Clayton Keller's Mouthguard💙

you end up in his bed without really planning to. that’s the thing about the offseason—time stretches weird. days blur into sunlight and chlorine and half-finished iced coffees on the patio, your phone somewhere you don’t care about, clayton bare-chested and barefoot basically all the time. his house is stupidly big, echoing with quiet when it’s just the two of you, and you keep wandering into his room like gravity put a leash on your spine.

he’s sprawled on the mattress now, tan shoulders propped up on the headboard, hair a chaotic mess that’s been kissed lighter by the sun. he hasn’t bothered shaving in days, so his jaw is full of rough scruff that scrapes your lips. you like that more than you’d admit. every time he drags his mouth on you, a shiver rips through you, sharp and hot, like your nerves are waking up from a lifelong nap.

you’re stretched over his lap, straddling one thick thigh, your fingers hooked in the band of his boxers. your shorts are soft cotton that don’t do much to protect you from the heat of his skin. you can feel the slope of his quad between your legs, solid and warm, rubbing against the seam of your pussy every time you shift. it’s almost embarrassing how keyed up you are, how easily he does this to you.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, and the way his voice dips makes your pulse jump. his hand curves over the back of your neck, thumb rubbing just under your ear, guiding you in. his lips meet yours unhurried, a soft press that turns wet in seconds because you’ve both been simmering all day.

you’d been out by the pool earlier, supposedly reading. he was shirtless, of course, board shorts low on his hips, chest and arms all golden tan with those pale lines where his gear usually covers. some freckles have popped up on his shoulders from the extra sun. when he climbed out of the water, hair dripping in long, messy strands that stuck to his cheekbones, you forgot every word you’d just read. he looked like he’d been carved for the sole purpose of ruining your life.

he caught you staring, smirked with his pretty mouth, and shook his head like a damn dog, spraying you with droplets. “you’re not even turning pages,” he said, wiping water from his brow. “just ogling me.”

“you’re in my line of sight,” you shot back, biting down a little smile. “move.”

“no,” he laughed, flopping onto the lounge chair next to you. “i live here. you deal with it.”

so you dealt with it all afternoon, which explained why, by the time twilight rolled in and you were inside, one thing led to another led to his mouth on yours.

he kisses lazy at first, tongue just brushing the edge of your lower lip. you open for him easily, a needy little sigh slipping out before you can stop it. his hand slides down, fingers spreading across the small of your back, dragging you closer on his lap. you feel the shift of muscle beneath you, the cushioned give of the mattress under his legs, the rasp of his scruff against your chin as he deepens the kiss.

he tastes like mint and the beer you shared with dinner, lips moving against yours in slow, coaxing drags, like he has nowhere else to be. his thumb tilts your chin this way and that, angling your mouth so he can kiss you exactly how he wants. your hands wander, one palm flat against his hard stomach, the other landing on his throat just to feel the rumble of his soft sounds.

you’re always horny. that’s the truth you’ve been trying to pretend away, years of bullshit making you feel stupid about it, like wanting too much is a flaw. you’ve wanted a lot, your whole life, and sex has never really given it back. rushed hookups, selfish partners, awkward fumbling where it was easier to perform than to feel—your history’s a string of almosts and ughs and you’re fines that really meant nothing. you started thinking that was all there was, that porn lied, that your body was just weird.

clayton kisses you like none of that matters.

you pull back for air, lips slick, and the words tumble out before you can stop them. “just so you know, i’m, like… kind of a mess about all this,” you mutter, eyes darting anywhere but his. your hand is still on his throat, thumb under his jaw, and you can feel his pulse steady, unbothered. “i’ve never had, like, super great… whatever. sex. i always end up feeling—” you make a helpless gesture with your free hand, like the word is stuck somewhere between your ribs and your mouth. “weird. you should know that.”

he blinks, and for a second you see the gears turn like he’s about to dig in, ask questions, pry open the past. instead, that slow, crooked smile appears. his fingers flex on your back, dragging you closer until your noses brush.

