smooth operator

—

You didn’t mean to think about him while doing your hair, but you absolutely did. You didn’t mean to think about him when you smoothed your moisturizer into your skin either. You tried to tell yourself this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, that you’ve gotten ready for a million nights out before, that this wasn’t special.

Sid had mentioned the event a month earlier while the two of you were driving to that little Italian spot he likes, the one with the yellow lighting and the tables pushed a little too close together. You remembered him glancing at you while he drove. He said something like, “Night of Assists is soon. You should come with me.” And you, already soft for him in ways you refused to name, said yes without a second thought.

You didn’t realize how quickly that yes would follow you around. How it would settle into the corners of your mind while you shopped for a dress, reminding you every time you ran your fingers along a fabric you knew he’d like. You had been out with your friend then, drifting through the racks with iced coffees in the crook of your elbows. You told her about the event the way someone confesses something they don’t quite want to, laughing it off as you explained how Sid invited you.

“Of course,” she said, holding a silky dress up to your frame. “Of course he wants you with him, you two do couple things without the couple label.”

You rolled your eyes at that, pretending her words just bounced off you. You told her it wasn’t like that, and she just smiled, told you to find another hot hockey player to go home with that night and see what Sid does. You laughed but it wasn’t really that funny.

Because it was like that. Just not in any official, real way. It was that strange little valley between friendship and something more. Dinners that felt like dates. The way he bought you things “just because.” The way he took you to the pharmacy when you didn’t feel well, hovering while you picked out meds like he was choosing them with you. The way he always looked for you at his games.

So now, hours before, you stood in your bedroom with clothes draped across every surface. You left your music on low, a mix of songs you always listen to when you want to feel like the prettier version of yourself, the more put-together one. You took your time doing everything. Your makeup sat discarded on the counter, brushes spread out like tiny instruments. You blended your foundation carefully, taking a beat to let the sponge bounce against your cheekbones. You leaned closer, adding a sweep of bronzer along your temples, a touch of blush higher than usual because you liked the way it made you look a little cold. Mascara next. A soft shimmer on your lids. Lip liner that shaped your mouth just enough to make you pause and look at yourself a little longer.

You let yourself appreciate the version of you looking back. You knew you were doing a little too much for “just a friend’s charity event,” but you also didn’t care. Sid never said anything when you dressed up for him. He didn’t have to. You could hear the way his breath changed when he saw you.

You moved to your closet, the dress already hanging there from when you tried it on earlier in the week. You ran your fingers over the fabric again, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. It wasn’t overly dramatic, nothing that screamed look at me, but it made you feel… aware of yourself. Aware of the shape of your waist under his eyes, aware of the bare skin he might catch a glimpse of when you moved, aware of the fact that you wanted to look good tonight, and part of that was wanting to look good for him.

You changed slowly, adjusting the straps, smoothing the skirt, turning slightly in the mirror. You took a breath, let the anticipation settle like a warm hand at the back of your spine. You picked your jewelry last. A pair of earrings he once said he liked on you. A delicate necklace you only ever wore to things like this. Your shoes clicked lightly across the floor as you did a final walk around the room, grabbing your little clutch, double-checking your lip gloss, and tucking a few things inside.

He was twenty minutes early.

Of course he was.

By the time you opened the front door he was already stepping out of the car. He had his hands in his pockets like he was pretending to be casual, even though there was something in the way he looked at you that didn’t feel casual at all.

He froze for a moment, eyes dragging over you from head to toe.

“Hi,” you said, smiling because you couldn’t help it. “You’re early,” you said, locking your door.

Sid shrugged. “On time is late. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You walked past him toward the car. “You’re still annoying.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, like he didn’t even hear you. His voice didn’t lift at the end or try to make it playful. It just slipped out.

You paused with your hand on the car door. “Thank you.”

He gently nudged your hand away. “Let me.” Then he opened it for you, the little gentleman routine he always pulled. Once the door shut he circled around to the driver’s side.

He glanced at you again as he turned the key. “Nervous?”

“No.” You buckled your seatbelt. “Why would I be nervous?”

“Some people get weird about these things.”

“Sid, I’ve been to like fifty of these. Dinner parties, auctions, random charity stuff. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded like he already knew that, but he checked on you anyway. He always did.

“You said it’s open bar, right?” you added.

His laugh came out low. “Yeah. Don’t get sloppy on me.”

“You love me sloppy.”

He flicked his eyes toward you, the faint beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Not in public.”

You felt heat climb up your neck. “You’re so annoying.”

“Mhmm.”

The drive was quiet. You rested your elbow against the armrest and watched him drive, the way he leaned into the turns, the way his hands moved on the wheel.

He glanced sideways. “Stop staring.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You are.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are, baby.”

You turned your head forward. “Whatever.”

The event was being held at the casino downtown, which meant valet, glass doors, long red carpets, and that weird lobby smell of perfume, cigars, and money. You weren’t nervous—events like this didn’t rattle you anymore. You’d gone to plenty of fundraisers and galas, been dressed up and introduced, smiled through a hundred handshakes and fake-air-kiss greetings. It was just people.

“It’s nice this year,” Sid said as he pulled into the lot.

“It’s always nice,” you said, reaching for your clutch. “Yours are never boring.”

He cut the engine and turned toward you. “I’m glad you came.”

“You invited me,” you reminded him.

“Still counts.” His gaze lingered for longer than comfortable. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s go find that open bar.”

“Behave.”

“No promises.”

The valet opened your door and you stepped out, your heels hitting the pavement with a soft click. Sid came around the car and tugged lightly at the back of your dress, fixing a wrinkle you didn’t notice.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

“I’m good.” You smoothed your skirt.

He offered his arm without thinking about it. You didn’t take it at first, but then he gave you this look, like he knew you wanted the contact even if you pretended you didn’t. You slipped your hand around his bicep.

Inside, a server walked by holding a tray of drinks.

“Please,” you said, grabbing one.

Sid arched a brow. “We didn’t even make it ten steps.”

“You said behave. I never agreed.” You clinked your glass lightly against his arm. “To a fun night.”

“Yeah. To a fun night.”

You let him lead you into the crowd. He started introducing you to teammates as you moved through the room. Easy smiles, easy small talk, the usual comments about how great Sid played lately.

“Jesus,” you muttered as a woman in a feathered fascinator walked past, sipping champagne from a coupe glass shaped like a tulip. “We’re not underdressed?”

“Theme this year is ‘Glam meets Game,’” Sid said beside you. “Expect glitter. Dice. Poker chips. Maybe gold foil eyelashes.”

You snorted. “Are you wearing a feather boa later?”

“No boa. Just a banana-yellow vest.”

You turned your head slowly. “I’m sorry. A what?”

Sid grinned and flashed his teeth like a man about to enjoy himself way too much. “They told us it was a surprise.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Oh, I wish I was.”

You groaned.

He leaned close. “If I don’t make it out of the dressing room alive, tell my mom I love her.”

He stuck with you for as long as he could. He only let go of you when someone came to grab him, telling him he was needed for “captain duties.”

“Pray for me,” he said with a sigh, adjusting his cuffs. “Maybe they’ll making us wear visors.”

You cackled. “Better not cover the vest with another bomber jacket.”

“You take that back,” he said with mock offense. “I loved that jacket.”

“You looked like a Best Buy employee.”

“Which is hot,” he insisted. “Tech support is sexy.”

“Sure, baby,” you said sweetly. “Whatever gets you through the night.”

You spent most of the evening mingling.

Talked to a couple of the players’ wives and girlfriends that you knew, and a few other women you didn’t know who welcomed you easily. No one gave you a weird look when you said you came with Sid, though you got a few subtle ahh nods. You didn’t bother correcting them.

You sat with a group of strangers at a half-circle poker table for a while and pretended to understand what the hell was going on. Everyone was drinking, laughing, and you nursed your one drink slowly, content to sip and people-watch. The energy was good.

It really was a nice event.

The players made their entrance sometime around 7. There was a little countdown, some kind of dramatic drumbeat, and then all of them took the room—

“Oh my God,” you muttered out loud.

—matching yellow suit vests. Canary yellow. No, Pittsburgh Penguins yellow. Loud enough to be hilarious. Just this side of embarrassing. And black ties with the Penguins logo all over them. What. The. Hell.

Everyone loved it.

You couldn’t even hear yourself think as people laughed, music played, and Sidney fucking Crosby walked out looking like a human highlighter. His expression was pure joy, which somehow made it funnier. He saw you in the crowd and gave you the tiniest, most resigned shake of his head.

One of the ladies leaned over from the table beside you. “He told them it was too bright.”

“They should’ve done gold glitter.”

“Right?”

You snorted. “He looks like a magician’s assistant.”

“Babe, he looks like he’s about to sing backup for the Bee Gees.”

Sid caught your eye from across the room and gave you a look like don’t even.

You blew him a kiss.

Afterwards, you played a few games, just to say you did.

You’re terrible at poker but halfway decent at craps, mostly because the older gentleman explaining it to you insisted on giving you tips and cheered obnoxiously when you hit a good roll. You tried your hand at blackjack too, sitting in for a quick round with a group who complimented your dress and asked if you were “with one of the players.”

You gave a vague shrug. “Something like that.”

Still, you try to stay out of Sid’s orbit.

He’s busy, fully in his element, doing that fake-dealer, casino-worker bit he weirdly gets so into. You know better than to hover. You’ll just end up talking for too long, distracting him from all the smiling and the schmoozing and the “Let’s raise fifty grand before midnight!” energy he thrives on during these nights.

And honestly? You like watching him like this.

You like seeing him turned loose, sleeves rolled up just past his forearms, eyes sparkling as he leans in to show someone how the roulette table works or laughs way too hard at someone’s bad poker face. There’s something about Sid when he’s on—the way he makes everyone feel like they belong at the table with him. Like he’s got all the time in the world just for them.

You’re lingering at a candy bar station (yes, there’s a candy bar—this night is basically a Pinterest board), chatting with one of the event planners about how insane the dessert display is, when you feel someone watching you.

You glance over.

Sid’s standing behind a roulette table the size of a dinner buffet, his ridiculous yellow vest looks like it's literally glowing under the lights. He’s watching you with a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he crooks his finger at you.

You mouth me? even though of course he means you.

He nods once. Crooked finger still raised.

You sigh dramatically and hand your glass to one of the passing workers.

The roulette wheel is comically large. You’re pretty sure it’s for decoration as much as actual gameplay. Sid’s got a little crowd going, a mix of donors, fans, and a couple local celebrities who all want to say they gambled with Sidney Crosby. You slide up beside him like a seasoned sidekick, greeting him with a dry, “Are you flirting with all your players tonight, or just me?”

Sid doesn’t even look at you at first. He just grins and keeps eyeing the wheel like he’s actually working. “Only the ones who look that good in satin.”

You nudge his side. “Jesus.”

He finally glances over. “Hey, baby.”

“Hi.”

“You having fun?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Made a few friends. Lost a fake thousand dollars. Watched a man drop an entire shrimp cocktail down his shirt. You know. The usual.”

He chuckles, hands braced on the table. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Guilty. “Didn’t wanna distract you from your true calling.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Dressing like a sexy busboy and spinning giant game wheels for rich people.”

He barks a laugh. “I am good at this shit.”

“You live for this shit.”

Sid grins wider and turns toward you, leaning slightly on the table so he’s closer. “You should stick around for a bit.”

You lift a brow. “What, you need moral support?”

“More like eye candy.”

You roll your eyes. “You’ve got a whole line of people waiting for a photo with you.”

“None of them call me baby.”

“None of them should.”

Sid laughs again, and then gestures to the wheel. “You wanna spin?”

You scrunch your face. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he goads. “It’s huge. It’s fun.”

“It’s literally the size of my kitchen table. I’m gonna throw out my back.”

“I’ll massage it later.”

“Shut up.”

He’s still laughing, still coaxing. “Just once. For me.”

You side-eye him. “If I break a nail, I’m suing.”

“You won’t. You’re strong.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

You sigh dramatically, then step forward and spin the wheel as best as you can. The thing whirs to life with a satisfying thunk-thunk-thunk, and the little crowd cheers, clapping politely.

Sid claps too. “See? Look at you. Natural born gambler.”

“Natural born sucker,” you mutter.

“You can be my sucker later,” he says under his breath, low enough for just you to hear.

You nearly choke on your spit. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sid.”

“I’m just saying. You’re so talented.”

You’re about to hit him—gently, mostly out of self-defense—when someone new steps in beside you.

“C’mon, Crosby,” a voice calls out, a little sharp with laughter. “You scaring her off already?”

You turn, and it’s one of his teammates—a winger, tall and clean-cut, dark blond hair swept back, tie undone and sleeves rolled. You recognize him. Not just from the games but from a few random team events you’d tagged along for. He’s not a regular on the team, he bounces between the regular Pens and the baby Pens. You’d never actually talked to him, though.

“Hey,” he says with a grin, eyes flicking to you. “You’re his date, right?”

You glance at Sid, who is not correcting him.

“Something like that,” you say again.

The winger leans a little closer. “That dress is... working overtime.”

You snort. “Thanks. I stole it.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He sticks out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

You shake it. “Y/N.”

“You play roulette?” he asks, nodding at the wheel.

“Only under duress.”

“Want a break from this guy?” He jerks a thumb toward Sid, who pretends to look offended.

“She loves me,” Sid mutters.

“She tolerates you,” you correct.

“Don’t be shy,” The other player teases. “I can show you the high-stakes tables. Real fake money.”

You laugh. He’s charming, in a little-brother kind of way, but handsome nonetheless. Just flirty enough to make you smile. He’s not trying too hard. Not like a guy angling for your number—more like a guy who knows you’re already spoken for, but wouldn’t mind making Sid sweat a little.

You glance at Sid. “What do you think? Should I go?”

Sid crosses his arms. “As long as you don’t come crawling back when he loses all your fake money.”

“Oh, so you’re the safe bet?”

“Always.”

You roll your eyes but walk with him anyway, letting him lead you to another game while Sid watches, a little too still. It’s harmless. He knows that. But you don’t miss the way his eyes linger. The way his jaw clenches ever so slightly. The way his hand tightens so hard on his shirt it’ll probably wrinkle like he’s suddenly not in control of this whole messy situation.

You don’t expect it to be fun.

The casino stuff, yeah. The open bar. The dress. All of that makes sense. But this—the unexpectedly funny winger who’s decided to make himself your personal gambling coach for the night—this catches you off guard.

He’s genuinely kind of hilarious.

“Oh no, no, no, don’t bet on that,” he says, pulling your elbow back from the table gently like he’s saving your life. “That’s a sucker’s corner.”

You raise a brow. “How is it a sucker’s corner?”

“Look at the energy. That chip’s sitting there all lonely. No one's touched it in ten minutes. It’s cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Yeah,” he says solemnly. “Like, ex-girlfriend you thought you were over but suddenly she’s in the same grocery store as you cursed.”

You laugh, full and loud, because what the hell kind of analogy is that.

He grins. “I’m just trying to keep you safe out here, sweetheart.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you tease. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

“I’m charming,” he shrugs. “And I haven’t embarrassed myself yet.”

“You say yet like it’s coming.”

“It always is,” he agrees. “The downfall. That’s what makes it tragic.”

You’re still laughing when you slip your phone out under the table. Sid’s still across the room at the roulette wheel, flirting with a table of middle-aged women like it’s his goddamn calling. You lean back in your seat and fire off a text to your best friend.

You: there’s a cute one here

You: teammate. good jaw. fun.

You: i’m entertained

Her reply is instant.

Her: fuck him

Her: like literally

You stifle a laugh and glance sideways at the winger, who’s pretending not to notice you smiling at your phone.

You: he’s being so nice

You: he keeps coaching me through fake poker like I’m a child. it’s kinda hot

Her: again.

Her: fuck him

Her: sid will implode

Her: which is sexy in its own way

You pause.

Your fingers hover.

Then—because it’s been a long night and you look good and you feel good and why the hell not—you type:

You: maybe I will

You lock your phone and join him again.

It’s nearing the core of the event now. The live auction’s coming up—the part of the night where things always get a little ridiculous. Players auctioning off experiences, personalized items, a few of them even offering up “date nights” to the highest bidder. It’s all in good fun, a little outrageous, usually chaotic.

The winger walks you back toward your seat with his hand lightly pressed against the small of your back. He’s got good posture. A nice smile. Doesn’t linger too long when you laugh. You kinda like him.

“Alright,” he says, nodding to your table. “Safely delivered.”

“Much appreciated, sir.”

“You want anything?” he asks, half-turning. “Drink? Snack? Massage?”

You laugh. “I think I’m good.”

He nods, then kind of lingers, hands in his pockets. “Mind if I sit for a minute?”

You shake your head and he pulls out the seat beside you just as Sid appears from the side of the stage. It’s almost funny how in sync it is. Like some strange cosmic pull that drags him right to your side at the exact wrong moment.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little quieter now that the music has died down.

You turn to him, smiling politely. “Hey.”

He sits on your other side. And it’s fine. Totally fine. Except it’s not, because for the first time all night, it feels weird. Not bad, just a little less easy than usual.

You try to play it off. “Big roulette debut tonight,” you tell him. “I think you’ve found your job after retirement."

He snorts, leans back in his chair, legs spread obnoxiously wide like he’s trying to take up space. “You’re just mad you didn’t win.”

“Hey, he thought I was doing great.”

“She’s a natural. Even listened when I told her not to bet on the cursed corner.” The winger says.

Sid turns to look at you slowly. “You let him coach you?”

“Better than letting you peer-pressure me into spinning a wheel the size of a hot tub.”

“You loved that.”

“Peer pressure.”

“You smiled.”

You glance at the winger and give him a dramatic eye-roll. “He’s such a manipulator.”

“Hey, Crosby, maybe you should bid on something for her. Spa package, maybe?”

Sid raises a brow. “She hates spas.”

“I do not,” you say quickly.

Sid side-eyes you. “Every time we pass one, you make that gagging noise.”

“I make that noise because they overcharge a hundred dollars to rub your back for thirty minutes.”

“So you’re saying you do like massages.”

You smirk. “Under the right conditions.”

Sid hums something that sounds like a warning. Maybe to you, maybe towards the winger. You’re not sure.

“Alright, no spa. What about the ski trip they’re auctioning off?”

Sid laughs. Not a real laugh, though. One of those dry ones he does when he thinks something’s stupid but doesn’t want to say it outright.

You glance at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You hate skiing.”

You shoot him a look. “I’ve never been skiing.”

“You’ve told me multiple times you don’t like the cold.”

“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go on a trip.”

“Sure,” he says, voice too casual. “You’d have so much fun sitting by the fire while everyone else is on the mountain.”

“Sounds relaxing,” you shoot back.

The other player, sensing the shift, tries to smooth it over with a joke. “Well, I’ll bid on it. We’ll see if I survive carrying you down a hill.”

You grin, letting him have it. “Deal. But if I break a leg, I’m suing.”

“I’ll sign a waiver.”

Sid doesn’t say anything.

You don’t look at him, but you can feel the anger radiating off his body like heat. The grind of his jaw. The strong exhale through his nose. The way his arm is draped across the back of your chair but not touching you.

It’s stupid. It’s nothing. But it’s there.

And then—just like that—someone calls his name from behind you.

“Crosby! We need you!”

He stands without hesitation, glances down at your new friend. “You too, pretty boy. Jersey time.”

“God, again? We’re like mascots here.”

Sid shrugs. “Suck it up. For the fans.”

They both turn to go, and for a second, you expect Sid to say something—to squeeze your shoulder, make a dumb joke, something. But he just walks off. And you’re left there again. Watching him disappear into the crowd. Always leaving your side. You’d forgotten that part. You always do.

They’re walking side by side through the back hallway that winds behind the event ballroom. The carpet is weirdly plush in the back halls—deep burgundy and patterned with little gold diamonds—and the overhead lighting makes both of them look vaguely hungover.

Sid's jaw is tight. His hands are in his pockets. And he’s fucking seething.

Not that he’d ever admit it. Not that he'd let it show. But it’s burning in his chest anyway. This low, sharp, fuck-this kind of jealousy that clings like smoke. And it’s not just the flirting. Not just the way you were laughing like that guy was actually funny. Not even the way he walked you back to your table with his hand on your back like he had some kind of claim.

It’s the fact that you didn’t move away.

It’s the fact that you let him.

And now Sid’s stuck playing nice with the guy who spent the last twenty minutes doing everything short of climbing in your lap.

“So,” the player says beside him, casual, swinging his arms like he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. “Y/N’s great.”

Sid doesn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“I mean, she’s terrible at poker,” The winger adds, laughing to himself. “Like, awful.”

That gets a ghost of a smile from Sid, but it’s short-lived.

“But she’s fun, man. Like, funny. Easy to talk to.”

Sid nods once. “She is.”

“You guys been friends long?”

Sid finally glances over. “Yeah. A while.”

“That’s cool. Kinda seems like you’ve known each other forever.”

“Feels like it sometimes.”

They walk in silence for a beat.

