeal and a smoothie on the counter and takes the stool next to me as I wrinkle my nose. “You aren’t a fan of healthy eating?”
“I’m a fan of eating whatever I feel like, and it’s never been that.” I point to his meal with a grimace. “Does it even have any taste?”
“Not much, but you get used to it. Besides, this is what keeps me fit enough to play at the professional level in my thirties.”
My eyes blatantly wander up his now clothed torso, which his snug t-shirt does nothing to hide. “If you’re telling me that crap is the reason you’re a walking wet dream then I guess I approve.”
“Uh, thanks?” He eyes me the same way, cocking his head to the side with a slight frown. “Is that my shirt?”
Busted.
“I had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.” I scoop up the runny part of the egg with my toast. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“You can wear anything of mine you like. Even if it doesn’t fit.” His baby blues twinkle as he fights a smile.
Glancing down, I have to admit the shirt is a little big. “I’m not so sure your clothes fit you either.” I reach over and pinch the fabric of his shirt between my fingers, giving it a gentle tug, though the material barely moves since it’s already stretched to the brink. “Maybe you should lay off the protein.”
“I wouldn’t be able to manhandle you as easily if I did.”
“Why would I want you to manhandle me?” I arch my brow in his direction and take another bite of egg toast.
“You call me big guy.”
“It’s a fitting nickname.”
“And you groaned ‘fuck that’s hot’ when I hauled you against me last night.”
“You were pounding my prostate and jerking my dick. Totally hot. And also, fuck buddy etiquette says you can’t hold people responsible for what they say when you’re stroking their cock. It’s like, shit said under duress or something.”
“Would it be against fuck buddy etiquette to say I bet if I toss you over my shoulder that’ll make you hard?”
“That wouldn’t be a stretch since this conversation is making me hard.” I look pointedly at my crotch.
“So, you’re saying I’m right.” He crosses his arms in front of his broad chest.
Damn those blue orbs shine when he’s feeling frisky.
“I’m saying there’s only one way to find out.” I shoot off the stool and round the island, putting that big hunk of cabinetry between us. Noah jumps up in a flash, crouching slightly so he’s ready to spring whichever direction I choose to run.
I probably should’ve put more thought into challenging a professional goalie not to catch me.
“Think you can outrun me?” Noah smirks.
“I think I’m lighter on my feet than you.” Faking right, I quickly change course and go left, heading for the back door. I twist the handle and throw it open, launching myself over the threshold and clearing the two flagstone stairs before I hit the patio and take off running. But I only make it a few feet before I hear a strangled wail and a heavy thud.
The brat in me wants to believe he’s using some sort of ploy to catch me off guard, but since I’d be perfectly happy to be caught and tossed over his shoulder I play along, skidding to a halt and turning to face my pursuer. Only he’s not pursuing me. He’s lying on the ground, reaching for his ankle with a strained grimace on his face.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Not only do I have zero fucking clue what to do with hurt people, I don’t do well with guilt, which I’m feeling pretty heavily right now since my stupid game of chase is what’s got the big guy writhing on the floor, and not in an ‘I just blew the biggest load ever’ way.