“hey,” he says, soft and simple. “chill.”

you snort. “that’s helpful.”

“it is,” he argues, lips quirking. “we’re in my bed. you taste good. i’m crazy about you. we’re gonna make out, i’m gonna use my mouth or my hands or my dick, if you want, and you’re gonna feel nice. that’s it.” he kisses you again before you can protest, just a quick peck. “there's no performance review, baby, i don't know who made you think that. you hang out and feel stuff. i’ll handle the rest.”

your chest twists. you roll your eyes because that’s safer than melting. “you’re very cocky for a guy who just promised to do all the work,” you say.

he smiles, all sweet and boyish, like he’s never done a single thing wrong in his life, and before you can even process it he’s got you on your back, the world flipping and the bed creaking beneath his knees. he doesn’t rush—he just settles over you, mouth pressing into your throat, open kisses and little nips that make your breath catch.

his stubble scratches at your skin, rough and hot, and you can feel the prickle of it everywhere his lips go. he noses along your collarbone, teeth scraping, and you can smell him—chlorine, sweat, something summery and boyish that sticks to his skin. he drags his hands down your sides, tracing the dip of your waist, the soft curve of your hips, just exploring, learning you with his palms.

he mouths at your shoulder, working lower, sucking a mark just above your breast, and then another on the inside of your arm, like he’s leaving a breadcrumb trail down to your thighs. you hiss and twitch, more sensitive than you want to admit, and he grins against your ribs, biting down just enough to make you gasp. “sorry,” he murmurs, not sorry at all. “couldn’t help myself. you’re kinda perfect.”

you roll your eyes, skeptical, but he just keeps going, peppering kisses down your stomach, pausing to scratch his teeth lightly over your hip bone, then licking the sting away. he gets lower, pushing your knees apart, hands sliding under your thighs to hold you open, and you’re suddenly very aware of every inch of skin he’s touching. his hair is a sun-bleached mess, sticking up in wild tufts, and your fingers find their way into it before you even realize what you’re doing, curling at the roots, tugging him closer.

he looks up at you, eyes wide and stupidly pretty, mouth shiny and a little swollen from kissing you all over. he’s got that tiny, lopsided smile, the one that says he’s asking but also that he knows exactly what he’s about to do. “this okay?” he asks, voice low and rough, but his hands are patient, just stroking the backs of your thighs like he’s got all day.

you nod, a little wary—there’s a lifetime of disappointment curled up in your chest, all those times nothing felt right, all that endless sexual frustration making you doubt he could do anything to change it. you’re not begging, not desperate, not convinced; your guard’s still up, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

he notices, of course, because clayton notices everything. he noses at your inner thigh, scruff prickling, and makes a soft sound that’s half pout, half mock-offended whine. “you’re not looking very impressed, baby,” he says, letting his tongue drag just a little, slow and teasing, over the sensitive skin where thigh meets hip. “not even a little excited for me down here?” he presses a kiss so gentle it’s almost apologetic, then grins up at you, eyes glinting. “you’re breaking my heart.”

you snort, shifting your hips like it’s no big deal, but the way your breath catches betrays you. “i just… you know,” you say, trying to sound bored, even as your hands tighten in his hair. “it’s not like this ever really does much for me. no offense.” your voice wobbles, part challenge, part genuine warning.

he pouts for real, lips pushed out, but he’s clearly having fun with it. “ouch. already writing me off? that’s cold,” he says, licking a stripe up your thigh, teeth grazing, making you shiver. “i could be, like, a world-class pussy eater. you don’t know.”