Then he adds, “She looked really good tonight.”

Sid’s lips flatten. “Yeah.”

Like he hasn’t been trying not to stare at you all night. Like he hadn’t nearly tripped over his stupid feet after seeing you walk out of your place in that dress, all smug and glowy and looking like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Like he hadn’t wanted to lean in and kiss your fucking cheek when you spun that goddamn roulette wheel in front of all those goddamn people like the princess he knows that you are. That you always have been.

He’s still chewing on that thought when the drops the real bomb.

“So… uh. Do you know where she’s staying tonight?”

Sid stops. Turns his head. Brows lift. “Why?”

“I mean…” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “She seemed into it. Maybe. I don’t know. She’s just good company. I figured if she was down to hang out more after—” He pauses, tries to flash a smile. “I mean, not to be blunt or anything, but… I wouldn’t mind taking her home. You know?”

Sid’s quiet. Then he says, flat and like it’s something this guy should’ve known, “She’s staying with me.”

“Oh.” The winger scratches the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “Right. I mean… yeah, that makes sense. Of course.”

Sid’s still staring. “She came with me,” he says. “I’m the one taking her home.”

The other player lets out a breath and holds up his hands like this is all one big misunderstanding. “Hey—no worries, man. I just figured, you know… She didn’t say anything about you two being, like… a thing. I didn’t mean to step on anything.”

Sid smiles. But it’s not really a smile.

“Right.”

“Just figured I’d ask. Help a guy out.”

“Sure.”

They reach the back room where a couple other guys are mingling waiting for directions, jerseys hanging on racks nearby. The winger claps Sid on the back once, light and easy.

“I see you, Sid,” he says with a laugh, recovering now. “Didn’t realize it was like that. But good for you.”

Sid says nothing.

Just watches him go, chest tight, fists curling in his pockets.

Because now he’s just standing there. Alone. In a hallway that smells like cologne and champagne and expensive fabric softener. Halfway between a room full of people and the girl who may or may not be going home with him tonight.

By the end of the night, Sid’s over it.

You can see it all over him. It’s in the way he stands stiff and still during the final goodbyes and thank yous. In the sharp, restless tracking of his eyes over the room, like he’s counting how many people are still here. Like he’s calculating how fast he can get out.

You know him too well not to notice.

He’s barely touched his waterbottle. He hasn’t cracked a joke in almost half an hour. He hasn't looked at you, not really, since he came back from getting changed out of his jersey. You chalk it up to exhaustion. These nights are long. Glamorous, yeah, but they drag. And it’s not like he’s exactly the life of the party type. So when he finally locks eyes with you from across the room and jerks his chin toward the door like a dad leaving a barbecue—zero words, just a time to go nod—you blink at him like, Really?

You’re mid-conversation with one of the stylists who did the suits tonight. Talking about the nice touch of the Penguins logo on the ties. You were smiling. Laughing a little. Enjoying yourself.

And he just… summons you like you’re his dog or his intern or some fucking assistant he’s about to expense on the company card..

You shoot him a glare across the room. Roll your eyes.

He just shrugs. Like what do you want me to do?

You can tell now: it’s not tiredness. He’s pissed.

What the hell?

You say a quick goodbye, offer a polite smile, and weave through the thinning crowd back toward him. He doesn’t say a word as you reach his side. Just places a gentle hand on your lower back like now we’re leaving and guides you toward the doors.

It’s tense. He opens the car door for you, always polite even when he’s moody, but doesn’t wait for a thank you. Just gets in on his side, adjusts the seatbelt, pulls out of the parking lot. The silence lingers. The road is dark and empty. Streetlights streak across the windshield, and your phone buzzes once in your clutch, but you don’t check it.

You glance at him. His jaw’s tight. His grip on the wheel’s too tight. He keeps flexing his fingers like he wants to say something, but can’t. You roll your eyes. Again.

Finally, it’s him who breaks.

“What’s wrong.”

Your voice is flat. “Nothing.”

He glances at you. “Don’t do that.”

You sigh. “Do what?”

“That.”

“That’s not helpful.”

You snap your head toward him. “Neither is your whole moody man routine.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Moody man routine?”

You cross your arms. “You’ve been acting like a dick ever since the auction ended.”

“Oh, come on,” he mutters.

“Don’t come on me right now.”

He chokes. “I wish.”

“Sidney.”

“No, seriously. What the hell did I do?”

You shake your head, laughing bitterly. “God, you’re such an asshole.”

“Okay, why? What did I say? What did I do?”

“You’re supposed to be my friend, Sid.”

“I am—”

“No, you’re supposed to be a good friend,” you interrupt. “You’re supposed to be the guy who talks me up. The guy who tells everyone how great I am.”

“I do do that—”

“No, you don’t. You’re supposed to say I’m gorgeous. That I’m a fucking catch. You’re supposed to be my wingman, Sidney.”

He’s stunned into silence.

“You are gorgeous.”

You whip your head toward him. “Shut up.”

“What?!”

You look out the window, cheeks warm, voice sharp. “Nothing. Just take me home.”

He exhales a quiet breath. “Alright.”

And then he does. But not to your place.

To his.

You don’t realize it until the streetlights start to look familiar. Until the turns start to hit in that specific order, the way they always do on the drive to his house.

You sit up straighter. “Hey.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Sid.”

Still nothing.

“Sidney!”

“What?” he snaps, glancing over at you.

“This isn’t my place.”

“I know.”

You gape at him. “So what, we’re just ignoring that now?”

He flicks on the turn signal. “You said take you home. You’re always at mine. What’s the difference?”

You huff. “The difference is I didn’t know I was sleeping in your bed tonight.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mutters.

And maybe it’s the frustration. Maybe it’s the tension. Maybe it’s the way he’s pulling into the driveway with a tight grip on the wheel and his jaw clenched so hard it could cut glass—but suddenly everything is hot. Too hot.

“I hate you,” you say.

“Sure you do,” he replies.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You already said that.”

He puts the car in park and kills the engine. You sit there in silence, breathing too hard.

Then he says, without looking at you:

“You shouldn’t flirt with guys when you’re with me.”

You stare at him. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“He thought you were.”

“Well maybe that’s his problem.”

Sid finally turns to look at you. “Is it?”

You say nothing in return so Sid gets out of the car first. You follow him inside because of course you do. Because you're an idiot. A full-fledged, clinically diagnosable, capital-I Idiot. You could’ve asked him to turn around. Could’ve insisted he take you to your own place. Could’ve even called a damn rideshare and waited outside like a grown adult with boundaries.

But no. You trail him into his big, stupid house, heels clicking against the hardwood like a little echo of bad decisions, one after the other. He doesn’t even look back at you.

Just tosses his keys into the little ceramic bowl by the door, shrugs off his jacket, kicks his dress shoes halfway under the bench like he's been doing this routine every night of his life. And you—you just stand there in your coat and heels, arms crossed and anger boiling in your chest, it feels like you're vibrating.

He turns around, rakes a hand through his hair. “Why the fuck would you even want that guy?”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You throw your hands in the air. “That’s what we’re doing now? That’s how this night ends?”

“I just don’t get it,” he says, voice climbing. “He’s—what? Cute? A good time? He tells you you’re fun so now you’re ready to go home with him?”

“That’s not the point,” you snap, stepping closer.

“Then what is the point?”

“That you’re being a dick!”

He laughs, bitter. “Because I don’t want to watch some guy drool over you all night?”

“Yes!” you shout. “Because it’s not your place!”

His nostrils flare. “We came together.”

“Oh my God, Sid, we’ve gone to events together for years.”

“Exactly!”

“So?!”

“So maybe I thought—” He cuts himself off, hands on his hips now, pacing like a caged animal.

You throw your bag down on the bench by the door, hard enough to make it bounce off.

“You what, Sid? You thought what?”

He spins to face you. “I thought we meant something to each other!”

“We do!”

“Not like that!”

“No,” you fire back, voice trembling now. “We don’t, remember? Because you never said anything. You never did anything. You just let me sit there for years thinking maybe—maybe—you gave a shit, but you never fucking said it!”

“I didn’t think I had to!”

“Oh, fuck you.”

He steps closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t what, Sid?”

“Don’t act like you’re some innocent bystander in this. Like you didn’t know exactly what we were doing.”

“Oh my God,” you whisper, hands flying to your face. “This is insane. We’re literally not even together and we’re fighting like we’re married.”

He barks a laugh. “Yeah? Whose fault is that?”

“You’re being such an asshole.”

“You’re being infuriating!”

You’re nose to nose now, both of you breathing hard, eyes locked.

“This is fucking stupid,” you hiss.

“Then leave.”

“Maybe I will!”

But he doesn’t let you. You knew he didn’t mean it. But you also didn’t think that he’d kiss you.

You gasp into it but you don’t pull away.

No, you press closer.

Your hands fist in his shirt collar, dragging him down as he backs you into the wall like he can’t even help it, like he needs you closer, closer, closer. One of his hands grabs at your hip while the other grabs your jaw, angling your mouth just how he wants it.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Fuck, baby.”

You hate him for it. You love him for it.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” you breathe as you tug at his shirt.

“Yeah?” he huffs, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “Well, you’re a fucking brat.”

You moan, nails digging into his biceps. “You’re so fucking full of yourself—”

“And you love it.”

“Shut up—”

He kisses you again, and it’s all teeth and tongue. Like he can’t stop. Like if he pauses for a second, it’ll all stop. His hands are everywhere—thigh, waist, back, neck. Greedy, a little clumsy. The way you always imagined he’d be when he finally cracked.

“Is this what you wanted?” he mutters between kisses. “You wanted that guy to take you home? Touch you like this?”

You shake your head, dazed. “No.”

“Wanted me to get jealous, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks against your mouth. “Keep talkin’ like that and I will.”

You gasp again, half-laugh, half-shock. “You’re a bad friend.”

“And you’re soaked.”

Your head tips back with a groan, eyes fluttering.

“God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And he’s right. You don’t.

You never did.

You were just waiting for him to finally kiss you like this.

Your back hits the wall again as he crowds into you, chest pressed to yours, hips pinning you there like he needs your body to keep him upright. His hands bunch up your dress before his fingers slip under the hem. You gasp when his thumb brushes the edge of your panties.

“You wear these for him?” Sid mutters against your mouth.

You shake your head, breath already shallow. “Noooo…”

He bites your bottom lip. “You wore them for me.”

It isn’t a question. You don’t answer, because you can’t—not when his fingers are sliding along the damp heat between your legs through the thin fabric. Not when he’s smirking into your neck like he already knows exactly how wet you are.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. “You’re soaked. You got like this from flirting with him?”

You clutch his shoulders, digging your nails in. “I told you—that wasn’t—”

“Bullshit.” He hooks a finger around the edge of your panties and tugs them. “You were trying to make me jealous.” He kisses down the side of your throat. “And it worked.”

“Sid–”

He shoves your dress higher, bunching the fabric around your waist and fisting it behind your back, and fuck—your legs nearly give out. His fingers slide beneath your panties, finally touching you where you’re throbbing for him.

“Ah—god—”

“Oh, you like that,” he murmurs. “Knew you would.”

You can feel how hard he is, pressed tight against your hip through his dress pants, like he’s been fighting it all night. He rolls his hips once and your mouth falls open on a soft, broken sound you didn’t mean to make.

“Again.”

You try to swallow it down, but then he curls his fingers just right, dragging over that spot that makes you forget how to breathe, and you can’t stop it—your head falls back, a helpless whimper spilling out of you. Your hands fumble for his shirt, pushing it, needing skin as he fingers you right there by the front door like he doesn’t care about anything except getting you off for him.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your mouth, thumb brushing your clit in perfect little circles. “If I hadn’t pulled you out of there, would you have let him touch you?”

“No.”

“Would you have kissed him?”

“No—Sid—”

His fingers move faster and your entire body arches into him.

“You’re lying,” he says softly, almost sweetly. “You would’ve let him try.”

“No,” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I only—fuck—I only want you.”

“That’s right,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re mine.”

His fingers sink deeper.

Your whole body shudders.

“Sid—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “Come for me.”

And with the way he’s touching you, you do.

You come hard against his hand, clutching his shoulders, shaking as he murmurs praise into your neck, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like he can’t decide where to worship you first. When your breathing finally starts to steady, he pulls his hand from your panties, wet with you, and looks down at the mess on his fingers with something like awe.

Then he brings them to your lips.

“Open,” he says softly.

You do. After, he kisses you once more, tasting you on your tongue. Then he pulls back just enough to speak.

“We’re not done. Not even close.”

He grabs your hand, laces his fingers with yours, and walks you toward his bedroom.

“Take off the dress,” he says as he nudges the door shut behind you. “I want to see you on my sheets.”

During late June, when the thousands of shades of green line the streets and neighborhoods with an all too familiar aura of early summer, when days wind down at midnight, lukewarm air clinging to cheap fabric, talks in jacuzzis, the skin on one's hands wilting away, the time not constrained by duties, you always miraculously had to attend the most boring, excruciating events with your family. 

It was like clockwork; you set aside at least a week in your calendar so you could meet your third cousin or something. It was so trivial, these evenings. They consisted of awful stories about your childhood you don’t remember and business talk you try to understand by nodding your head, but really, it’s hopeless. 

But this one was different! Your mother says, combing your hair, the breeze escaping the open window, cooling your hot skin. It was hard to believe her at times. Her ‘different’ was an aunt not a cousin, a graduate friend not a work associate. 

“Remember Joao Felix? Your brother’s friend? His mother invited us for dinner tonight! Isn't she so thoughtful?” 

Your face gets hot, not just by the sun, but at the mention of his name.

You remember him from high school. He was exceptionally good at math, you figured out, when one day you sat, brows laced with confusion, at your dining room table with your papers laid out in front of you and pencil tapping the wood in frustration. He must have seen you and took a minute from your brother, somewhere else that devil was, because he coolly slid in the chair next to you, scrawny limbs not used to his six foot stature yet, and asked what was wrong. You were a bit puzzled. He never talked to you. He was awkward in a way. You shared glances and maybe a few words. He was always playing football, never seemed to be bothered by anyone else other than your brother. Joao took your pencil in hand, reading over the question and showing you step by step how to solve it. You were amazed. You would have talked to him more, asked him questions, but the thought of actively seeking him was out of the picture, at least in your jumbled hypocritical teenage brain. And maybe you would have liked to ask for more help, ask him to be your tutor, but you had an affinity for missing your chances. 

Most of your fleeting memories of him stood not face to face. He was a professional footballer now, you knew. Your brother goes to his games. Joao invites him. You knew what he looked like; how he grew into his limbs, how they filled out, how his skin got impossibly more tan, how good he looked in a uniform that actually fit him. You wouldn't deny you were smitten by him as a teenager, but this! There was all the more reason to fawn over him. 

–

“You both went to high school together right?” His father asks. You cling to your glass, hard, hands sweating being so close to him again. At least the view off the deck of the house, the dark blue lake and the bursting trees, was pretty.

You’re there. And he’s there. And it's a mess. When you greeted his family, he was only a few steps behind, smiling stupidly, the sun radiating off his skin. He wore blue shorts and an almost opaque button down rolled up his forearms. His hair was a bit warmer, a softer color in the light. He hugged you as if he’s known you forever; he has, though; you try to steady yourself. 

“Oh yes, I remember helping you with vectors…” It’s daunting, the way he looks down on you, lips tugging into a smile. He has this air of confidence he never had in high school. Then, he wouldn't dare glance for more than a couple seconds, but now, his eyes stay too close to your figure, watching every movement, every fidget as you try to formulate words. It’s as if he does not have everything else to look at. As if you were someone so complicated, so concealed, it was hard for him to solve.  

This was extremely embarrassing. Your mother was looking at you with that weird knowing eye mothers give. It makes your insides curl.

“That was, uhm, once, yes, but we haven't talked since high school, I mean, we weren't that close. There was overlap with my brother and all.” You wished that sucker was here right now, and not in the kitchen, helping Joao’s mother. “Your son’s really good at math,” you add, a shaky laugh forced from your lips. You feel him smiling next to you.

The conversation transitions to more small talk, more questions about you, your education. You’re here for the summer; you studied abroad after high school, finding it more content being somewhere else other than your home, even for just a short couple of years.

The sun sets behind the glittering lake and he can't stop his eyes from trailing down your sun-shone skin. He feels a bit nauseous though, as good as he is at hiding it. He hasn't stopped thinking about you since you sighed heavily, banged your head against the table and plump lips exclaimed how stupid you were after he helped you solve that one problem years ago. You wore a pajama set, flamingos scattered over the soft swirl of white-pink silk. You may have denied it, but your hair looked beautiful tied up, off the delicate bare skin of your face. He rarely saw you this way. When he was at your house you were always holed up in your room, or at school, off with your friends. He would see you waiting for your brother to finish practice. He would crane his neck, risking his coach yelling at him to see you talking on the phone, with your boyfriend he always presumed. It was always in the back of his mind somehow. Days would go by, but he would see you in your pink set, eyebrows crossed, following his pencil lines, little gears turning in your head, most nights before he fell asleep. He could have anyone he wants, and he did for a while, writhe in this novel life he created for himself, but it was tiring. Somehow, someway, the girls he took home resembled you. Sometimes your hair, your eyes, even your fingers he remembers in detail. He didn’t even know he was consciously doing it, finally groaning out loud one day when he came to his senses and asked his parents to come over for a dinner he was hosting. He couldn’t stand it anymore. And maybe he should have just stopped being friends with your brother, maybe it would have ended all this obsessive thinking. He doesn’t really understand himself, but you always being one person away from his grasp has driven him insane.

Dinner was nice. It really was, well, it would have been better if your stomach would stop churning, self-conscious because he sits straight across the table, brown eyes landing on you whenever the conversation turns and you have to answer a question. It’s only because you're wearing a pink so similar to that night, that he can't take his eyes off you. He can’t help it looks so perfect, so made for you, on your complexion. He notices how thin the fabric is. He shouldn't, but he does. He wonders things, so selfishly – he imagines a lot of things. Like is the fabric as soft as your skin? Can your face get as flushed as its color? 

You end up sitting next to him on the outdoor couch, after dinner. His parents, your parents and brother, talk amongst themselves. It’s like they’ve forgotten about you two. Well, maybe because you’re not talking, hands fidgeting with your hair and sipping your champagne every so often, pretending to listen to them but you’re more worried about the man beside you. You held a pillow in your lap to help stop the nerves and you probably look stupid, you realize, though you can’t find it in yourself to let go of it. You’re startled when he starts talking.

“I have this book in the living room–I think you’ll like it.” He says in a hushed whisper, as if it was a secret he wanted not to share with the lot. The others are too drunk to really understand you two. They're talking loudly, slouched on the couch and chairs of the deck.

“Oh, you like reading as well?” You whisper back, even holding your hand up to block anyone from lip-reading, like football players do. It’s kind of the same: both talking about insignificant things no one would really care about if they heard. That’s the funny part of it. 

“No,” he laughs, like he never would read it, never in a billion years. You don’t put it past the man, honestly.  At least he was listening when you said you were studying English literature. “My cousin. He left it and when I called him, he just told me to have it.” 

“Oh…” you respond, it’s hard to hold eye contact for more than ten seconds. He gets up and you follow close behind. You don’t try to think about how hard it is to conjure words with him.

It’s plain, one solid gray color, no text on the spine, back, or cover. You flip through the pages hesitantly – it's old and the thinning, almost yellow pages are so wispy, frail, its small text losing the bold black color it used to have. You stop, looking over the first page. 

“…it’s just Wuthering Heights, Joao.” You smile, in this weird obscurity, boggled by the situation. You don’t tell him you already have multiple copies of it, both in English and Portuguese, different additions you marvel over.  

“What’s that?”

He’s maybe a number nerd, a football nerd, not a book one. You can't stop the smile that practically splits your face in two, laughs trying not to escape. 

“But it’s nice, thank you. Helps with my vocabulary.” You’re happy though, oddly enough. The room is dim. The only light is from the lamps on the table. He’s undone three buttons on his shirt, more than what should be acceptable for a man like him. It’s hard not to look, especially considering how close you are to him, a pillow in the way. His hair flops over his forehead. 

“You have a boyfriend, don't you?” You’re pulled from admiring the book, the small quiet of the room vanished.

You answer, yes, but to ask why he worded the question that way, faded from your mind. It slipped from your nerve-ridden senses. You place the novel on the table, watching him as you do so. His tongue wets his bottom lip. It’s just family friend talk. 

“You’re doing good then? Your brother talks about you sometimes.” His elbow leans in the cushion, fully facing you. 

“Really? About what?” 

“Well, mostly complaining about you–”

“Wha–”

“–but he said you had your ‘first boyfriend’ and he doesn't really seem to like him,” he airquotes, scanning to see how your face changes at the words. 

“Oh…” you start, air running out of your lungs, “okay, well, my brother doesn't like most people.” You’re shocked someone like him knows this information. Did your brother really have to mention ‘first’ too? 

“I disagree.” He simply says, whatever that means. You cross your arms.

“I like him! That’s all that matters.”

“Name one thing.”

“What?”

“Name one thing you like about him.”

Your hesitance is an answer. Surely. “He’s kind, you know. Loves dogs and interns at a bank on the foreign exchange floor.”

He notices how hard it is for you to come up with traits, good things to even say about him. Perfect. Does he condone a lot of the things he's thinking? No, because he's an idiot athlete but that's it, it's you and it's different. He thinks being around you for hours made him a little crazy in the head, your eyes glossing over him every so often, something else behind them. 

“Sounds boring. And the sex? He’s good?”

Your jaw drops. 

“How is that any of your business?” You’re so cute. He looks down at the shiny, small cross placed carefully on the middle of your collarbone. You’ve had it since that day. He’s imagined lacing his fingers through the thin chain, it being the only thing you’re wearing. 

“I figured.” He smiles. Bastard. This is a disaster. Your nerves are in a frenzy, heat rushing to your thighs, cheeks flushing. You're across from someone so desirable, and he’s only a foot from you. You drank some champagne, though you don’t have the greatest tolerance, especially around weird, hot, rich family friends. You never saw him drinking anything – only water. 

“For your information, okay, I do have sex!” You regret the words immediately after saying them, but you knew what he was thinking, the cross and all, and it was more embarrassing (your logic is mixed up because, yes, that one sentence is probably the most humiliating thing uttered, ever) to make this man believe you’re some type of celibate. 

“You do?” He bites his lip to stop the grin at your reaction. God, he didn't think you would be so endearing while so agitated. 

You decide not to back down. You’ve gotten yourself too far into this.

“But not a lot. We only do it when he wants to. I mean, I don't understand why everyone talks about sex. It’s not all that…” You trail off. Oh wow, he thinks. He thinks someone so beautiful shouldn't have to deal with this. If he could just loop his fingers around the spaghetti straps of your dress…

“There’s a lot of reasons, a lot. Fuck–” He sees how your hands fidget with the end of your dress, resting over your upper thighs that have seemed to stick together. They weren't like that in the beginning. “There’s a reason why people are addicted to it…”

“I don’t get why though, Joao.”

You can’t ask him to be reasonable when you say his name. It’s like you’re doing it on purpose. 

“Does he have a small dick or something?” He’s smiling so wide, as if it’s the funniest thing ever said. 

Your face can get as flushed as the color of your skimpy dress, he finds out. 

You glance around, behind, side to side. He laughs at your reaction.

“Stop asking me these questions!”  you say, in a panicked whisper. It’s completely inappropriate, you know. He’s an arrogant jerk, you know. He’s also really hot, and you never thought someone like him would ever make a pass on you. Or he wasn’t – which also makes him an asshole. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.”

You exhale a thanks, heart beating so heavy, you hear your pulse ringing in your ears. He mentions something about getting back to the others. He gets up and you follow right behind again, numb with nerves.  

“I feel bad,” you chirp, holding the book close to your chest, “that you’ve given me this and I did nothing to deserve it. I wouldn't even know what to get you.” 

“Here,” he stops walking, turns to face you, “you’re probably driving your family home, right?” You nod. 

“You pay me back by giving me your number so I know they all made it back okay.” He breaks eye contact to look through the sliding glass doors, where your brother is fast asleep on one of the chairs.

“Okay, baby?”

“I’m not your baby.” You say, still standing in front of him, taking the open phone he holds between you two, typing in your number. 

“Not yet,” he replies, beaming when you give it back. You scoff, walking away to grab your brother by his limp arms. 

—

He calls you just as promised.

“Hi,” he says, quietly, like he can already sense how tired you are.

You say it back.

“Your brother isn’t dead, is he? He drank too many beers.”

“He’s alright,” you tiptoe through your house, turning off lights to go and retire. You’re so mentally exhausted. Usually you would tire at these dinners all by yourself, but this one, tenfold. Your mind is still swirling, repeating over and over his words.

“I-I’m sorry if I came onto you wrong.” He says, softer. He thinks he's a little insane now, rethinking your reaction. You had a boyfriend. Fuck, he hopes he didn't ruin anything because he wants to keep seeing you for what it’s worth.  

“No, uhm,” you stammer, “it’s fine. You’re just very different from how I remember — that’s all.”

“In a bad way?”

You force out a light laugh, sarcastic enough so he could hear through the phone. “No, obviously not.”

“Obviously not.” He repeats to himself. 

“We didn't talk that much, you know? You only ever thought about football, never looked at me,” you add at the last second, “it was kind of weird.” You were so wrong.

“Is it weird now?”

“Well yeah, you’re famous and really…”

“And what?” he asks.

“Nothing.” yeah, and you’re really freaking attractive, so there. 

“Hmh, well,” you sit down on your bed, “I’m only famous to you if you see me that way.” 

“Wow, wise words.” You deadpan but your heart is skipping beats hearing his voice so close to you.

“I’m serious. Your brother doesn’t see me as above him or anything. You were so nervous this evening. I could tell.”

“Oh…I never love meeting parents.” He agrees with your words, though you know he doesn’t fully believe you.

“I always thought you would be famous first.” He confesses. 

“Why’s that?”

“You’re so beautiful. I thought you could be a model, or like, you know those hand models?”

“What the actual hell, Joao?” He laughs over the phone. “That’s weird, stop looking at my hands! God, for all I know you could be looking at my feet.” You blabber out. You forget he called you beautiful until he’s hung up, told you sweet dreams, and you lay face down on your pillow, trying not to scream. 

—

It’s midday. It’s hot. It’s hard to sit still. All the windows are drawn but you still feel torrid. You should be out instead of laying around your parents house, but none of your friends were available. This is hell, you mutter to yourself. 

There’s a quiet chime beside you, as you lay in misery. Somehow the last man’s name you wanted to fill the screen was his — a follow request. You tap your thigh anxiously, too nervous to press on the notification, too nervous to accept it so early. Oh who’s kidding? You may have waited two minutes before clicking that blue accept button. 

He thinks it as a crime that he never followed you in high school, but he’s even more humbled you were never following him. He’s been itching to see your feed, and now he had a good reason to follow you without looking too weird. Your social media is cute; it’s private, less than four hundred followers, only three posts. He thumbs through the most recent one, a scattering of ten posts from your last semester abroad. Your brother mentioned a school in America, studying English literature, but as much as he strains to remember the name he simply cannot. There’s group photos with friends (guy friends that seem to be too close, he thinks passively), pictures of pretty scenery, and a BeReal of you, tearing up, wide-eyed as the other picture has stacks of open books and neat notes. You’re studying for finals. You’re fucking beautiful.

He feels like the worst person ever when he saves it to his camera roll. He usually wouldn't. You looked so innocent. There’s not much else to say other than he feels guilt that night coursing through him so awfully he can’t fall asleep. You shouldn't have told him how you don’t like sex, how awful your boyfriend is at it. All he can ever think about is how he could show you. He could show you right there on your little childhood bed, hands on your waist, your neck, feeling the whimpers coming from your throat vibrating, fluttering around his grip.

–

He's come around the corner, all bubbly and smiling, thin gold necklaces thudding against a vintage jersey you could not name the team of, a hand in his black athletic shorts, and a ball at the hip. He's gorgeous in the early morning sun, hair shimmering from the light, tall, broad, confident in a daunting, imposing way. 

But why is he here, in your backyard?

“Hey!” He exclaims, like you’ve been friends forever and this is normal, the dropping by, the casual language. You scramble to cover yourself. Today was supposed to be nice and relaxing. You had two legs in the water of your pool, the rest of your body dangling on the ledge. You wore a skimpy two-piece – something he should not be seeing you in. Today was a tanning day. You briskly walk to your beach towel hanging on a nearby chair. Your face is red. 

“Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

Yeah, you idiot, “No– No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” You sit and press the towel to your chest. 

“Why are you, uh, here?”

“Oh, right. I’m here for your brother. We’re going to go play at this nearby field. The one by the highschool, if you remember.” He motions his hand backwards, as if that were any sort of direction. “But,” it’s obviously not an excuse, “he forgot we were going so I’m waiting for him to change.” 

You smile, though you’re squinting through the beaming rays of light, “that should be fun.” What else is there to talk about with him?

“You've been good?” He steps a bit closer. You’re maybe five feet apart now. 

“We saw each other like two days ago.”

“I don’t know. Things change, relationships change…”

“I’m still with my boyfriend.” You state, lips trying not to curl into a smile. Gosh, you love that he’s looking at you, that he’s watching you. Attention from a man like him makes your skin feel alight. “I never asked that.” He retorts, the ball falling from his grip to keep it at his feet. 

“Whatever,” You groan, eyes tearing away from his. “We’re friends.”

“We are,” he reaffirms. “And as your friend I am giving you relationship advice.”

“Oh, yeah,” you sigh sarcastically, heaving your shoulders up and down, towel falling from its place covering your body, “And what? Just break up with him?”

“Pretty simple directions. How long have you been dating?” 

“How is that any of your–” He says your name, like he’s annoyed by your reluctance to say. You shut up. “Three months.”

He hums, then smiles. You notice he’s not trying to not look at your body. Great.

You hear your brother call out to him, and the moment is gone. He waves to you, says a quick goodbye before he’s flicked the ball up in his hands. You put your head in your own hands. 

—

Sleep still pulling at your mind, you contemplated blocking him when he texts you so early in the morning (9 AM).

Broken up with your boyfriend yet?

Haha. funny. Don’t text me so early in the morning

You’re still in bed?

Creep, along with a flurry of emojis.

Sorry for thinking about you when you make it so hard not to

He was insane, crazed. You don’t understand why he’s entertaining you – taking his precious summer time away from his parties and women to talk to you as if he wanted you. You are reluctant to ever believe it, that it’s a prank, somehow, even though you’re not teenagers anymore. You think back to the night on his couch, how it made your stomach drop, new feelings and sparks you’ve never felt with your boyfriend before. It’s worse thinking about your brother and if he ever found out: what possibly could be his reaction? But he couldn't see your private messages, neither could your boyfriend.  A part of you feels bad, but the other part knows there’s shame curling around inside of you, shame that sputters and tickles to make your head cloudy and place your sheets between your legs anxiously – in a good way. He’s thinking about you. That in itself seems like an accomplishment.  

You act like I’ve sent you nudes or something

I wouldn't decline

No way !! you suck in a breath. He doesn’t respond.

He breathes heavily, sets his phone down and leans against the counter. He wasn't going to push you if you truly didn’t want it, but it's hard for him to deny he's not double checking his texts before he sends them and counting the minutes it takes for you to respond. It’s hard for him to deny that he wishes you’d fall for him, even just for sex.

To hell with it. Lust outweighed reason, time slowed, and shaky hands lifted your covers off your body, feeling the scorching skin underneath. His little words on the screen only illuminate previous fantasies you’d had over the week. You often were suffocated by the summer heat and thoughts of Joao, unruly thoughts, and what they meant. Were you a bad person? Morally wrong and unethical? Those notions disappeared when your hand creeped under your waistband, thinking about his touch. It was ingrained in your memory. 

Your arm extends above you, your phone with the camera on. You drag the cotton shirt up your hips, enough to give the camera a nice view of your skin. Your hand loops in the side of your underwear, lifting it up, stretching it. You knew, before you even fully grasped what you were doing, that your face would not be in this. You still had a small bit of clarity — it may have been different if he weren’t famous. You hoped your messy hair made up for the lip-down angle, but you were not going to risk it.

photo attached

i rhink youre a creep actually askinf your friend’s sister for this

The typos are laughable, he grins before he sees the photo, freezing in place. You could have easily slid by his remark, hell, he didn’t forthright ask you for anything, but you sent it, your skin color contrasting on the sheets, your shirt pulled up as if he had done it, traced his own hands up your stomach this morning when he’d woken up next to you. He thinks long and hard about you sleeping in your underwear, the translucent white lace just covering enough.

wow

is it weird to say thank you?

Yes

im impressed, you’re too shy.. for something like this

I’ll delete it , the way you’re holding your phone so close to your face you’re about to drop it on your nose.

Already saved it

CREEP

Joao liked your message

—-

Knees sinking into the bed, your hands tease the end of your tank top; it barely sits above your belly button, that's how small and useless it was. 

He’s standing at the edge, looking down at you pushing the straps off your shoulders, a flurry of tanned skin almost bursting out, screaming at him to touch, touch anywhere while you stay silent, mouth agape while you edge your boy shorts off your hip. He bites his lip, wanting, but unable to touch you. You seemed so far away despite your proximity; a scene he’s stumbled upon unknowingly, like an amateur video he’s found past midnight. 

You stop right where the shorts just reveal yourself, skin lighter than the rest of your body. He pants at tan lines — especially yours. He watches intently how you lean back a bit, one hand behind you, while the other dives between the fabric and yourself, circulating your clit. Unable to see where the pads of your fingers meet, he relies on the fantastical image in his head, but he can see you wet your lips, hair falling in your face when you watch yourself — it's almost like he’s not there; you're home alone, woken up with wetness pressing against you, incoherent, he imagines, so lust induced you can't think of anything else other than this to spend your repetitive summer days.

He sees the exact moment when your hand stretches, when your eyes close as a finger slips inside, and he feels dazed, watching you touch yourself on your childhood bed. You start to make small noises, ones that make him yearn to touch, but you’re so far away, in your own world, that he can't for the sake of himself risk breaking your high. All he’s been able to think about is what you look like during an orgasm. Would your legs stutter and knees cave in? Would you be able to hold eye-contact, or would it be too much? 

“Joao..”  you whimper, head falling back just for a second as you start to lose grip. For a moment, you look up at him, eyes glazed over, fighting to stay open in your haze. You let out a drawn out whine,

“You're going to make me…” a hitched, blubbering mess.

He’s dreaming. He’s fucking dreaming. He clasps his hands over his eyes, as if to force them shut, to go back to sleep, to finish what was started. Everything is too good to be true. 

You're there — physical, breathing, a call away, so different from a couple weeks ago, but he can’t do anything. It had never manifested into something that felt so real, flesh and bones, but it was starting to become a major problem. You ruined his peaceful summer, the time where he should not be stressed like he is during the season. 

He grasps around the bed for his phone somewhere. His covers are on the floor. He sighs. Shame in his chest, he goes to his camera roll, the saved picture of you there, slowly coming to the realization that he is a simple, lovestruck man and not the macho football player he thought he was. It doesn’t hurt as much, though, because that person he couldn’t get enough of was you. He knows when he sleeps with other girls, because he has, a lot, it doesn’t help, and fighting this urge before entertaining it left a bad taste in his mouth. 

Text message from you.

It’s a point of view shot, your shirt lifted up your stomach, shorts shoved to the corner of the frame, your hand hidden in your underwear. He almost cums in his sweatpants.

sent this to your boyfriend too?

Of course not, you respond, and he finds it funny in his haze, thinking you’re actually offended by the assumption. He wonders if you’re typing with one hand or if you’ve finished already, sending it after.

I feel so special thank you baby

….

do you expect me to just send these without anything back?

His mouth is dry. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, in need of water.

im not as pretty as you, was his excuse, brain trying to shush fantasies. Sending dick pics was beneath him. Maybe in high school, but never again. He’s thick in that he doesn’t understand there’s other ways to sext.

haha

ur funny you know

i think i deserve somethinf 

I’m not going to beg.. because that’s embarrassing 

But 

photo attached 

Your underwear now around your knees, you have two fingers inside yourself. He can see the glistening substance on the inside of your thighs, on your fingers. He wishes it were a video. Where he could hear the little noises you make to see if they’re close to how he dreamt them only five minutes ago. He knows this must be exciting for you to be doing this with a boyfriend — maybe not as excited as he is at the fact that you’re even sending these to him. God, he needs to get himself in check but he can’t help it. 

you’re thinking of me?

Yeah

Obviously you idiot

If he was there you wouldn’t even be able to form those little remarks.

baby you can’t expect me to know with other men in your life, mocking you. 

He finally sends you a photo. You almost chuck your phone across the room. He’s against the counter, a neck down shot of his shirtless body. And you’ve seen it before, whether that be scouring the internet or watching his games, but it’s so different in this setting. His sweatpants hung dangerously low, his boxers peeking out. 

please, you type out. 

He calls you.

You whimper as soon as you pick up, toying with yourself.

“I..I have to be quiet…” you say, the first thing that comes out of your mouth. He notices there’s a slight pant to your breath. Your family is home, albeit downstairs, but it’s still risky.

“Are you sure you can do that?” His voice is jarring, different from the tranquility of your room. Your skin is on fire.

“No…” you mumble out. 

“How’d you get like this? So helpless,” he asks. It feels like he’s hovering over you, speaking softly into your ear while he pins you to the bed.

If you weren’t cheating before, you definitely were now.

“Thinking, thinking about you.”

“You’re so cute.” Your breath hitches, letting yourself touch properly. All the wetness is making your legs squirm, close shut. You couldn’t even manage him being in front of you, you think. You groan out.

“You deserve someone who wants to make you feel good.”

“Hmmh, and you can…and you can do that?”

He can tell your phone falls on the bed, losing your grip. He’s so turned on by the fact you’re getting off on his voice, that you prompted this interaction and not him. 

“I think you know that already. You’re just too scared to try. ”

“Oh…” you say in response, more like a lack thereof, closer to the edge. 

“You’re such a good girl, following what everyone says. You can listen to me now, yeah? Want you to think your fingers are mine and I’m right there, making you cum.”

“Please, please, please,” you’re trying to keep quiet, but every now and then you squeak out.

“Muffle yourself with a pillow. I would use my hands but…” he shutters at the thought of covering his hand over your mouth to stop your moans from escaping, while he stills inside you, whispering awful things.

He shuts up so he can hear the last of your orgasm. He can’t believe this is happening. He really thought only an hour ago you would stay loyal, even if you slipped up with that one picture. He thought you might never text him again, too worried about the implication.  

You bite your lip so hard, saying his name one last time, twisting your body around to dive straight first into the pillow. You know he can still hear you, they’re muffled, but they still come out, the small cries. He feels no shame in listening. He tries to imagine what you look like based on the picture you sent; hair sprawled out, uncombed, flushed face with saliva on your lips turning your head from the pillow to look at him — your hands stuck between your thighs, almost cramping at the pace you try to bring yourself over. He knows if he dug his fingers into your ass he could leave imprints…

“You feel good?”

“Yeah,” you heave, a little hard to breathe. You try to control it.

“I’m sorry for… for being…like, horny? Or like, messing up your day …or I don’t know.” Hah, you’re the cutest person ever. He knows you’ve never said the word ‘horny’ outloud before, how it sounds unfamiliar and confused off your tongue. 

“I find it crazy that you’re apologizing for that. Any man…any man would want a girl crying on the phone, touching herself. I bet your boyfriend would too.” He couldn’t help himself. He loved just mentioning him so he’d get a reaction out of you. It was also his not sure fire way to get you to break up with him. A man can only hope.

“Do you have a cheating kink or something?” You ask him, still panting. 

“I should be asking you that.” You groan, cheeks even more flushed. There’s no real rebuttals.

“Did you…” you ask the most embarrassing question.

“I was too focused on you.” You’re deflated at the answer. You don’t know what you were expecting. “But I think I have a good memory.” You can hear the smile that breaks through. 

“Oh, oh, okay.” you stutter out. He always had to have the last word.

—

The next time you fucking see him is for another family dinner. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your boyfriend,'' Joao's mother exclaims, when the chat starts to settle down. You don't really know how she figured out — possibly your own mother telling her — but she’s asked you about him right here right now, so you had to give an honest answer, and Joao’s grip on your thigh tightens at the news. He guesses he’s the last to know. Great.

“Yeah, it just didn't work out. We were too different.” You respond. He doesn’t look at you, you can tell out of the corner of your eye, just to not make it suspicious. 

He never thought you having a boyfriend was ever going to stop him or his desire for you. It only meant you now didn’t have the guilt that hung heavy in the back of your mind. It meant he could have you fully, if you let him. 

“I told her, you know,” your brother says, nodding his head because he always had to be correct, “she deserves someone better. He was a prick.”

Your face heats up. You wish the talk would turn back to business and bad family stories. 

“Yeah well,” you laugh, “enough about me!”

“Joao is the opposite!” His mother says, “he won’t date anyone even if I plead!” Your mother laughs along with her. They’re a little tipsy, to say the least, but you’re grinning too, looking next to you to see his face redden just a little. You’re glad to see things affect him, even if only to the point of slight discomfort. His grip, though, is still strong on your bare thigh. “Dear, I would set you up with João, but you’re too good for him I fear.”

He would deny, defend himself, but he thinks she’s right, and lets this humiliation sink in instead. 

“No, no, no,” you laugh awkwardly. Your whole family, even your brother, is laughing. Granted, you’re more red than him, “maybe he’s a bit egotistical but that doesn’t mean—”

“Yeah, alright,” he sarcastically says, your dress lifts up as his hand travels further, your hand comes over your mouth in surprise, “that dig wasn’t warranted.” For a second he teases your underwear, gets under the waistband, but then he pulls away. There’s a part of you that is grateful. 