“oh, i know your stats, captain,” you tease, but you can’t keep the edge in your voice when he bites you, just hard enough to sting, then soothes it with his tongue. “not sure they translate.”

he grins, cocky and boyish. “that sounds like a challenge.” he kisses your knee, then works his way slowly, deliberately, up the inside of your thigh, dragging his teeth and lips and stubble in a way that makes you squirm. “i like a challenge. and i love proving people wrong.” his voice drops lower, rough and intimate, and you feel the words coil low in your belly. “so just relax, princess. let me show off a little.”

he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, knuckles dragging slow and deliberate over your skin, and you can’t help the shudder that runs through you. his mouth is pressed to the inside of your knee, lips moving as he murmurs, “let’s get these out of the way, yeah?”—soft, but with a promise of something filthy right behind it.

he doesn’t rip them off, doesn’t tease forever; he just slides them down, slow enough that you feel every inch of cotton peel away from your slick skin, dragging over your pussy, grazing your clit, down your thighs. he tosses them behind him somewhere, careless, and settles back between your legs, hands spreading you open like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted for years.

he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your cunt, the scruff on his jaw scratching a delicious burn into your skin. he noses in, breath hot, and just the sound of him inhaling you, sighing like he’s finally home, makes your toes curl. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs stroking little circles, holding you wide and steady. he doesn’t dive in right away—he licks a slow, lazy stripe up your slit, tongue flat and broad, gathering you up and humming at the taste. the sound vibrates through you, low and greedy, and you gasp, hips twitching.

he glances up, catches your eyes, and grins—messy, cocky, shining with the knowledge that he’s got you. then he really starts: tongue flicking your clit, slow and insistent, mouth sealing around it and sucking just enough to make your thighs tense. he licks you with long, languid strokes, then circles right where you’re most sensitive, not letting up, not losing the rhythm. his nose presses into your mound, scruff scraping your skin, and he moans like he’s fucking feasting.

your hands are in his hair, clutching hard now, pulling him closer because you can’t help yourself. you say his name, a shaky gasp, and he answers by sucking harder, tongue flicking faster. you feel everything—heat, pressure, every nerve ending sparking alive, the build like a wave threatening to break. he keeps one hand on your thigh, the other slipping down, two fingers sliding inside you easy and slow, curling up, finding the spot that makes your hips jerk off the bed.

he eats pussy like it’s his job, like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do, relentless and greedy and worshipful all at once. his mouth is filthy, tongue everywhere, lips sliding wet over your clit again and again, fingers fucking up into you slow and deep. he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your entire body. you can’t hold back—your moans turn sharp, desperate, the pleasure cresting so fast it’s almost dizzying. you’re panting, hips rolling helplessly, and he just keeps going, murmuring, “that’s it, let go, let me taste it, give it to me, please—” between licks.

when you cum, it feels like you’re coming apart, thighs shaking around his head, cunt clenching around his fingers, mouth open in a silent cry. he doesn’t stop, working you through it, pushing you higher, swallowing every drop like he’s starving. the aftershocks leave you limp, boneless, breathless, and he finally lifts his head, chin glistening, eyes bright and wild.

clayton plants a slow, open-mouthed kiss on the inside of your thigh, then traces his mouth up your belly, pausing to bite at your hip, at your ribs, at every patch of skin he finds along the way. the mattress dips as he crawls up beside you, one big hand smoothing over your stomach, thumb absently tracing lazy circles just above your navel, grounding you as your heart stutters back to earth.

he’s grinning like an idiot, absolutely glowing, and you can’t even summon the energy to glare at him. his head tips down, mouth still inches from your skin, and you watch the way his lashes flutter as he peeks up at you, bashful and smug all at once. “so?” he asks, voice rough and hopeful, just a little hoarse from everything he’s just done to you. “how’d i do, baby? live up to the hype or what?”

your lungs finally start working again, but you can’t resist slinging an arm over your face, hiding your smile with a dramatic sigh. “mm. it was… fine, i guess.” you draw the word out just to tease, fighting the urge to giggle when you catch the flash of outrage and disbelief in his eyes. “i’ll let you know after a few more test runs, maybe.”