Your brother tilts his head, a bit confused by the whole conversation now. “She’s right, sweetie,” His mom says. If she wasn’t on the other side she might have pinched his cheek. “Maybe start going on dates and don’t talk about football.”

“Let's change the subject, Mom…” he laughs but he’s uncomfortable, “I’m still young.”

“I’m only getting older!”

You laugh. It’s parent talk — it’s routine, but it’s still funny. He looks down at you to see what you’re thinking in your pretty head, and smiles despite his hurt little ego. He really didn’t want to talk about this around you, or your brother for that matter. He’s crafted an image, and how are you going to find him sexy after his mother embarrasses him? 

“Okay, okay, it’s on the list, Mom. Give me a couple years, will you?” 

“I don’t have a couple of years, my baby.” She’s playing with him now. Obviously he does, but you find it cute how his mother knows how to make him flustered, but you also can’t stop thinking about how he calls you that name. You’re a little ashamed.

“You know what he told me? He wants twins — can you imagine that?” She tells the table. She’s a wine glass over her limit, surely.

“Okay, we can st—”

“Really?” You say, shocked. 

“It doesn’t really matter, triplets, twins, boy, girl, but, way in the future, after everything dies down—” he defends himself. You’ve never known a man to have already planned things, if not grounded in reality, but based on just plain want. Footballers his age have kids by accident. Footballers his age already have three kids. It’s an oddity you see in him now. He still goes out to dinners with his parents and friends. He’s weirdly responsive whenever you text him. He called you after your last dinner to make sure you were okay, even after you turned him down. You know you’re an attractive cat and mouse game to him — you have to be — but it kinda makes you hate him a little more that he’s so fucking kind underneath it all. It makes you wonder if you had met him differently, would this be a real thing? Or would he turn you down like it seems he’s done to everyone else?

“We all knew you were some domestic guy,” Your brother must be referring to his friends too. “That’s crazy — a husband guy with no girlfriend.”

“There’s no need for one right now. I'm too invested in my career right now.” His mother frowns at his answer, which seems like a constant one, so she switches the conversation anyways, seeing how Joao turned more stand-off-ish.

Oh. You guess you really didn’t know, or ever thought about what you could be, but that would have been daydreaming anyway. You found yourself liking him more than for just his pretty face. Rule number one in pretty people: don’t actually find out they have a good personality or you are doomed. 

You aren’t able to talk to him about what happened over the phone. You aren’t able to tell him in person you broke up with your boyfriend, but did it matter at this point? You don’t know. You’re swimming in a million thoughts, trying to decipher him. 

—

In mid July, alcohol intake doubles, heat sticks heavier to the skin, and apparently Joao stays close to the mind too. 

It’s only been a week since then, and you've gone over every possibility in your head. He thought having a girlfriend would distract him. He didn’t want to be restricted by a relationship. He already has a secret girlfriend? Only the first one seems plausible. 

You thought he might have texted you about the whole boyfriend thing — teased you about finally being able to do it, but he hasn’t. Radio silence. Maybe he’s not interested anymore? Maybe he thinks you’re trying to get with him? Coming off too strong – you’ve never tried to pursue a man and you’ve already messed up somehow. 

There’s a knock at your door. It must be your brother asking for something again.

“Yeah?” You yell out, annoyance laced in your tone. 

It’s Joao. Of course, of course. He comes at the worst times. Why is he in your room?

He looks so good which is the same thing you think every time you see him but it can never be nothing less. It’s effortless. He wakes up like this. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt with training shorts. It looks like he’s going to play. 

“What are you doing in here?” You say, hushed. You feel immediately under a spotlight. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, applying styling cream to your wet hair. You got out of the shower so you’re wearing the worst outfit ever: a huge shirt and underwear. He can’t see the underwear, but that’s the worst part: he can find out. 

“No reason.” He smiles sheepishly, shutting the door behind him. You’re panicked, heart dropping in your stomach. 

“No reason?” He just grins in response, looking around your room. “Can you please leave before my brother finds you in here?”

“You don’t want to see me?” He fake pouts, coming closer to you. You’re stuck frozen on the edge of your bed. 

“Not when we could get caught.” But also because talking to him alone was reckless. Whatever you said he teased you, he turned it sexual somehow. You’re not used to being talked to this way, not used to being questioned by someone like him — you don’t think you ever will be again. 

“But I think you like that part — the almost getting caught part, right?” He sits down right damn next to you. Eye contact when you’re beside him is more difficult because it’s more deliberate. It means he’s turning his body to actually look at you fully. It means, you’re closer. You choke on the next words you’re struggling to find.

“You’re the one who came in here!” You whisper. You’re getting worried that you’re the only one speaking quietly. He’s talking normally. 

“This is where it happened?” He looks over your bed. You try to gloss over the fact that he’s taking in your room. Gosh. You’re confused.

“Where what happened?”

He makes one of those telephone gestures with his hand, his thumb and pinky out, and puts it up to his ear. He starts laughing and you hit him on the shoulder to try and shut him up, putting your finger up to your lips. 

“Please don’t mention that again.” 

“You wish you didn’t do it?” He’s genuinely asking.

“No, well, it’s just embarrassing, and now you only think about me like that.” 

“God, you don’t understand, do you?” 

“Understand what?” You sound and feel stupid whenever you talk to him. Somehow you’re always asking questions and apologizing because this has never been normal. You wonder how many times he’s done this to get so poised.

“Just…forget it.” He looks down at your thighs that are pressed together. “You really broke up with him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” You are not ready for the tingle you feel spread around your body when he just says that one word.  

“Why are you here?” You ask again. His hand goes from your hair to your jaw, fingers barely touching the thin skin. Your vision starts to fail on you. He’s so close. He’s touching you like he never has before.

“Your brother and I are going down to the field again.”

“He’s waiting on you? Oh, you need to go.”

The scene before him, he’s convinced he’s dreaming again. It looks like you’re wearing one of his shirts, he could only imagine. Your skin is bright from your shower, your hair wet. You’re following his eyes, defiantly going with what he’s saying, keeping conversation. The way you tell him he needs to go but you don’t make an effort to move yourself, he softens.

“There’s a party my friend is having tonight. Could you come?” Everything in him is telling him to just ask you to come to his place tonight. He would take you on this bed right now if he could. He doesn’t want to scare you, to make you feel uncomfortable at the notion of coming to his house suddenly. He also can’t just walk out the door with you. He needs an alibi.

He wants to kiss you. Concern looked so pretty on you. He remembers this is what you looked like when you couldn’t solve that math problem, brain scurrying for a solution, reasons to why it would all make sense when he finally tells you the answer. 

“It’s small-er,” he adds, trying to get his words right. “Most of them are my friends— I don’t think anything would get out.” He knows you’re paranoid about cameras and such. You’re smart. You think two steps ahead.

“Okay…” you look down, weighing your options. Either stay home, do nothing, or go to a cool party.

“Fancy?” You ask, already visualizing your closet. 

“The dress you wore to the first dinner would look good.” He remembers that one. 

“Really?” His hand finds your thigh, forcing them open with just a slight nudge. You flush deep red.

“Really.” He says under his breath, “no shorts.”

“You came in here unannounced.” You say, watching his hand creep up higher. “You need to go, seriously.” You shake your head, prying his hand from you. It’s disappointing, really. Every fiber in your being wanted to kiss him, but you couldn’t trust yourself to stop. 

“You’re coming?” He asks again.

You nod. He smiles.

—

Usually he could say a few words, bite his lip, touch a girl's forearm, and she would fall under his spell for the next twelve hours, and when he really didn’t want it, for longer. And that was what he’d usually do at parties like these. He never really wanted to go to house parties — too childish for someone of his stature, but his friends forced him, and he couldn’t really turn them down when alcohol was involved. Plus, it wasn't being consumed illegally anymore. 

But tonight is different. He doesn’t really know what he’s going to do either. He just knows he wants to see you, talk to you, bring you home and finally have his way without all the obstacles that previously made it impossible; those hurdles being but not limited to your stubbornness. You didn’t want to say your boyfriend was awful. You didn’t want to say you liked when he touched you. You didn’t want to be risky. You didn’t want to get tangled up in his business, in any mess his life dragged in. All of this meant nothing if you were attracted to him, and you were. He wonders who taught you to be so pent up, to live so far from the edge, and he wants to thank them for bringing you to his doorstep, finally, in desperate need for the one thing he wants too: sex. It gave him this sense of thrill, that it took longer than a couple minutes to persuade you — what also helps is his undeniable attraction to not only you physically, but everything that was you, everything that he saw from the sidelines, noticing your quips and your complaints, your habits and your hobbies. Everyone that he’s ever been with has liked him more than he’s liked them, and it feels good to have one person to obsess over, even if he knows the consequences. 

He’s turned over in his head so many times how this night will go. Little fantasies that he knows will definitely not happen. He can’t even describe what was going through his head when the words “it didn’t really work out” fell from your lips. He’s plagued by sexual thoughts that need to be gone when the season starts. Everything about you makes him go insane. He can’t imagine what it would be like in real life, and not in his dreams, or over the phone.

Everything is left behind him when you walk through the door. It’s like from one of those stupid rom-coms, where the light fades, the music softens, and you glow like a fucking angel. He can’t think of anything else to equalize you to. He’s never been able to compare someone to that before, and the more he thinks about it, caged by you in his own brain, he doesn’t think he’ll say it about anyone else ever again. You’re nervous, he can tell. You’re always goddamn nervous. You avoid his eyes as best as possible (not when you momentarily get angry at him). You fidget with your fingers on your lap. You laugh awkwardly. You even tremble over the phone, not just when you’re coming undone, but when you’re apologizing for one of the hottest things he’s ever heard. There’s also something different when he annoys you — a flicker of confidence because you don’t want to be stepped on, you don’t want to be challenged. But now, you’re nervous, head peeking through the crowds of people, searching for someone in particular.

The same satin light pink dress he asked you to wear, you’re wearing. He knows that it will be on his bedroom floor (or kitchen, he doesn’t know if you’ll get there), tonight. If he’s too cocky though, it might never happen. He’d lose you to the men that bombard you, and you hate it, he just knew, but one day, you’d fall for someone that wasn’t him. He’d lose you to your education in the fall — when you go back, away from Portugal. He needs this one night with you, if only to feel you clench around him, wide-eyed body right at his fingertips, ready to manipulate and mold you straight from his imagination. His imagination was not limited to only the things he thought about though. He thinks about all the quirks he doesn’t know about you yet; all the things that turn you on that he won’t know until you’re truly alone with him, and this was the problem in your relationship: you could never be alone unless he forced it to be that way. 

If anyone saw him just standing in the hallway looking in, they’d call him a freak because only thirty-five year olds that aren’t supposed to be there do that. He’s about to trudge in there to coolly wrap his arm around your waist, or something of the sort to get you riled up.

Instead, you have found someone you know, face forming into a huge smile.

He wouldn’t tell you that he tried his hardest to look through the guest list his friend had, but it was only a rough one; people were bringing their friends, their plus-ones anyways. He managed to at least get to know most of the people here, just in case his manager had to delete videos or pictures off of people’s instagrams. He didn’t want you panicking the next morning, tears welling in your eyes because he knew you’d be overwhelmed. You’d been starstruck at the mere idea of him the first time you’d reunited, not being able to see him the same as he was in high school (which was awfully dumb of him because how could anyone…?), so how could you ever deal with the media? And then, how could he deal with your brother? He would be dead by the morning. 

This guy, he doesn’t recognize, but you seem to know him well. He doesn't like those protective guys — the ones that think their girlfriends deep down cheat on them because they are very insecure themselves, but, but, this night was finally going to be where he ended this back and forth texting, this hesitance, because he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t keep up the lie to himself that he could sleep peacefully anymore. He thinks any man would agree with him — that his attraction to you is justified, because, come on, you played sweet until you came on the phone, teeth must have been tearing your bottom lip trying to muffle your cries of pleasure because your family was just down the stairs. He’s never wanted someone so much. He never thought he’d be treading lines, crossing his own boundaries for you. He thought you were an innocent crush, his first love without the reciprocation part. He really should have told your brother to fuck off the minute he graduated high school. 

So you’re there, talking to this guy he has no clue the name of, or why he’s at this party, or how he knows any of his friends. And he feels seventeen again, watching from far-away everyone else talk to you but him. 

“Hey!” You hear his voice beside you, looking up, squinting your eyes in the dim light to see Joao smiling at you, a drink from his hand outstretched to you.

“Hi,” you greet back, embarrassed that your friend is watching this. “I want to introduce you…” you turn to Joao, a cute smile on your lips. He loves that you wear minimal makeup. He preferred you barefaced anyway.

“This is Lucas! We’re friends at university.” God, you’re speaking English. Lucas. American. Great. Cool. Fuck. “You know João Felix, right?” You turn to the man, hair falling in front of your face until you fix it quickly. You look like a mediator between the two, shrinking in the masculinity that clouds the air. 

“Yeah, of course. Nice to meet you, man.” He holds out a hand and Joao begrudgingly takes it. He’s the opposite of him almost. Painfully American, blond hair, scrawny, but taller. He’s old money. It’s easy to tell, not just from his New England accent, but the way he presents himself, as if he could own the entire block in the snap of a finger.

“I didn’t know he was going to be here!” You say, a little too excited for João’s liking. Yeah, and João didn't know he was going to be here either so it’s a surprise for both of you. He didn’t think there was going to be a language spoken here other than Portuguese.

“I was just in Marseille, on vacation, but a couple of friends brought me out here today. Guess they know one of your buddies.” Your friend explains, probably in the most asshole, arrogant way possible, but you can't see through it. 

“Wow and I’m stuck here with this guy,” you joke, turning and gesturing to João like you hated to spend time with him. He smiles because he knows it’s the exact opposite, and engaging in conversation with this American was starting to get on his nerves, because he selfishly wanted you all to himself, your dumb jokes and all. 

When you spoke English, you spoke it perfectly. This is why he much preferred it when you stuttered in your first language, struggling to find words you should know immediately. He has a lot of preferences about you. He can’t help himself.

He wondered if this Lucas really came here by chance, compelled, forced to by his friends, because he watches the man when you speak to him, eyes languidly going up and down your form. 

“How do you know each other?” Lucas asks. A little cocky coming from an American, when he’s at a party he should not be at. Joao almost thinks he shouldn’t be speaking about your relationship, selfish about that too, like it shouldn’t be common knowledge to anyone else but you two.

“My brother is childhood friends with him. So, we’ve known each other…awhile.”  

“We went to high school together,” João adds, which was completely unnecessary. 

The American grins, “That’s cute.”

Now, João doesn’t have to be an expert in sarcasm, he doesn’t have to understand all the English phrases in the world to know he was mocking him.

You say the man’s name in surprise, annoyed but still smiling, and João can’t take it anymore. He physically can’t take it anymore. It’s like someone punched him in the gut, finally revealed to him the reality of you – that you’re more than him, that you have friends and former lovers and undeniably attractive college acquaintances that make him see red. He’s known you were more complex than the little sister of his friend, a past he can’t wrap his head around, but he never wanted to acknowledge it. He should have never asked you to come here. He should have taken you right there and then so he didn't have to be talking with an American that he can tell feels deserving of you with his stance, his conceited voice. He keeps making the wrong decisions, and he doesn't know how many more he can take before he’s totally, for lack of more appropriate words, fucked it over for himself. Delving himself into your life more and more, it made him feel more than he’s ever felt before. Emotions he does not want to process. The thing he does want to think about is sex because it’s simple, it’s comfortable, it’s the only real experience he’s had. 

“Come here,” Joao says in Portuguese, which startles you. His hand comes around your arm, softly tugging you to get his message across, his eyes shooting straight through your own. His touch makes you keen, full of possibilities just waiting to be acted upon. The problem was in the sentence: waiting. Waiting for what?

“What?” You manage to muffle out, in English, almost like you’ve forgotten the language he’s speaking. He doesn't even look at the American, – only you, absolving the world around him because you’re his entire world at that moment.  

He says your name, sternly. “Alone.”

You’re still confused at his sudden behavioral change, but there’s no time to dwell on it because his tug comes with more force, and you’re telling your friend you’ll be right back while Joao pulls you away. You feel dizzy, free hand fixing the straps on your dress because it's slipping down. He’s taking you somewhere and you’re asking him over the sound of the music what he’s doing, trying to stop him from taking you any further, but you kind of decide you like the thrill of him taking control, so you shut up. 

The lukewarm air of summer hits your skin and you realize you’re outside now, the quiet now unfamiliar. 

“I’m sorry,” he immediately apologizes, letting go of you, his arm awkwardly falling beside him. It’s dark and you could hardly see his face. You’re glad he can’t see yours well because you’re burning impossibly. 

You don’t tell him you hoped for this, being alone, and it came faster than you expected. 

“I couldn’t stand talking to an American.” He confesses, starting to laugh and you laugh too. 

“He’s my friend, though…you could have tried a little bit harder.”

“I don’t have much patience for a lot of things.” He steps closer. You don’t get the memo.

“All I was telling him was — the book you gave me, we read it in our first year so…so… I told him about it and I didn’t want to be rude and not say hello to him.” You were too nice, too often. Your struggle to find words was cute too.

“He’s in love with you.”

“Yeah— yeah right. That’s funny—”

“I can't have you in his bed before mine.”

Words don’t fall from your mouth. Instead, your jaw drops.

“Well…well it’s not like I was going to do that— I just, he’s a friend, who's…of course I wasn’t going to–”

“Do you want to stay?” He interrupts you.

You shake your head slowly, as if it were a trick question.

“Does your family know you’re here?” He’s right there, a few inches from touching you, looking down to see your eyes not meeting his. You’re finally alone together, truly alone, and he wants to know for how long.

“No. Told them I was at a friend’s house tonight.” You feel his arm brush your side. 

“Overnight?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “You can’t do this to me,” he says, biting his lip, looking off into the distance like he could see something there. 

A flurry of words, ‘yes’s’, curses, later and you’re in the passenger seat of his car, shrinking into yourself. You’re practically shaking. You told Joao you would text Lucas, tell him you’re sorry and that something came up and you had to go back home, and you try to, staring at your phone but you can’t even read, everything’s blurry because anticipation rises in your chest and makes you half-blind. You keep shifting in your dress, which seems to hike and move in all the wrong places, stretching it so you’re not indecently exposing him while he’s driving. God. 

“You’re too kind to that asshole.” He finally says, breaking whatever tension being enclosed in a small space created. You tried your hardest not to look at his hands on the steering wheel. No, no, no…

“Maybe you’re just a very cynical person.” You quip back, nerves settling deep in your stomach. You know what’s going to happen in the next few minutes and it makes the wait all the worse. He doesn't respond. The silence is awful.

“Can’t even wrap my head around you. You’re breathtaking but you don’t know it.” You can tell out of your peripheral that he glances at you often, distracted by you and maybe you should be concerned because it's dark. You don’t know what to say, heat surging through you as you cross your legs.

“Stop flattering me.” You manage to say. His forearm flexes at the grip on the wheel.

“You don’t deserve an uncomfortable time in the back of the car, so I’m restraining myself, and it’s hard.” Oh. If he could, he would have laid you out on the backseat. It’s hard not to think about these things when they are coming from his mouth. You stutter at that.

“Thanks,” he smiles at your awkward response, watching the road like someone responsible should be doing–is doing. 

It’s hot, hotter than a mid-day spell or an afternoon forced to be at a football game. You shift in your seat, legs not finding solace in crossing them over each other, dress suddenly foreign, grating, on your body. To the touch, your shoulders, your collarbone, are hot. You move the straps of your dress down, hands moving everywhere — to straighten your hair, to nervously rub your neck, to interlock them on your lap and act like everything was fine but being alone with him, his voice, and the hum of the car, was pushing you into a frenzy. Maybe if he dragged you into an empty room at the party, you wouldn’t have had so much time to get nervous, but he had to be the gentleman (or, of course, he had to think about his career) and take you to his house. You’re already stressing about how you’re going to get back home. 

“Are you okay?” He can’t help but take another glance, and your dress looks more disheveled,  and it slides down where he can see more of your cleavage. “I can drive you home if you want—” He would do anything to keep you safe, to keep you around if it meant he was rejected in this small blip of time. He didn't realize it, but he could take a couple more rejections if he thought he gained something, even just your approval. 

“No–it’s…it’s just I have never been in a famous person’s car,” He laughs when you ease the tension, and he can see you’re smiling to yourself too.

“You need to get over that–that way of thinking.”

“You know I’m not. How could I?”

“I am your brother’s friend. You are my friend’s incredibly pretty sister. That’s it.” Just as you feel the bump of the car turning into the driveway, his free hand manages to place itself on your thigh. You’ve failed to remember your beating heart before it’s rupturing out of your chest. His palm is cold, contrasting your hot skin. You twitch slightly at the contact, and he notices. He notices everything. Maybe it’s because he’s become so adept at reading situations, understanding emotions in others at matches, and you hate how he’s just…smart. Smarter than anyone could have played him for. 

“Fuck—” You’re tumbling into his front door – the same one you entered with your family in tow when you lusted after him, nothing more – now its muddled with confusion and his hands on your body, trying to act like you never wanted this, but he’s kissing your neck while you flush hard against his hallway, your dress hiking up your hip and his grip strong on all the skin he can feel. 

“You curse too much,” He whispers, hands holding onto your waist like you’d ever think to leave. You crane your neck to look at him, as much as you could in the dim lighting, “Is that bad?” you ask. His thumb follows the expanse of your collarbone; your dress is still on because he wouldn't take it off just yet. Maybe he had dignity about leaving clothes scattered around the house, maybe he saw power in keeping it on, prolonging the moment because he knows you're affected by all this— all these new feelings, arousal, tension, a beating heart, shortness of breath, tension. Did he say tension? You’re reeling at this new experience, fully unable to understand what’s happening because this conversation is incomprehensible.

His finger going up and down your arm, you biting your lip, heat swelling everywhere. He talks too much. “Never have I heard the words ‘fuck’ sound so pretty.” He picks you up by the back of your thighs and you shriek, hands combing at the back of his neck, in his hair. “Too harsh for your lips,” he says, an afterthought. He walks forward through the hallway as your hand traces his jaw. You’re taller than him now, legs wrapped around his middle. How did this happen? Unsure if you said it aloud or not – he does not respond either way.

You fall on his mattress when you let go of him. There is significantly more light than the rooms before; there’s a lamp on his bed-side table, somewhere in the ensuite bathroom, and if it were not for the late hour, the large windows parallel to the bed would let sun seep through them. His sheets were so soft, just washed and you would have liked to fall asleep – only if the man towering over you didn't seem so insistent on the pressing matter at hand. He hikes your dress up once again, up so he can see your underwear, thin and white and pressing against your hipbone. You’re breathing heavy, electrified whenever he touches you, and he runs his hands further up your legs. He kneels before you, kissing your inner thighs softly, inching closer and closer. 

You try not to curse, as hard as it is. His fingers feel your waist, your hip, before he’s telling you softly to lift up, letting him discard your underwear on the floor. You’re self-conscious. You have only let one man see you before, one of non-importance – the opposite of the one in front of you. You close your legs, knees hitting the other. He holds strong eye contact when he pries them apart. He holds it until he’s level with what you were trying to hide. 

You gasp, audibly, when he connects lip to lip, his tongue already gliding along you. He’s relentless, he won’t stop when your legs cry and shake and force themselves on either side of his head. He doesn't stop when your hands grip his sheets, and then eventually his hair. All because he can’t get enough of your moving, gasping body underneath him. Your soft and sweet sounds, trying to keep them quiet but they still fall anyway. They make him obsessed, utterly obsessed. 

He comes up, red faced and wet lipped, hair a mess by your own hands. You’re fluttering with pleasure, something that felt impossibly more than in your time alone, by yourself with just your own fingers. It felt otherworldly. “That felt good,” you say, obviously, dizzy, legs finally collapsing in on yourself and you didn't even cum.

“Told you…” he remarks, his body coming up, his fingers on your pussy, his mouth on your chest. The fabric of your dress falls below the arc of your breasts. “I’m right about a lot of things,” he goes on, and you turn your face to the side when he circles your clit gently. It’s a good torture. It is one you could endure forever. You say his name weakly, bucking up into his hand. It was a mix of everything – of embarrassment, of pleasure, of confusion. There was nothing wrong about this but another part of you knew this would end where it started. It would die after tonight because he was him, and he would not call you after the morning. He didn’t want a girlfriend and surely you would be a plaything; something that bored him after one use and if you were lucky, two times.  

“Please…” you beg, naked and wetness pressing on your thighs and making you delirious.

“Please what?” His free hand follows up your neck, your jaw, over your trembling lips. Instead of answering, you take his pointer finger in your mouth. He watches, amazed at your form on his bed. His imagination could not come close to what he saw before him. Your hair is perfectly (messily) laid on his pillow, remnants of his kisses down your sweaty neck, glassy eyed. He adds another, and you take it valiantly, trying as hard as you could to keep eye contact with him. He’s still wearing all his clothes, but the first couple of buttons on his shirt are loose. You let go of him with a pop, spit joining your lips and his fingers. You want to ask: am I good? It sounds pitiful when you replay it, too schoolgirl-y.

“You’re going to kill me.” His hands fly to his buttons, undoing them one by one. “You know that, baby?”

You shake your head. He smiles, shrugging his shirt off his shoulders. You’re in a dazed state, watching his movements, anticipating what he looked like underneath his pants (it was stupid, but you needed to know).

“You okay?” He asks, hands on the belt buckle. You nod, slowly, and you can feel your burning cheeks. This position was so compromising – shrinking underneath his body. The lights were on, and though you preferred this, seeing him (how erotic that was in itself), you were always going to feel self-conscious around him, and one would think the time naked, stuck, and vulnerable to be the worst. 

“I’m still confused how we ended up here.” It came from your heart truthfully, fluttering when he holds eye contact, but he stops his movement all together. “We can stop–” he starts, his hands reeling back from touching you, a complete one-eighty. 

“—can you just take this off?” interrupting him. You gesture to the dress hiked up and pushed down to your midriff. It was a useless thing, and was starting to become uncomfortable.

He grins, “are you sure—about this? You’re really okay?” He was starting to worry he had coerced you in some way — not counting his charms or looks or whatever. 

“I’m naked…underneath you. You almost made me cry doing…that. Please, please, for the love of—”

“Good point,” he smiles. His large hands clamor around you again and now he’s totally different. The fabric you once had, that covered nothing, glides off your body when he places his arms on your backside to lift you up off the mattress. “Yeah…” you manage to agree with him too.

“Do you want me on my stomach?” You ask, a little breathless. You do it anyways, without his response, and turn your body around, looking back up at him for approval. His pants are discarded on the floor now. The bulge on his (pretty expensive) boxers is very prominent. You gulp, unconsciously. 

Your old boyfriend liked it that way. You guessed most others liked it that way too.

He curses something. You can’t tell because of the blood pounding in your ears. His hands come up to the back of your legs, barely grazing your skin, nothing more. “I want you on your back first.” first.

“Oh…” what’s the answer to that? Yeah, that’s cool, I would definitely love to hold eye contact with you while we… So you nod enthusiastically, turning back around. You try and forget that he can see every inch of your body, but it does little to none at helping.

Uh, he’s ripping the packaging with his teeth. 

“You’re such a player,” you say in English, with your best California girl accent, elbows propped up on the soft linen. You don’t know why you said it.  Maybe to ease the tension, to make yourself less nervous. You can’t curse at yourself enough. Your arms are shaking, heart thumping.

“I am a player, if you want to be literal.” He’s grinning from ear to ear. 

“Obviously I didn’t mean that, asshole. Just fucking, just, I don’t know!” You close your legs, knees banging into each other. Every second, your anxiety builds up, almost diminishing the arousal you feel. His, being on the edge of the bed, toying with your emotions, you’re sure he gets a kick out of it. 

“Okay, okay,” He smiles, almost laughing. He shrugs off his boxers. You don’t really know how to describe his, uh, package because you’ve only ever seen two now. It’s daunting, is what you want to say. He kneels between your legs, having to pull them wider because your hesitation made you nervous. He decides not to say anything, because he thinks you might get very angry at him if he asks another ‘are you okay?’ and, ‘are you sure?’. Your breath stops the second you can feel him, eyes wide but a little too terrified to say anything. You didn’t trust yourself to say the right thing. You swear you would embarrass yourself with something dumb, like begging him for more. You didn’t want to sound desperate. You were. 

“Can I keep going?” He asks. It looks like the wind got knocked out of him too. He has to go in more? Thank the lord you didn’t say that outloud too. You nod, briefly looking down to see him only halfway there. 

“Fuck.” He’s the one cursing now when he stills inside you. His hair falls in front of his forehead, biting his bottom lip. A hand comes to wrap around your waist. It burns. 

He pulls out slowly, noticing your eyes dilated, your closed mouth trying to keep in your noises. “You feel so good, ya’know that?” 

“How am I supposed to kn–” Stupid things to say like that. You are actually ruining this moment.

He comes down to kiss you, to shut you up. It felt like a while, since the hallway, which in hindsight sounds dumb. He kisses like he knows he’s good at it. His dick rubs against your clit. You’re so surprised you moan into his mouth. 

“It’s like you want to fight me about everything, even when I’m inside you.” He pushes back in with wet lips and even more messed up hair, making you arch because it felt even better than the first time “Yeah, maybe.” 

He scoffs with a tighter grip on your sides. He eases into a pace, your hands don’t know what to do except to hold onto his arms. Your legs end up wrapping around him to which he softens a little; your whimpers escape you. You stay that way for a bit, melting into whatever this was – if it was more emotional or not, you still felt that way, stupidly enough. You moaned exceptionally loud when he slightly lifted your leg at an angle, hitting just a bit deeper. He grinned. You got redder, unfortunately. 

“I can’t last,” you manage to squeak out, shaking your head. His actions earlier have made this a lot harder. Your vision is blurry. He hums though, not saying anything for a second. 

“That’s my goal, isn't it?” He buries his face in your neck, his hand coming between your two bodies to massage your clit. He places wet kisses on your shoulder, down your collarbone. He even nibbled the skin, all while doing these other things. You imagined this to be good, really good, but you could never think of this. 

Could he stop being an asshole for one second? You agree with him though, halfheartedly because you cannot give an enthusiastic reply. You stutter, spit out words that never actually come out. You arch without warning, head turning to the side at the complete surge of pleasure that washes over every limb in your body. It’s overwhelming. He’s inside of you, watching you, kissing you. Your thighs shake as he always believed them to, in his chaotic, lust-filled dreams. You’re still more reserved about it, covering your own mouth to try and drown out the noise, maybe even trying to hide your expression. But when he sees you coming down from the orgasm, your lips parted, your mind off in another place, still taking him whole, he finishes. He finishes with a mix between a moan and a grunt, rocking to a still. 

You’re the first to laugh when he pulls away from you to put the condom in the trash, out of view in the ensuite bathroom. He asks what’s so funny. You just say you don’t know, barely loud enough for him to hear. You sink into the pillows. They’re nice. You don’t really know what to think– well, you know what you feel, a dull ache in your chest that hasn’t stopped since he pulled out of you. Hell, since you saw him again practically a month ago. But the bed is really soft and big, so you accept defeat, eyes starting to become heavy.

You can barely understand him, “Do you want to take a shower? Because I have–” He pops up around the corner, sweatpants on, but stops when he notices your naked figure to be unresponsive, cheek pressed against his pillow. You’re on his side of the bed. He shakes his head swiftly. He reaches back around to find a towel to wet, at least to clean you.

He murmurs sorry when you squirm at the touch of the cold towel. You momentarily gaze up at him. The illusion is broken. He’s ready for bed, tired limbs telling you to let him in and wipe the residue of the moment. He looks better than he ever has before. Gut-wrenchingly good. 

“I should go,” you say, suddenly. You shift your weight up to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s looking down on you, his hands now rest on your shoulders to stop you. He says your name earnestly.

“It’s late and you’re tired.” You unlock your phone from the nightstand– one in the morning. You huff with all the energy left in your body.

“M’sorry,” you fall back into bed, his touch gone. You’re cold. 

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know.”

He’s filled with the thought that maybe you would be there when he woke up. 

—

He wakes up alone.

It’s normal for him, he knows, and he usually would not extend his arm to see if a certain someone was still there, but he does, because the first thing he remembers before he even opened his eyes was you. You, there beside him, sleeping peacefully because that was right – to him at least. If he wanted anyone to still be in his bed by the morning it would be you. The countless women that stayed and festered because he could not find it in his heart to kick them out, where he would have to ease them out the door by saying he had meetings, had practice when he did not. Now, he didn’t have to lie, he never wanted to with you, but you were gone. 

You're not boyfriend and girlfriend, not gushy with each other, and all you did was have sex once. His stomach drops despite himself. He gets up to check the house anyway. It's quiet, barren, it always is.

When he comes back into his room he realizes a drawer on his dresser is open. He wonders when you left. If you had woken up in a hurry before the sun rose, or if it was only a few minutes ago, the sun hitting your face as you remembered the night, and carefully tip-toed out of his room, your dress in hand with his shirt on your back. 

He’s even imagining how you left him. Fuck.

You got home okay?

It’s a couple of long minutes.

Yes

Thank you

and I stole one of your shirts.. sorry

I’ll give it back when I see you

—

Okay

It’s been a week and I need my shirt back, he texts you.

You’ve been avoiding this really. You thought maybe this would go away, evaporate into thin air, or something, you don’t really know. This is new and confusing. One, you thought, ‘oh, I would appear too clingy texting or calling him’; two, you thought ‘he’s probably fucking another girl already’. That thought made your insides curl. You hated the idea of calling him and hearing rejection on the other line. 

You did see him midweek though. It was awkward, meeting his eye from your position on the living room couch while he stood at your front door, talking to your brother before they went out. You wanted to cry at the way he smiled at you, knowingly, for that brief moment. 

Sorry, i’ve been busy

I can drop it off tomorrow

No its okay

Ill come over

I have time

That motherfu–

His hands in his pockets, he’s at your door, t-shirt and sweats bearing an awfully idiotic smile, that, when you look a certain way, is really hot. Your brother has gone off somewhere. Your parents went out to lunch. You think he can tell you’re alone. You didn’t care to change out of the lounge wear you had on because you thought it would be just as he proposed: getting his shirt back. You brushed your hair, though, to look a little better for him.  Not like you cared. No.

“Hi,” he says. You’re pretty, a little exasperated, he can tell. It’s hot, inside and outside, so you, naturally, don’t wear a bra under your gray cotton shirt, and with it, short white athletic shorts that make it very hard not to stare at your legs. He may not look like it, but he was blown away.

“Hi,” you say back, quietly. Oh, you had to be doing this on purpose. Every couple hours he stared at your messages, waiting for you to text him. When he woke up in the morning, after the gym, after practice. He was totally in love. He was plagued by your naked frame, your face when he went down on you, the way your neck flung back when he kissed down your throat. It was torturous the scenes that replayed in his head, the times when you moaned to answer his questions, your hips that jutted into his when he hit a certain spot, your breasts that bounced at every thrust. When he didn’t want to think about you, his subconscious conjured up your voice, your little quips back at him, your soft cries of his name. No woman has ever sounded so beautiful doing that, he swears. 

“I have your shirt. It’s…” You trail off, turning around to get it from – fuck, you forgot it in your room. You meant to bring it with you, but the door bell was so sudden, you forgot about it. “I, uhh…” making another one-eighty to see him. He’s already made himself comfortable, shoes flicked off, closing the front door, his eyes solely on you.

“You’re here, alone?” “Why does that matter?” You say back, walking down the hallway so you didn’t have to look at his smug face.  

“No reason,” he hums, following right behind you. “It’s in my room,” you turn around for a second before you go up the stairs, like, as a warning for him not to come up any farther, but who was he but not a rule breaker? You don’t say anything, socks thudding quietly on the hardwood. You hear him behind you.

“Stay there,” you stop at the handle of your door, worried about your ability to keep off him if he were to come into your room. You’re pretty impressed with how you managed so far. You wanted to kiss the smile off his face at the front door, you wanted him to push you against the wall in the hallway. 

He puts his arms up in defense, “I will.” You squint your eyes at him. You slightly bend over your bed to grab the neatly folded shirt. You don’t know it, or maybe you do, he believes, but your shorts ride up, showing the curve of your ass. Your gray shirt does too, showing the small of your back, if only an inch, but enough to give him a picture. One that won’t leave his head for a while. A thousand million curses ring in his head.

As soon as it happens, you turn back, plopping down on the edge of your bed, throwing the shirt at his chest. He stands in the doorway, using one hand to grab at the back of the shirt he’s wearing. Taking it off. 

“Fuck you,” you deride, trying not to look at his body but failing miserably. He knew what he was doing.

“What?” He laughs, the shirt you returned falling over his body. “I like this shirt. You act like you’ve never seen me like this anyways.” 

Your jaw drops. “That was once.”

“And never again?” he smiles, walking towards you.

You stutter, whispering, hands hitting the bed behind you as he towers over you, “n-never again.”

“Really?” His large hands rest on the expanse of your thighs. “I told you to stay there,” your eyes follow the empty doorway. He looks back there for a second. 

“My bad,” he apologizes, though he’s not sorry. Your brows furrow, trying to act pissed off but you’re really not. Wow, aren’t you two good at pretending. His lips are less than an inch from yours. You can hear his breathing, the ups and downs of his chest. He teases you, edges his mouth closer, almost to where you’re finally touching, but he stops. Your lips are parted, your cheeks are embarrassingly red, and you pant audibly because this is the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced. You squeeze your legs together, pleasure shooting from your core to every nerve ending in your body. 

He teases you because he wants you to lean in first, to give in. If every decision were as easy as that, your life would be a piece of cake. 

In quick motions, his hands are placed snugly under your thin shirt, on your lower stomach. You lean back on the bed at the force of his imposing body taking up your space. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, slightly sinking down to feel you squirm under his bare hands. You do. You place your hand on his chest to get him to let you breathe, fuck. You’re being smothered by him. You’re overstimulated, your underwear already starting to feel uncomfortable and all he’s done is kiss you (very well, mind you). 

“Joao…” breathless, “I don’t know when they’ll be back.” You try to keep your eyes open, watching his own, but ultimately failing and staring at his pink lips instead.

“I don’t need a lot of time,” he says into your ear, his hands effortlessly attach to your waistband, kneading his fingers underneath it. You sigh at his answer, trying to lift your hips up so it’s easier for him to discard your futile clothing. 

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he breathes. Your shorts are still wrapped around your knees, his gaze on your waist. 

“What?” Your voice cracks – it’s embarrassing. “God,” he says, but he’s not praying, he’s staring at your panties. It’s some old underwear you found when you came back home, the stuff you wore in high school. It’s white, just like the one you wore last week, but there’s cherries printed on the cotton, a little red bow on the front, and the thing is exponentially smaller, covering almost nothing, showing your tan lines. Maybe you grew a little since your time away. You would have changed if you knew this was happening, you swear. 

“What?” You ask a little louder, but you know why this time. You still don’t understand his fixation, though. If anything, you looked stupid. He grips under your thighs, pulling you closer to him. 

“They’re so cute,” he mumbles, snapping one side against your skin. 

“I don’t have condoms,” you squeak out. 

“I'll pull out. Is that okay?” He asks, truly. You nod, biting your lip. His thumbs press harder on your inner thighs. “I was tested recently so…” he taps your leg a couple times. You look down but he’s already placed his hands under both your thighs, easing you to turn on your stomach. You follow his command.  

‘Recently’ was about three months ago. He hasn’t slept with anyone since then, but you didn’t need to know that.  

A whine falls from your mouth when you feel your face pressed against your sheets, his delicate touch on your legs, moving them how he wants. You couldn’t see him. You couldn’t tell what he was going to do next. It only heightened your senses. A finger wraps around the fabric of your wet underwear, moving it to the side. The pads of his fingers gently stroke you, watching the first crumbling of your façade as your body eases into the bed, your hips moving back to his touch as you groan. He’s slow with his timing, waiting until you turn your head to desperately say a ‘please’, pleading for him to do something more, to finally inch his middle finger in. You curse, grabbing a stray pillow to hold because you can’t be still. When he was fully in, you mewled, saying his name, gasping. He adds another and you feel like you can’t take it, eyes fully shut and trying to focus on anything else to help ease the overwhelming feeling that makes it feel like your chest is going to rupture, along with your heart. 

“Can I fuck you?” he asks in your ear, leaning in to breathe along your neck, moving your hair to the side, two fingers still inside your throbbing core. You’re drooling onto the covers, unable to think about anything else other than his fingers stretching you out. “What…what do you think?” You’re breathless, but you still hated his questions. The answer was a resounding yes, and you didn’t think you had to say it, but you knew he wanted to make you; he wanted you to spell out the words ‘fuck me’, because it made him happy. 

“You don’t have to be so rude about it,” he responds, pulling his fingers out of you. You feel empty, shocked. 

“Joao…” you whine, wiping your drool with your forearm, clenching around nothing. You turn back to see him shaking his head, the hand laced with slick comes over your ass, squeezing the soft skin. You breathe heavy, about to say something but it just gets jumbled into a cry when he abruptly smacks the same spot he made red. You were so wet, juices falling down your inner thighs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you appeal.

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes, I want you to uh…”

“Say it.”

“I don’t want to,” you complain, because you felt you had some dignity left even though you’re bent over your own bed.

“Aren’t you so pure, so fucking innocent?” He mocks you, a finger dipping back into your seeping hole. You are keen at the feeling, groaning out once again.  

“I–” you start, but it’s not fast enough before he smacks your behind again. You jolt forward, completely unaware of the contact until its sharp sting runs through your body. You think you blabber into the sheets, devoid of movement, everything is a blur. He soothes the skin, telling you you were very good, cooing at you.

“Please,” you beg, so turned on you are going insane. “Are you okay?” you hear him muffled over the cloud in your head, his clean hand coming up to try and get you to look at him. “Yes,” you mumble, your hands come behind you to spread your pussy open for him, craving his dick like no other thing in the universe, and you only had it once. 

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” you feel his hand push your shirt up the small of your back, settling there to keep pressure on your moving figure. There’s a few long moments before you feel him there, prodding your opening. You sigh loudly when you feel the tip enter, already being consumed by his size, the way he lets a small noise fall from his own lips. You can’t see him, but you know his hair sticks to his forehead, his eyebrows relax as he is watching all the ways you enveloped him. His rhythm was not too fast, and you praised whoever up there because it would be awhile before you felt comfortable to take him so rough. He still kneads your ass, maybe he felt bad about the last slap. “Ah, ah, that feels so good, Joao…” 

“Yeah? You like this?” His voice is raspy, almost killing you right there. It feels so much better feeling him raw. You hum in response, unable to form words. The bed creaks, you feel tears welling up and falling down your cheeks. You burned so good, feeling pleasure in every inch and cranny of your body. 

“I’m going to, Joao.” alluding to your teetering over the edge. It’s impossible not to say his name over and over.

“Cum, baby.” You do, all over his dick, on your sheets, and he’s pulling out right after, not even needing to pump himself before he cums over the small of your back, groaning. A hand comes to weave through your hair, he whispers something but you fail to discern it before he’s let go of your body altogether, leaving you vulnerable on the bed with his own release on your back. You almost think he left, when your heart stops pounding so rapidly and you try to get up, not hearing any noise and seeing your door open. Your heart sinks. You pull your shirt off, and your finger touches your lower back to feel what he left. Your knees wobble and almost fall in on each other. 

“It was hard to find a towel,” He comes in, rag in hand, his boxers on and his hair a little wet from sweat.

“M’ sorry, I have to do laundry.”

“It’s okay,” he says softly, he must have washed his hands because they’re cold and damp when he places them on your waist. He plays with your skin like it’s dough, lazily grazing his fingers over it, keeping you close, before he turns you around. He doesn’t say a word. If you were wobbly now, your knees felt like they were going to give in. You feel the towel on your back as he wipes the residue away.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I got, uh, heated.” You nod at his question. You felt more than okay. You felt like he cared – maybe. You shouldn’t think like that, getting so involved, believing he actually cared.  Your heart felt light whenever you felt that stupid thing, hope. 

“We’re home!” You hear your Mom call from downstairs. You turn around suddenly, your hand over your mouth. You’re naked with your brother’s best friend in your room. He looks at you, saying something telepathically like “we’re fucked”. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” you go on, hastily pulling on the shorts that he threw on the ground earlier. Don’t think about what just happened. 

“Uhm, uhh…” he grabs your shirt that you were trying so hard to find (it was behind you). You say a quick thanks.

“Okay, Joao, I, I’m going to distract them, and…you know the back door?” You ask, your back to your door. 

“Of course.”

“Go out that way,” You’re panicking, trying to fix your frizzy hair, trying to smooth out your shirt. He nods, breaking into a smile. You just scowl back, trying not to start an argument with him.

You practically run down the stairs, greeting your parents enthusiastically.

“Why is your hair so messy?” Your Mom asks, her hand coming to brush it through her fingers.

“I woke up from a nap, Mom.” You say, stomach turning. 

“Did our neighbors get a new car? The one across the street?” Your Dad asks, you look out the window, and holy shit that’s Joao’s car. 

“Oh, uh, I have something to show you guys in the family room.” You muster.

“What is it?” your mother asks, as you drag them away from the front of the house, away from their prying eyes towards the street. They follow you into the room, and you can’t hear him at all. You thought he would bang into something or create loud footsteps, thank God. You make them sit on the couch.

“Just stuff to sign for the new term.” Thank the lord you actually did have papers to make them sign, or you’d be completely…

“You’re starting so early this year,” your mother complains, and you can’t even think about what she’s saying, too worried if he’s actually out of the house or not. 

“I know, I know,” you deadpan, finding a pen and giving it to them so they can sift through paperwork. You edge your head to the door opening, seeing if he’s gone through the window. 

He is. Oh, you sigh so loudly even your parents start asking questions. 

Never again. 

—

“It’s t-too big,” you find yourself saying now, a couple weeks and a lot of late nights later. It’s just overwhelming sometimes, especially when you’re sitting on top of him, head turned down to focus on guiding him inside. Afterall, it is your first time in this position. Your breath hitches.

“But you take it, don’t you?” He responds, eyes languidly following your naked form. His elbows are propped up to watch you better. You feel a sort of excitement ring throughout your body. The heat surges, making your heart beat faster. The way he watches you, as if you were someone so desirable he couldn’t touch, made your cheeks flush, almost self-conscious even though you’ve done this with him for what seems like forever.

You stutter out a ‘yes’. You always did. You have for more times than you could count. You loved being this person for him. To be the woman who pleases him (though most of the time he’s pleasing you). You don’t really understand what he gets out of this relationship. There were a million others like you. Women that were probably better at most of the things you try with him and giggle and curse about. There’s a part of you that believes you don’t deserve this. 

Sinking down on him was the hardest part. You squeeze your eyes shut, your stomach tenses, letting a small gasp out, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Not because you’re in pain, but because he can see the exact moment when you sink down fully, when you’re connected. He’s stuck cooing you, hands soothing your waist and thighs before it feels pleasurable again. It hits him like a train, his breathing slows, his eyesight dims as he takes in the visual of your naked body, already red and on fire from his previous actions when he had you pinned down on the bed, whispering about how your brother could walk in at any moment.

He wasn’t at home— you just always got so flustered when he’d say that.

He thinks your moans are infectious the way groans spill from his own mouth. Few and far between could he say that for anyone else. Every time he watches them fall from your lips with that slight shortness of breath, filled with a sweetness only you could make sound so compelling, he’s crumbling. He sees as you bite down, your teeth slipping from your wet pouty lips as you tremble. He was only just inside you, not moving up, but you were rocking back and forth, trying to get comfortable and it drove him insane. It also drove him insane how he can feel himself outlined on your lower stomach when his hands roam.

He knew he was screwed from the first time; it was the first thing that popped into his head while he had his way between your legs.

It was so addicting teaching you everything. Even as the weeks would go by, even when you were comfortable, you had this innocence only a friend’s younger sister would.

He can see his marks starting to form on your chest. That was always one thing that did it for him: marking you up. You could go for days without speaking and he’d still have remnants of himself on you. It drove him nuts when he’d undress you, when you’d call him late at night after not seeing him for what felt like forever but in hindsight only a couple days, and he’d see light purple marks traveling down from your breasts to your core. He hoped a little bit that it would deter other men. You weren’t exclusive or at least you never said you were. He hoped you saw them every morning and thought of him.

He traces these marks up and down your stomach.

“You want to move, baby?” He asks, it’s more like ‘any day now?’ Sometimes you get annoyed with him, especially when he uses pet names, and this was one of those days, but you weren’t going to not do what he says.

You nod. Really, anything he said made everything you did feel stupid. You didn’t think your cheeks could get redder, but João over the past few weeks has told you things not even the devil would utter. It was like faking purity in the daytime, speaking to your brother like normal, then enjoying the sin that João endowed on you in the nighttime.

“You look so pretty on my cock..”

“Stop—“ you say under your breath, exasperated. You move up slowly. He always had to say something that embarrassed you. He had to use that sex voice; the one he never uses with you outside of the bedroom. That made you so angry, and you told him that was why your face was red, but it was more because of the comment he would mutter, connecting small kisses to your neck before pulling away. It was a game to him.

He can’t look away. His hand comes up to touch the delicate silver cross wrapped around your neck. You look at him with lidded eyes, sinking back down. As much as he liked to be poised, to act like this didn’t affect him at all, his stomach tensed, he licked his suddenly dry lips, a blush to his cheeks. He presses the back of his hand against your chest, the cross on his palm. Your back arches, your breasts protrude. You gain a rhythmic pace, finding it easier to move your hips up and down. He sees how your folds leak wetness, already glistening the insides of your thighs, and now his dick.

““Fuck, you do look so pretty. I’m not patronizing you—”, the words fail to come out after that. His hand flies through his hair while he shutters because you let out a long moan, eyes shut. His curses start to become all the same. Your hands find his torso for support, hitting a new spot with the angle. No matter how many times you two sleep together, you’ll never get over his body. He likes to say it’s good for going multiple rounds; you would have believed him but he just had to be prideful and show you.

His hands grip your waist now, tighter than it’s ever been before.

It was weird because when things got in the heat of the moment, when he’d lose himself, he’d kiss you. It wasn’t like you hated it, but he could tell you hesitated, and he wished there was a time when you wouldn’t. When you would cum and you would pant, tears forming in your eyes, how could he not? He justified that any sane person would, but you both know those kisses mean something different, and both of you are stupid enough to not address it. 

There’s a point where you can’t stay upright, and you bury yourself into his shoulder, hitting the soft pillow. His hands delicately touch the back of your neck, sometimes sliding down your spine all while you’re trying to lift your hips up as quickly as you feel the pressure start to build up; it’s never fast enough.

Your moans just fall out, especially once his hands find your ass, touching every inch of skin imaginable. You gasp, saliva in the pillow and a bite on his shoulder when he slaps your behind to then instantly soothe the skin; he was insane.

You felt too full. The pleasure makes your brain fuzzy. You can barely move anymore. You’re tired from everything, but a little bit more tired of the thought of leaving after he’s done. When it’s at his house (which it always is, except that one really risky time you don’t speak of), you like to leave right away because you know you’re tired enough to eventually fall asleep next to him. The worst case scenario. 

The first time you were stupid enough to sleep with him, his hand over your naked waist. You let the feelings of his body against yours overwhelm you, clouding your judgment. Now, after multiple evenings of practice, you’d be a fool to do it again, to fall under his witchery.

“Baby…” he eases you up, his hands supporting your weight. His large palms on your shoulders. Spit covers your mouth and cheeks. He can’t believe he’s made you this way.

One hand goes down to your clit— he’s still deep inside you— and the other pushes the hair from your face, softly so it’s all against your back. When his finger first touches your clit, it’s like you spasm, hands moving backwards to his thighs, leaning back so he can see everything better. He’s found stimulating your bundle to be pretty easy. You always folded, cheeks gaining impossibly more color, hips moving on their own accord, and indispensable moans slipping from your cute mouth.

“Oh God…João…” you manage to say. You shake your head, eyes closed shut. He’s so good at bringing you to the edge. He doesn’t take shortcuts.

Seeing you cum on his cock, he tries so hard not to kiss you. He tried focusing on not cumming, and that was hard too. The way you try to stop your moans by biting your lip, eyes fighting to stay open, and hips that buck up into his fingers, every nerve was on edge to kiss you. Your head lulls back. He pulls out and you feel him against your stomach, practically pulsating. You let out a long whine, trying not to collapse from exhaustion while he releases on your stomach.

There’s a few moments of silence, where his touch hurts and doesn’t feel comfortable. He watches you gain coherency through lidded eyes. It’s awful, the feeling, and you get up. 

“But I haven’t cleaned you yet—“

“I can clean myself up,” you say, vanishing nude into the bathroom. In the moment, you never wanted to leave his bed, but when it’s just you two, intelligible again, no desire and no more sex, it’s unbearable. Of course, the desire to fucking be with him, not like this, was still there. 

You come back out, water splashed on your face with a clean stomach. You kinda try to act like you can walk straight, but you can’t, and he knows. You hate when he just watches you. He’s still in the same position, sweat sticking to his neck, hair a mess, but the cover's draped over his lower half, and you can’t pin what the look in his eye meant. If he was trying to embarrass you, again, then it worked.

It’s come to a head. It’s so fucking fun in the moment, but you don’t know what to do after. He insists most days that you stay with him, especially at night (sometimes it’s a mid-day occasion). And what? Just continue to fall into this pit of indescribable feelings, marked by butterflies and flares of anger? If you were strong enough, you would stop these meetings, but you can’t find it in yourself. 

“Are you sleeping with other women?” You ask, finally. It’s all you wanted to ask him. It itched at you since his lips touched yours. You start pulling your clothes over your head, keen on leaving. It’s his prerogative if he wants to. It really is. 

“Are you jealous?” He grins from ear to ear, but doesn’t move from his position. Your brows furrow at his response, annoyed. “You want me all to yourself?”

It’s really hard to just say ‘yes’. It’s probably the only word that would not flow from your mouth. Instead, you want to curse him out, maybe, for wasting your time. For once, you wanted him to stop being an asshole. It was fun when he pursued you, his knees on the floor, but not when you’re so emotionally involved, head dizzy just from the thought of him. Not when he’s seen your naked body so much over the past few weeks. The guilt that spurred in your gut when you saw your brother; it was exciting. You’re doing all of this for nothing. 

“Forget it,” you say, pulling your hair out of the shirt you just threw on. Anything other than the answer ‘no’ was a resounding ‘yes’. You knew this was going to happen, you just never knew when. 

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” He sits up, covers thrown to the side while he finds his boxers to put back on. “No, I’m not. I don’t care.” You cared. Anyone for a thousand miles could tell you cared. He couldn’t tell.

“Thanks for, uh, tonight.” You say, leaning over his night table to grab your things. He sighs heavily, a hand on his hip and the other brushing through the mop of brown hair. He’s frowning, but says nothing more. 

–

He arrives on your doorstep on a Friday.

“Is your brother home?” Of course he’s not here for you. 

“No,” you shake your head, with nothing else to say. It’s awkward, definitely. It’s terrible. It looks like he wants to say something more but he bites his tongue. 

“This is for him,” he holds out a small gift bag, “and you too,” he says, quieter. You grab it hesitantly. “I didn’t expect you to answer the door,” he states. You don’t say anything. You shrug your shoulders.

“There’s, uh, a pre-season home game that I want you to come to this Sunday.” He scratches the back of his neck, leaning back on his heels. 

“I don’t know. I think I have plans on Sunday.” You, in fact, do not. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great! Okay…” He responds. It looks like he’s analyzing every one of your facial movements. Eyes darting from your eyes, down to your lips, how they contort, to your hands, all the way back to your eyes. “Text me,” he mentions, before turning away down the steps to his stupid sports car parked on the curb. You wanted him to say something else, anything, and you thought you were imagining his mouth opening and closing. It looked like hesitance laced on his face. You were projecting your own feelings, somehow. You must have been. 

After you close the front door (and after you lean against it a while contemplating your entire life), you sift through the bag, pulling out an envelope with two physical tickets. How nice. Below it, you see the two colors he sports during games and you don’t know how to feel. It wasn’t for your brother, no, it was your size with his name on the back.

You hear steps around the corner in the hallway. You quickly stuff the jersey back into its bag, nerves churning in your stomach. You were thinking about him and now your face was red. 

“Who was that?” Your brother asks.

“Joao,” you say, mindlessly. “He wants us to come to his game.” You throw the ticket in his general direction. It hits his chest and falls on the floor.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

“He just left?” You shrug your shoulders, turning away down the hall. 

When you get to your room, you drape the jersey on the back of your desk chair, looking at it occasionally, a painful reminder. 

—

You don’t text him and you don’t show up.

You sat on the idea for a while. And it was a pretty dumb thing to think about, you didn’t have to talk to him, interact with him at all at the game. But it was summer, and all you could ever think about was him: whenever you grabbed your keys, going through your camera roll (you saved that shirtless picture), seeing anything football related, when you’re in your bed, all the time. You picked your nails and chewed on the inside of your mouth. You over thought it, so you ended up alone that afternoon. 

You had to describe it to someone else – you were dying to. Crossed, you gave in and told your friends everything except his name. It was risky, and yes they’re still dying to know who it is. You swear ever since you had talked about him, at the start of every conversation they bring the ‘mystery’ man up. They say you’re just experiencing the consequences of being a little sheltered, a little amateur at the whole one night stand thing, but your lack of ability to say who he really was was the crucial piece of information they lacked in fitting the story together. 

You should be thinking about university and how quickly the summer is catching up on you. In a month, you’ll be back in America, and none of this will matter. He will forget about you, but you will not forget about him. It’s pathetic. But how could you not think about him? He made it impossible. He was absolutely everything a woman could want, he was everything you wanted, through all his idiotic responses and grins.

I didn't see you today, he texts. You see the message light up your dark room. 

You’re over it. You’re done. You grab the jersey he gifted you, putting on your most decent sweater, hurt tugging too hard on your chest for you to remember to put actual pants on instead of the shorts you wear to sleep. You just needed to end it. He couldn’t text you like this – like he actually cared. Your mind flashes through shades of black, heart pumping like it did the first time you had sex, the first time you laid eyes on him. 

You guess a lot of people would call you dramatic. You would too, but you broke up with your boyfriend for this man. You sexted with him. You stripped for him. You told him things you never told anyone. You stupidly thought and daydreamed about things that were never going to happen. 

You play through what you’re going to say to him over and over. The slam of your car door rings in your ears, the crisp air of the late summer afternoon stings your cheeks and wet eyes. He probably wouldn’t care when you told him. He would just tell you he’s sorry for getting involved with you, maybe even close the door on your outburst. What if you’re just interrupting another one of his one night stands? What if he answers the door, frustrated that you’re even here, ruining his night?

You rap on the door three times, just like you have over the last month. He doesn’t answer the door angry, or with a girl at his hip, or with lipstick stains on his neck. None of those, infact, he stands there like the moronic idiot he is in black boxers, a stupidly expensive white t-shirt, and one strand of his messy hair sticking up at an odd angle. You guess he doesn’t really care who knocks on his door, because he’s never going to try to put pants on. As soon as he knows it’s you, you with wet eyelashes and a red nose, he’s immediately confused. 

“Hi– what, uh—” he goes on. Your mind goes blank.

“Let me…let me say what I want to say.” You put a hand up, as if to stop him from talking – he does. His lips are impossibly sealed shut, his eyes dart everywhere to try and understand without words.

“It’s okay, like, if you were with other people while we were, uh…” Great. The speech you prepared is totally forgotten now. “And I understand why. We aren’t a thing at all. I just, I can’t keep doing that if that’s what you want…” you trail off, looking down at the jersey you had in your hands, “here.” You hand it back over to him. “You don’t have to buy or give me nice things either. I’m not that kind of girl.” 

He takes it from you. He doesn’t say anything, looking at it like you gave him some sacred scripture. “So…” You wipe away a stray tear that falls down your cheek. Your naked legs are cold from standing on his front porch, the natural light from the sun slowly diminishing to the faint light of the stars behind you. It feels like an eon before he responds. 

He steps forward onto the porch and you’re cautious, taking a smaller step back. Tentatively, his free hand pushes the hair from your face behind your ear. You’re stuck, frozen, paralyzed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was being a dick, not just then, but the entire summer. I forced you to do things, I pressured you. I was a fucking creep.”

“You weren’t–”

“I’m not some arrogant, self-absorbed prick like you think I am.”

“Look, I get it. You’re young and famous and you don’t owe me anything.”

He looks at you for a second, perplexed. “Yeah, I fucking do. I owe you the entire world.” He recites your name, quietly in disbelief, just like he does when he says it into your neck. “I…uh, you caught me off guard when you asked me that question the other night because it's hard to put into words how I want to say it.”

He must be going on to tell you about the girl he’s loved since he was fifteen. He must be in love with someone else so profoundly he needs to reject you. To tell you in nice words that he used you. You must look like her. “Say what, Joao?”

“You’re the only one.”

“I’m the only one to what?”

“I never slept with anyone else while we were…together.” He waits for your response, but you’re just more confused whenever he opens his mouth. 

“Then why–”

“Because I was being a dick. I didn’t want to tell you I liked you, that I've liked you since highschool, because it sounded childish and dumb— sorry for cutting you off,” he adds right away, speaking the fastest you’ve ever heard. It takes you a moment before you comprehend, and he’s biting his lip nervously, cheeks a little flushed. 

“You what?” You blubber out, sniffling your nose. You felt like the most out of loop person, hearing gossip you’ve never heard, gossip that couldn’t be real. You’re hearing fiction.  

“I like you, a lot,” he confesses, and you finally understand – maybe. 

“So, you told me ‘what? you’re jealous?’ after I asked you if you were sleeping with anyone because you…like…me,” you piece together, pointing your index finger at his chest then at yourself. “More than just for sex?” Your voice shakes a little. You never liked to say the word ‘sex’ outloud. 

“I thought I made it apparent in June,” referring to the first time you saw him since highschool – that whole fiasco. He came onto you, he told you you were beautiful, he tried to get you to break up with your boyfriend the moment he saw you.

“I thought…I thought you didn’t want a girlfriend. That you were too busy or—”

This is all awfully immature, like you’re both children trying to explain something complex but you don’t have enough vocabulary to say it well. 

“I shouldn’t have said that. I…do, and I want it to be you. I couldn’t really tell the whole family that, could I?” 

“Oh,” your heart is pounding so hard and heavy. You expected this to end in a ‘no’, a disappointment, not anything like this. You didn’t prepare, and now your stomach flips and turns, and your head is fuzzy with his words that sound straight from a dream, something you know you dreamt of at the beginning of summer. 

“I like you too, but you probably know that–”

“Can I kiss you?” He asks abruptly.

“Yeah.”

It feels like the immediate rush of all the recreational drugs you’ve ever had at college parties, or the times your mom indulges you on too much wine because she loves life, or when your heart fills up at seeing the sun set at the beach with your friends, type of feeling. Every possible complex emotion mixed together, interweaving and giving you goosebumps, a warm tingly feeling down your spine. It’s different from when he kissed you during sex. It’s not rushed, nor is it confusing the implications it creates: the gut-wrenching understanding that it meant nothing more in the moment than pure lust. Or, at least, that’s what you had thought. 

Your eyes see him blurry when you part, but he’s smiling you could tell. His smile is so big, it crinkles the skin around his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to tell you, but I watched the game on television anyways,” you confess. 

“Really?” he asks, “you want this back?” his jersey is outreached to you, the one you so desperately wanted to give back a couple minutes ago. 

“Maybe,” you say, though you do take it back in your hands.

“I feel like you’re lying,” you add, while he walks backwards into his house, his hand on the doorknob. “You’ve liked me since highschool?”

“I always thought you were very beautiful and smart. I wish my English were as fluent as yours.” He wishes he could say in prose the way he likes you, the true effect it had on him. Him and his limited vocabulary just settles for ‘beautiful’. 

He closes the door when you finally step inside, it being immediately warmer. “I thought you hated me whenever you left early, when you didn’t want to sleep over.” He stops and leans against the hallway wall, running his hand through his hair. He wants you to explain yourself. 

“I don’t know, your demeanor never helped you. I mean, I thought I was just your sex toy, and I felt if I slept over I would like you more and more and you’d eventually tell me to split after finding another belle.” 

“I’m sorry,” he apologies, “for making you feel that way.”

“What were you going to do when I went back to school?”

“Probably wallow in sadness,” he jokes, not answering the question. You laugh and he kisses you again. He liked to kiss you to cut you off, or maybe because he was so overwhelmed by your smiling figure he just wanted to kiss it. You take initiative, deepening the kiss, licking his bottom lip, dropping the jersey on the floor to hold him by his neck with both hands. It’s not like this is you two’s first rodeo, he already has a hand on your shorts, playing with the strings, loosening them. 

You pull away. There’s one thing you haven’t done in the weeks with him – which seems insane – sucked him off. Really, all he’s ever wanted to do was be between your thighs, inside you, and he’s never asked you of it. You feel a little guilty.  

“Can I…” you start, your hand falling down the front of his shirt to rest over the forming bulge tucked away in his black boxers, “... try something?” He grins when you start to fall to the floor, your hands on his waistband. 

“You sure?” A hand rests on top of your head, eventually weaving through your hair, forcing you to look up at him. “Yes.” His head leans back on the wall at the drawl on your voice. It sounds like you want it so bad, like you’re aching for it. You slowly pull his underwear down, seeing his cock already red, thick, and begging for you to help. He groans as you take your small fingers to wrap around it, not even enough to fully cover the expanse. 

“I’m sorry for missing the game…” Your lips ghost the side of his cock, looking up at him with big eyes. You realize he must be sore from playing. “I told you, it-its okay,” he responds as you watch his adam’s apple bounce. “I’m sorry for leaving so often,” you go on, not watching him but watching his cock in your hands instead. His grip on your hair gets tighter. “I’m sorry for getting mad at you.” You’re just listing things at this point, anything to dwell on this, anything to get him to say something, to scold you, to beg for your mouth. 

He pushes your head so your lips touch his tip. “You talk too much,” he breathes out, “don’t tease me, baby.” 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, cooing. You finally take him, trying to take him all at once but you can’t. You feel his tip against your throat, you pull back. You look up at him, your hands filling up the space you left. He’s watching you intently, eyes on your wet lips. You spit on his tip, something he’s done on you, spreading it across his cock with the palm of your hand. He curses. You lap at his head, barely taking him, licking the pre-cum that oozes out. Finally, after a long torture, he thinks, you take him back fully, hallowing your cheeks and bobbing up and down, doe eyes making sure he likes it. He curses in English too, because there’s never enough ways to swear. At one point, his forearm falls over his eyes in an attempt to stop looking, to ease the intensity at which your ministrations fuck him over. Whenever you pull back to breathe, your hands find their way under his white shirt, up his v-line, along the hard tan skin. You let his dick hit your lips whenever you do, it twitches on them, red and angry and so close to release. He says your name a lot, and it only spurs you on, making between your legs glisten and seep through your own underwear.  Your fingers fall into your panties, and you can’t take it.

“Fuck, fuck, I-i’m coming,” he gasps, holding onto your head, pulling you off. You get the memo, opening your mouth, letting him hit your tongue, his white cum spurting onto it and your lips.

He’s breathing so heavily, “You’re insane, you’re insane…” He lets go of your hair, and you get up. His eyes are lidded, his cheeks and neck red from the aftermath, the bliss. His thumb runs over your mouth, spreading the substance across your lips. You part your mouth to show him that you swallowed. You now know athletes had much better tasting cum. He almost shatters when you do so, struggling to speak. 

“Hi,” you say, kind of awkwardly. He laughs, tired. 

“This stuff feels better when it’s your girlfriend doing it.” Your heart explodes and you try not to hurl over.

“Okay, so now I’m your girlfriend.” You sarcastically roll your eyes, leaving him to clean your face in the nearest bathroom. The fact that you even knew where it was qualified you as a girlfriend.

“Your brother is going to kill me.” 

Your childhood was peaceful and full of freedom well, until you turned seven, and your parents, as welcoming as they are, decided to befriend the new family that moved from Bajamar. That’s when the peaceful moments of your life ended and two devils straight from hell overtook your life, bringing nothing but chaos.

Fernando was two years younger than you and definitely the more mature one. Yes, he made your life miserable at times, but he always tried to involve you in any playtime you had, teaching you all the boy games he knew and even taught you football. Pedri, on the other side, made it his mission to make you regret every day that you decided to wake up and continue on with your life. Was it because he was four years younger and an immature child? For sure. 

As the years went on and you started school, you had some free time from the boys, yet your families were still keen on seeing each other every possible occasion. When you started high school and the boys were deep in their primary school, that’s when you started hanging out less frequently. You all had different friend groups, hobbies, and interests. The brothers were occupied with football every free minute of their lives.

Fernando joined you in high school, maturing a lot. You remember exactly the moment he became taller than you, his voice deeper, and his face more manly. His main focus wasn’t football anymore but rather girls, especially your friends, who were older than him and way out of his league. Nonetheless, he tried his luck, making your friendship stronger again. It was easier to have him as a friend now that he was finally bearable enough to hang out for an evening.

Pedri, on the other hand, was still stuck in primary school and hyper focused on football. You went to a few matches with your family when he still played for Tegueste, and you had to admit he had a special talent for the game. Because of that, you didn’t hang out with him at all anymore, especially when he moved to Juventud Laguna; he was more away than home.

Fernando was still one of your close friends, even somehow joining your friend group as you graduated school and scored yourself a job at the fancy boutique on the city’s fashion street. You were studying now, participating in online courses. You were 22 now but still quite unsure if you wanted to leave home yet for the big world.

But someone definitely was, as it turned out during the annual Sunday BBQ at your house with the Gonzalez family. Pedri has gotten himself a contract at Las Palmas, meaning he is moving to Gran Canaria during the summer. You weren’t quite surprised to hear that; his talent was for sure too big for this island.

Summer was slowly nearing, and as you heard the door ring jingle one Saturday afternoon, you weren’t that surprised to see Fernando walk in with a cheeky smile, looking around the boutique.

“Hello, what can I help you with, sir? Are you looking for something specific?” You went up to him, and even though you kept your introduction professional, your tone teasing as you hugged him to greet him.

“Indeed, I am. Your boy just scored himself a date for this weekend, and I’m going to Benijo.” Looking at Fer, your face scrunched up in disgust at the location, as you rolled your eyes.

“Are you like a full time fuckboy now?”

You asked as best friend sat on the sofa in front of the changing room as you continued to hang up the new collection on the racks.

Benijo was probably the most beautiful tourist attraction, but for locals it had a whole different meaning. The beach provided the best sunset view on the island and because of that, it quickly turned into a hot hook up spot for teenagers. Boys always took the romantic pass there, to get laid and it was effectible. “No, but I need you to do me a favor.” Fer suddenly lifted his head up, catching your gaze as you turned your head away from rack, you nodded for him to go on. 

“So my date is next Saturday” You nodded again to confirm that you understood, and for him to continue, “Well, mom and dad are going to Bajamar for Uncle’s birthday.” You rested your arm on the rack turning yourself to Fer fully now, “Yea, I know my parents are going as well; they won’t miss a party like that.” Your parents had already informed you that they would be away for the weekend in the town nearby where the Gonzalez brothers were born. Right now, you are baffled as to what he actually wanted with this information.

“Can you babysit Pedro for the night?” Your mouth dropped open at his words, staring at him like a little goldfish. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but…”

"Yes, it does; that boy is eighteen for Christ’s sake. He’s an adult.” You interrupted him when the first shock settled in, and you scoffed.

“He has an away game that will finish late and no one to pick him up; all his friends are full. Please, you need to pick him up from Adeje and make him some dinner; you know he only knows how to make cereal.”

“Fer, that’s literally the other side of the island, how does he still not have his license?” you complained, not really wanting to take care of Pedri on a Saturday night when you could be out with friends, especially during happy hour at the city bar where you could get free drinks.

"Please for me? I will pay you back somehow.“ He did some puppy eyes to try and convince you, and after some moments, you caved in. He promised to do anything you wanted, and you already had a great idea in mind.

"Better be worth it, cause I swear to God.” rolling your eyes you gave into Fernando as he hugged you goodbye screaming an enthusiastic "bye“ on his way out.

When Saturday rolled around, you had to decline your friends’ plans with a sad face, telling them that you couldn’t come out tonight. Babysitting your dog while your parents were away was partly right; your dog didn’t need as much attention as an eighteen year old boy, apparently. 

Fernando told you Pedri’s game would end around eight p.m. You said goodbye to your parents and went for a quick shower to freshen up. You put on some jean shorts that were quite short and a tight tank top. You definitely weren’t trying to impress a group of football boys, but the temperatures were too high to wear anything else. Even that late at night.

Leaving the house, you locked it and jumped into your old Jeep, the missing roof making it the perfect car for summer. Typing in the exact address you put on your playlist, and started your way to Adeje. The drive wasn’t long, as Tenerife was a small island, but it was over an hour nonetheless. You parked the car near the entrance to the football pitch, and seeing boys still running around, you checked that you had arrived a little earlier than intended.

Stepping out, you went to the sidelines to watch the last minutes of the game. Pedri’s team was leading by two goals, which was good; at least he would be in a happy mood. Dealing with a moody Pedri would be the nail in the coffin for you tonight.

The sun was slowly starting to set lower on the horizon, creating the perfect golden hour as everything illuminated in the warmth. Watching the game, you caught Pedri with the ball, your eyes slowly shifting up his legs, to his hips, to his arms, to his torso, and finally landing on his face as his hair was blown in every direction from running. His sweat covered face turned into discomfort as he listened to his teammates argue with the referee as he kept the ball under his right foot, waiting for the game to restart.

Looking so intensely at Pedri now, you realized how much he matured; you didn’t get to see him in quite some time. Now that all of you were old enough, it wasn’t that much of a necessity to attend the Sunday BBQ. Pedri was busy with football and school, and you had your own life, so he wasn’t on your radar at all. He looked so different compared to the picture you had saved in your mind of him.

He wasn’t small and lanky anymore; he was for sure taller than you by now, and he had some muscles poking through his jersey shirt, the material tightly wrapped around his bicep. His skin was already perfectly tanned due to playing outside the whole time. Finally, you tore your eyes away from his figure as the game restarted.

What were you even thinking about in the first place? That’s literally the little devil that tormented you for half of your childhood. Throwing water balloons at you when you were tanning or gluing your hair together with colorful glue wanting to dye your hair DIY style his way.

Taking your phone out to distract yourself for the rest of the game, you saw an Instagram story from Fer of the Benijo beach. His night obviously going way better than yours, at least one of you had fun.

Looking up, you saw that the pitch was empty, which meant Pedri would be out in a short time. After some more minutes, you heard some voices as the boys started to leave the locker room. Putting your phone away, you called out for him to catch his attention. You didn’t know if Pedri knew you were picking him up at all, so that’s why you waited outside and not in the car. 

“Pedri is the player of the season, and he gets to bang the hottest chick in town. A life like that, please,” one of his teammates joked, swinging his arm around Pedri’s neck and pulling him forward to ruffle the still wet hair from the shower.

“Shut up, bro, it’s not like that” crossing your arms in front of you, you tried to cover yourself up a little bit; maybe the low cutout wasn’t a great idea to wear when a bunch of horny boys were around. You were glad Pedri kept at least a little bit of defense in their teasing; the comment was not appropriate at all.

“Mateo told me she gives a good head; I would tap that if I were you.” Hearing Diego’s comment was enough for you; your ex-boyfriend’s little brother was a stuck-up asshole much like his brother, and you weren’t here for some snarky remarks all because someone was still bitter that you broke up with them over a year ago.

“Diego, don’t you have somewhere to be? Maybe back home, copying your brother’s whole personality?” You opened the door of your car, ready to get in, as Pedri slowly approached the vehicle, throwing his things in the back. “Maybe try to tap someone your league and see if it works.“ 

Starting the car, your music started to play again, and you drove off when Pedri put on his seatbelt. You didn’t say anything for a while until he decided to cut the slowly rising tension.

"I’m sorry for what they said.” You looked over at him for a brief second; his hair was still wet but drying from the warm summer breeze as you sped down the empty road. His skin was glowing, and the pink and orange in the sky accented it more.

He smelled fresh due to coming out of the shower, and the smell calmed you down. He didn’t use some heavy cologne, and you appreciated it even more. It was your favorite when boys weren’t drowning in strong scents after spraying half of the bottle on themselves. You smiled at him, putting your eyes back on the road.

“No need to apologize for them; I get it; I was like that once as well.” You remember clearly being eighteen and your hormones on a high, giggling like crazy when you got your first boyfriend, or lost your virginity in the backseat of some car.

It slowly hit you more as the minutes passed in the car, having small talk with him about the game, that Pedri was indeed maturing. He was calm and collected; he had his goals set out for him and wanted to achieve the best. He was excited for the move to Las Palmas but knew how much responsibility it would bring, but he accepted the challenge with open arms.

Pedri wasn’t an annoying little shithead anymore.

Parking in front of your house, it was already dark outside, but the sky was clear, as the stars were illuminating the darkness. It was a bit chilly now, but still not cold. Getting out, you rubbed your arms a little.

“I will prepare you some dinner, and then you can go back home.” Pedri had already taken his stuff and was ready to head home to his house down the street when your words stopped him.

“I can make myself food; no need to worry.”

“Fer insisted, so there’s no other option; I’m sorry,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. You smiled when Pedri sighed at his controlling brother and followed you into your house.

Pedri made himself comfortable in one of the high chairs next to the kitchen island as you started to prepare him some rice with chicken and vegetables. He was typing on his phone and watching some videos as you hummed the last song that played in your car before you got out. It was getting quite late, and Pedri was obviously tired, so you didn’t push into some unnecessary small talk; the silence was comforting right now.

The rice was already cooked, and the chicken would be ready in a minute, so you decided to cut some vegetables for the salad. As you sliced into the tomato, the juice suddenly squirted out, getting all over your white shirt.

“Fucking great,” you mumbled, watching the big red stain on your shirt, and put the knife away to take care of your top. Without much thought, you turned around to the sink, pulling your shirt off to rinse it with cold water.

“Are you okay?” Pedri asked before he lifted his head. Seeing you in your bra with your back to him, he gulped, the white lace looking angelic on you as his eyes moved down lower to your ass, which was sticking out of your shorts a little.

Pedri knew his teammates were right; literally everyone knew you were one of the prettiest girls in Tegueste. He did catch himself stalking your Instagram a little too often lately before he ended up on Pornhub searching for girls that looked like you.

But that was only in his deepest fantasies, which he didn’t share with anyone. He knew you saw him as a kid; from the moment you got introduced, it was that way. Even though Pedri wasn’t that much of a kid anymore, that didn’t change the fact that you were way out of his league and would never see him that way.

“Yes, I just need to wash it out. Can you turn off the stove? The chicken should be ready,” you instructed him as you were still struggling with your shirt. The stain washed out a little bit, but the material was completely soaked, and you needed a new shirt.

Turning around, you almost bumped into Pedri; you didn’t know he was that close to you. Looking up, you met his eyes, already staring down at you. Your breath hitched, feeling him so close, his calming scent overtaking your senses again, making your knees go weak.

His eyes moved down, looking at your cleavage, your bra, which made your breasts sit perfectly as the white lace contrasted against your soft skin. Pedri almost moaned at the view before he caught himself and raised his eyes back to yours. He wanted to apologize for his inappropriate behavior, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Instead, he dipped his head down. He was hesitant at first about invading your space, but when he saw your eyes close and your body move slightly forward as if being pulled towards him, all the worries left him, and he closed the gap between you.

Pedri captured your lips, and you melted into him, forgetting everything happening around you. He was soft and slow, not pushing you, so much different from what you were used to. You smiled against his lips as his hand wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you more towards him and making you stand on your tiptoes.

The kiss was getting heavier, turning into a full blown make-out session as you pulled on his lip, making him groan softly. Pedri’s other hand wrapped around your waist, his fingertips fidgeting with the white lace as his hand moved up and down.

Separating from Pedri, you stepped back, trying to catch your breath. You rested your hands against his chest, which was moving up and down rapidly. You could feel his heart beating against your palm. His lips were wet and plump from the intense make-out session, and he looked so adorable now. His hands wrapped around your waist pulling you flush against him, making you look up at him.

It felt wrong, so wrong to be making out with Pedri, while you stood almost half naked in front of him. But the wetness pooling in your panties, overflowed your mind with different thoughts. You needed to feel Pedri whole and felling him poke your hip slightly you knew, he wanted is as much as you.

“I-” You interrupted his words, grabbing onto his shirt, and pulled him after you as you started to head to your room.

“Shut up and come.” Shutting the door, you pushed Pedri onto your bed and straddled his lap, grabbing his cheeks in your hands. You connected your lips with his again. Feeling Pedri’s boner against you made you smirk, and you grinded down on him. Your lips moved down, leaving wet kisses against his neck, and you nibbled on his skin, making him groan again.

Pedri’s reactions to your actions satisfied you, but the amount of clothes on him was quite the opposite, so you grabbed onto the cotton fabric, pulling it up until he took the hint himself and took it off. Biting your lip, your fingertips explored his chest and abs your nails sliding over his skin as he leaned back on his elbows, enjoying your soft touch.

“When did you grow up so much?” The question was rather rhetorical as you smiled at him, moving your hips to grind down on him again. His head dropped back, feeling you rub on him; he couldn’t compare the feeling to anything he had felt before.

It was making his head spin, and he felt like cumming in his pants. Pedri tried his best not to do that. He would just embarrass himself in front of you. His cheeks were flushed red, feeling you touch all over him, your fingertips cold against his hot skin, leaving goosebumps everywhere.

Pedri didn’t exactly know what to do, but he felt like taking off some of your clothes would be appropriate in the moment, so he moved back up. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses on your collarbone as he wrapped his hands around you, pulling on your bra.

“Can I?” He murmured, looking up at you, not wanting to do something you were uncomfortable with. You nodded your head eagerly as your fingers wrapped in his hair, playing with it. Closing your eyes, you relished in the feeling of his soft kisses against you as he fumbled with your bra clasp. After a while, he moved back, frustrated that he couldn’t open it.

“How the fuck does that work?” You looked down at him, confused, with the bra still closed, and suddenly a thought hit your head. Grabbing Pedri’s chin, you made him look up at you to catch his attention.

“Have you never done that before?” His cheeks turned even more red after he heard your question and sheepishly tried to look away.

“Obviously, you just have a complicated bra on,” he murmured quietly, and you almost laughed at his obvious lie, but the situation was too serious for that now.

“Pedro-” you started again sighing deeply.

“Shit, okay, yes, I have never been with a girl before,” he finally admitted, leaning back on his hands, creating some space between you. “Don’t laugh, okay?”

Instead of laughing, you stretched yourself, ready to get off him. “Tha- we- Pedro I can’t,” you finally managed to say something clearly in shock at the fact that Pedri was a virgin. “Your first time should be special with a girl you like and trust, not me.” It didn’t feel right to take that away from Pedri just because you both felt horny at the moment. You started to move up when Pedri pulled you back down against him.

“That makes you perfect, then.”

“No Pedro-”

“I’m serious. I mean, we’ve known each other for so long, and you are literally the most beautiful girl I know. Besides, you are more experienced and know what to do.”

Sighing, you thought for a moment about his words, appreciating his compliment. Well, you definitely had sex with some guys already, but after your breakup with Mateo, you went celibate, and that was over a year ago.

“Are you sure?” You asked to confirm he knew his decision and wasn’t just hazed by the overwhelming feelings.

“Yes, hundred percent,” he nodded, smiling softly, the boyish spark he still had shining through as he grabbed your waist, his fingertips digging into your skin.

Stretching your hands back, you unclasped your bra with one swift movement, snickering when you saw his face. You dropped the material, exposing yourself to him. You wrapped your hands around his neck, bringing him closer to encourage him.

He was hesitant at first, not really knowing how to start, but Pedri’s natural instinct kicked in, as did the small knowledge he gathered from watching porn and the stories his teammates told. He kissed around your cleavage before moving down; his lips wrapped around your nipple, and you closed your eyes at the sensation, throwing your head back and pushing your chest more towards him.

Pedri looked up, studying your reactions. Your mouth was dropped open, your eyes closed, and soft, breathy moans left your lips. He switched sides, giving his attention to the other nipple as his fingers played with the already wet one. The pleasure was overtaking your body as your hips started to move back and forth, your nails dipping into his shoulders, leaving some marks there.

Pedri’s boner was definitely painful at this point, so you pushed him away, making him lay back on his elbows, confused. He got scared that he had done something wrong when you got up, but then you opened your shorts, your hips moving as you tried to push them down.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your body, taking in every inch. A satisfied grin on your face as you looked at him spread out on your bed, admiring your figure. It made you feel confident, and you wanted to give everything for Pedri to remember the night for a long time.

Stepping out of your pants, you dropped to your knees, crawling in between his legs. You pulled on the strings, loosening his joggers, and before you grabbed on the waistband, you looked up at him silently, asking if he was okay with it. He nodded his head a little too eagerly, making you smirk, and with his help, you pulled his joggers and boxers down, leaving him naked on your bed.

Resting your hands on his thighs, you massaged his skin as you got comfortable on your knees. Grabbing his throbbing dick, you softly licked away the leaking precum before you wrapped your lips around his tip, slowly going lower until he hit the back of your throat.

“Oh fuck!” Pedri yelped, feeling the new overwhelming sensation as you took him whole in your mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut when you started to move up and down on him, working him skillfully. He wrapped one hand into your hair, pushing you down more.

“Little eager are we?” You chuckled when you moved back up, catching his gaze as your hand pumped him slowly.

“I’m sorry, but it felt amazing, you’re really good,” he admitted in between heavy pants. “Stop, I’m literally gonna cum,” he said, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping your movements abruptly.

“Awh, what a waste that would be,” you teased him as you got up from the floor. Pedri’s hands were quicker than yours, grabbing on to your thong as he pulled it down slowly, kissing your lower tummy, hips, and thighs.

“You’re so cute,” you cooed at his soft actions. When you were fully naked, you straddled him again, his length pushing against your tummy. You grabbed it and lifted yourself to hover over him. Suddenly, Pedri grabbed your hips, stopping your movements. 

“You okay?”

“Yes, yes, it- it’s just—I—well,” he stuttered suddenly, and you raised your eyebrows, confused. Maybe he changed his mind.

“You wanna stop? No prob-" 

"No!” He raised his voice to interrupt you, startling you a little. “I mean, no, go on, it’s just that I don’t have a condom with me.”

“Oh.” You bit your lip to stop the laugh that wanted to escape your mouth; he was so innocent and pure. “You can take me raw, I don’t mind,” Pedri almost moaned at your words and nodded, confirming that he’s okay with that, so you grabbed him again, aligning him with your entrance.

You rubbed his tip against your entrance, making sure you’re wet enough to take him, the action alone making Pedri whimper uncontrollably. You slowly sank down on his length, laying your hands flat on his chest for leverage. You both moaned in unison, feeling each other.

When you got used to him inside you, you started to move up and down, and Pedri felt like he would bust any second. You were warm and so tightly wrapped around his length, the feeling couldn’t compare to his hand at all. He now understood all the stories from his teammates and their comments; for him, football always came first, but that was far better than any game they won.

He couldn’t contain the sounds that were leaving his mouth; the whole experience was too overwhelming for him. His hands were blindly gripping your flesh.

“Feel good, baby?” You cooed, speeding up your movements as you watched him underneath you getting lost in the pleasure. You knew he probably was somewhere on cloud nine.

“Yes, please don’t stop.” You obeyed his pleas, riding him faster as some moans left your lips.

Grabbing Pedri’s hands, you brought them over his head, interviewing your fingers as you laid down on him, your nipples brushing against each other as you moved your hips. Your forehead rested against his, the touch making his eyes flutter open. Smiling down, you connected your lips with his, lazily making out with him as you twerked down on him.

“Fuck! I’m gonna cum,” Pedri mumbled against your lips, squeezing your hands, and you let go of him sitting back up more to bring him to his peak.

“Yeah? Gonna cum inside me?” You teased to bring him over the edge as your hips circled around him, making him go crazy. He threw his head back, and you wrapped your fingers around his exposed neck, squeezing down softly. That was enough to bring Pedri to his orgasm, as he moaned loudly and you felt him cum inside you.

Bringing your fingers down, you rubbed your clit, you were close yourself and wanted to come as well. Pedri may not know how to do it yet, but you weren’t leaving empty-handed here. He opened his eyes, watching you unfold on top of him. He felt you squeeze around his member, almost making him cum a second time. 

"Fuck you’re so sexy,“ he complimented as you squirmed from his words, your thighs starting to shake as your orgasm was nearing. His hands on your thighs, rubbing up and down softly to encourage you to come. "Cum for me, bonita, cum all over me.”

Pedri’s words made you whimper the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm overtaking your body as you rode out your orgasm.

“Oh my god,” you tried to catch your breath as you collapsed on top of Pedri, his semi-hard dick slipping out of you, making you both whine at the lost contact. After some seconds, you slipped down, laying on your side, as your head snuggled into your pillow. Pedri didn’t let go of you turning, as he got comfortable pulling your leg up higher on his hip. He snuggled into your chest, his lips already back on your nipple, sucking on it softly.

You smiled down at him, your fingers scratching his scalp lightly as he moaned against your skin. His eyes were closed, and you could feel the thumping of his heart against you, his cum covered cock against your thigh was still halfway erected and you moved your leg a little bit, teasing him, as his body shuddered, too sensitive now making him whine.

"You did good for your first time,“ you whispered after some moments praising him. The only thing heard in your bedroom were the sounds of Pedri sucking and nibbling on your tits. He murmured against you, not wanting to let go of you, wrapping his arms around your body caging you in.

You let him play with you as you grabbed the blanket, pulling it over your naked bodies, one hand in his hair, the other on his back, as you calmed him down from the high of the night. Your nails were going up and down his spine and you giggled watching as the boy in your arms had a satisfied grin on his face with your nipple in his mouth.

"You’re gonna make me cum again if you don’t stop” you sighed dreamily as his wet tongue circled around the sensitive nub, sending shock waves to your pussy. Turns out that was exactly his intention, as his hands grabbed your asscheeks moving you against his thigh rubbing your wetness all over him. Biting down on your lip you felt your second orgasm nearing, as Pedri bit down on your nub making you whine loudly as you came against him.

Meeting Carlos was an utter accident. Your father was some big sponsor for Ferrari's F1 team and was granted tickets to one of the races, which your father had dragged you to. Sitting in a corner, you didn't think anyone would find you; you just wanted to read your book. It was a good book series as you were reading Katee Roberts new series, and it was so good.

Getting comfortable, you become unaware of your surroundings, but your eyes catch a movement of red, and it freezes, making you look up. Casting your eyes up, you blink at the person and take them in. Do you know those traditional ways of describing the male lead in the book? Yeah, this guy was the definition of male lead looks. Sun-kissed skin, honey eyes, and thick hair curling around his ears and neck, you try hard not to admire the rest of him. He stares at you like a deer in headlights, almost expecting you to bother him, but you just look back down at your book, more interested in Eros and Psyche than the real man in front of you.

The guy stares at you, shocked you paid him no mind as he moves, sits down on one of the couches, and just lays back like he owns the place. You try to ignore how he fidgets around, trying to get comfortable, or when he types loudly on his phone.

"Can't you just stay still? You're acting like you own the damn building." You snap, annoyed with your peace being interrupted.

"My face is on the side of the building, so I guess so." The man snips back, and you try hard not to blush from his accent or the fact you just insulted one of the Ferrari drivers.

"Which one are you?" You ask and almost laugh from the absolute shock on the man's face.

"Carlos Sainz." He mumbles like he just got knocked down a peg, which he was.

"My dad likes you. I guess that's why he sponsors you." You shrug and put your nose back in your book, ending the conversation.

That was Carlos's first conversation with you and one he remembered. After that, you slowly started to come around more and more, your father thought maybe you were enjoying the sport, and you did. You decided to read Lauren Asher's Dirty Air series and concluded that she definitely framed Santiago after Carlos, which always made you blush.

Carlos would always find you in some random spot of the motorhomes, with a book next to you. This time you had a book called Twisted Games on your lap. He froze, realizing you had fallen asleep in the morning sun. Your head was tilted back, your hair slightly messy, and your clothes comfortable. He couldn't help but picture himself coming home and seeing you like this on his couch.

After that, he set his mind to asking you out. He loved being able to talk to you about everything and anything and never having to talk about F1. Yes, he loved his job, but sometimes being with someone with no interest was the best. Asking you out was simple. He noticed which book series you were reading and decided to get the last book before it was released. It took a lot of convincing, but he gifted you, Twisted Lies, resulting in you kissing him. You shocked you both, but when you went to pull away, Carlos kicked into gear and kissed you back as his arms lightly wrapped around your waist. After that, the rest was history.

"Carlos, have you seen my book?" You asked your boyfriend. He was sitting outside enjoying the sun as it was Friday and had just gotten done with media and was enjoying the quiet around the paddock until it became swarmed with people for the evening practice.

"C'mere." He grumbles, not opening his eyes as you huff but moving towards your boyfriend. He pulls you into his lap, making you sit down as he draws you closer, kissing your neck and squirming, but you lay your head down, his chin resting on your head.

Neither of you cared to be in this position as you sat on the roof motorhome under the shade of the net that covered it; barely anyone could see the two of you. You move around some more, but Carlos's fingers dig slightly into your hip, making you stop.

"Unless you want to cause a problem, I suggest you stop." He whispers, almost nuzzling you as his words make your skin tickle.

"You pulled me on your lap, so it's your fault." You tease, making him laugh and finally open his eyes to look at you.

He watches you as you look around the area listening to the crowd of people slowly grow more and more as it inches closer to the first practice for the weekend. Carlos always hates leaving you because he never knows who's trying to find you or be around you, and he hates it. Carlos just wants to make sure that you're okay. After rumors got out of you two dating, he's been meticulous with keeping you out of the public eye. You always remind him that you'll be in your corner, where you both first meet, reading and book and watching the practice or race.

He knows that you'll be mainly reading a book more than anything.

"Please be careful. The media is heavier this weekend; I don't want them overwhelming you." He whispers, his grip tightening on your hips, making you nod.

You both remember the last time a reporter got a hold of you; he was insulting and disgusting and asked you about your sex life. You vaguely recall running into Carlos while the reporter kept following you. Carlos is usually the calm one, with a level head, but when he hears the question about which of you is on top, he loses it. It took multiple mechanics and Charles to pull Carlos off the guy; of course, the speculations of what caused this was spinning, but Carlos turned off both your phones and held you close for the rest of the night. Anytime it was mentioned, Carlos still saw red.

"I'll stay away. Besides, I prefer my book and you; that's all I need." You giggle, which has Carlos calming down.

When a soft dinging sound from Carlos's phone goes off, your boyfriend sighs, lifts you up, and pats your ass gently, telling you to get up. Carlos stands, stretches, and looks down at you as you admire the peak of his happy trail, really hating that he must leave. Chuckling, his hand wraps around your jaw, and you look at him as he leans down, kissing you gently but possessively. Pulling away, he pulls your bottom lip slightly, making you whine as he gives you a quick peck on the lips before fixing his hat.

"Please be safe, don't wander, and read your book. Hmm, I looked it up. News things to try." he winks, making you laugh and blush, waving him off as he jogs down the stairs.

Now, that probably wasn’t the truth, but why couldn’t he use one of the videos you had sent him that he kept hidden in his phone and ask you nicely like a good boy?

Because Ferran preferred to be naughty.

"B- Bebé, I"

"Quiet" you snapped at him after going to the drawer in the dresser and picking out stuff in nothing but your black see-through g-string. Ferran pressed his lips shut, trying to rub his thighs together for some sort of friction as his dick laid down against his stomach.

After finding him in front of his gaming setup with his cock out and pumping it so fast in his hand, you immediately moved him to the bedroom and went for the handcuffs, and he knew not to mess with you then. Even though he had all the advantages over your small frame. He towered over you, and it would only take one move to sweep you off the ground. But now he laid there bare, completely sweaty and sensitive from not getting to cum all yours to use and waiting for the wonderful torture that would ensue.

Shutting the drawer roughly, you hid a few items from Ferran and went to straddle his thick thighs. You licked your lips at the sight of his cock, which always ruined you in the most perfect of ways, and then stared up to meet his glossy eyes. He was shining with sweat, his hair was a tangled mess, and you could practically see the marks on his palms from his nails digging in. He was already in so much torture, and you hadn’t done a single thing.

"Don’t give me that look, niño" you said, going for one of the items, which was a bottle of baby oil. You popped it open and dripped it onto your chest, slithering it all over your torso, paying close attention to your perky tits. You moved your hair out of the way and stared down with pursed lips, little moans leaving your lips the more you rubbed your hands all over yourself. "Your hands are so much bigger, niño, this would be much faster with those. Don’t you think?" You knew that would drive him crazy; it was one of his biggest turn ons seeing your little body shine so sweetly. 

Ferran breathed out, trying to keep his eyes up, but it was impossible with you massaging the tits he adored. They were his safe spot to sleep on, plus whenever he was restless and anxious, you allowed him to suck on them. He loved your pretty nipples in his hot mouth.

"Let me then. Please, I wanna help-"

You grabbed more oil and put some on your hands so that you could reach back and spread it over your ass. Ferran would’ve done anything to get one peek. You wanted to feel his hands as well; god, they were so good to you, so big, always all over your body.

But you wouldn’t give in.

"I’m good. You want some?" You continued to drip some over Ferran’s chest and abs, lifting yourself up to hover over his cock. He let out a bit of a moan, making your tummy swirl, but you kept your cool like you always did and spread the oil across his buff chest, broad shoulders, and down to his abdomen, completely avoiding his member that jumped a bit, making you giggle. "There…"

"Mmm, please…"

You stared at his gorgeous body and, ignoring him, slid your g-string over to the side to show him your pussy. With a watering mouth, Ferran lifted his hips at the sight, his jaw clenching. His teeth grazed his bottom lip when you brought your fingers down and rubbed your little, aching clit in front of him.

Moaning, you licked your fingers and went back down to toy with yourself, feeling your increasingly wet folds. You were punishing Ferran, but of course, you were so turned on by seeing him touch himself. It was always incredible to see him completely naked, desperately trying to get himself off. The faces he’d make and the sounds; they were enough to make you cum without anyone touching you.

"Please touch me, niño…" You begged with fluttering eyes, craning your neck to the side as you sped up your delicate fingertips around your nub, and Feran was fooled when he tried moving his hands over, forgetting about the cuffs.

Grunting, he glared at you and kept his eyes down to see you stop, keep rubbing, then stop again. He could only imagine the way your pussy was clenching and pulsating, wanting nothing more than his cock or his fingers.

Giggling, you leaned in to cup his sweet face and kissed him ever so softly.

It was like that for a while until you moved your head to the side and stuck your tongue out for him to open his mouth and grant you entrance. You smiled against him and dominated him within it, and you kept on kissing him heavily to get him even more turned on.

Reaching back, you moved your g-string to the side again and rubbed at your pussy, touching his jawline and sucking on his tongue with a whine. Your noses clashed and teeth grazed, and it was one of the hottest make-out sessions ever for him. His lower half was lifting and thinking about you fucking him, which made his length throb some more, but your lips connecting was the best he could get for the time being. At least you let him have that.

After a few minutes, you moved away by sucking his bottom lip in between yours. You pulled on it and let it pop back in place, giving your boy a smile.

When he opened his eyes again, you were holding a second item you had kept hidden beside him, and his cheeks went red. You reached over to the bedside table for your clean vibrating dildo. You only used it when Ferran was away for longer; he knew about it and let you use it whenever you missed him. It would be the first time for you to use it when he was actually home. Ferran’s eyes were loopier than ever as he watched you kiss it and then take it inside your mouth while looking at him. 

His own mouth suddenly went dry as you sucked on it, moving up and down, bobbing your head, and spitting on it to lube it up, even going as far as making yourself deepthroat it until you purposely gagged.

Somehow, more precum oozed out of him just thinking about how well you always sucked his dick. Your mouth was heavenly, your tongue always knowing its tricks. He loved to fuck your mouth; however, you were still in control now.

Letting your spit fall on the tip of the dildo, you moved to take your g-string off completely. Your next move was to leave it dangling on one leg and fuck yourself because, god, did you need it, but then another thought erupted.

So, taking it off and bringing it up, you shoved it into Ferran’s mouth. His brows were knitted as his sounds were muffled by the fabric, and his tongue was right on the wet patch you had formed. His eyes shut with delight soon after the taste, and he took them fully inside his mouth with a deep moan.

Anything to taste your sweetness.

"Since you enjoyed the porn so much, mommy’s going to play a little. See how you like it."

Ferran cursed in his mind and heard the vibrating start up as you moved the dildo around your folds. He hissed and locked his jaw, his ears perking at the low moans you were leaving as he watched you satisfy yourself.

You had spread your legs as far as they would go and rubbed your needy clit with the sex toy. You hummed, and could practically feel how slick you were the more you kept rubbing your sensitive skin with it. You teased yourself by making it vibrate more and then proceeded to ease it in. You whimpered when your walls shut around the tip of the toy, and you kept playing with your clit for stimulation, pulling the dick out and then taking more inches each time.

Ferran watched you discreetly, biting on your g-string, flexing his arms, and moving against the sheets when he felt close. It was barely anything, yet you had to remember he was masturbating prior to this.

Once you felt settled with the dildo, you moved up a little to watch Ferran in front of you better, flicking your wrist to fuck your needy cunt with a toy that could never compare to his actual size and width. You clung onto your breast and filled yourself up to the brim while Ferran let out a loud moan when he saw you creaming all over the toy.

Knowing damn well how close he was to the edge, you tortured him further and started to squirm around, moving your hips wildly to fuck yourself more. You closed shut around the dildo and decided to keep fucking yourself with one hand while the other played with Ferrans’s cock. You gasped at how hard he felt against your palm, how heavy he was, and how much he was leaking. His thighs were nearly jiggling, and he let out a sob from trying to stop himself.

It felt fantastic, and he knew he’d let out so much cum if you let him.

"You wish you could fuck me like that now? A good boy? You weren’t behaving like one earlier."

Ferran threw his head back, his jaw slacking as he spat out your g-string. "P-please. Mami, please–"

Ferran wanted, needed to be inside your endless warmth. But he didn’t deserve it, not yet. And you were horrible for letting him listen to his favorite sound. He always loved to have slow sex so that he could hear the way your pussy gushed and bubbled as it took his big cock and pushed him back out before pulling him right back in. If he could hear only one thing for the rest of his life, that would be it.

"Ohh niño, this feels so good." You gaped and stroked him some more, pounding yourself at pretty much the same pace. Ferran felt like passing out with the way your thumb touched his oozing tip, ready to mess up the sheets. He knew you could probably feel the way he ached. "If only I didn’t catch you, then you could be raw inside of me right now."

"Fucking- please." He begged some more and curled his toes when he felt something snap at the feeling of your smaller fist closing up on him while showing off your pretty acrylics. That’s when he knew he couldn’t possibly take it anymore. "Shit, I’m sorry! Okay, I’m sorry, just please, it's fucking-" His voice cracked at the end, and you nearly came alone by his begging and apologies.

He sounded like such a sweet boy.

Before he knew it, you were pulling out your dildo very slowly and whined at the loss, but you were quick to move back on top of him, only crawling to get in between his legs this time. You brought your ass up for display and looked up at Ferran as he almost cried, begging with his stare now.

He looked so fucked out with all of this edging.

Nibbling on your lip, you grabbed his cock and looked at his swollen tip. He was surely getting blue balls from this, but you had more in mind.

"I like your apologies, niño, but I’m gonna need more." Your tone would’ve made angels envy you.

You almost felt bad by the look on his face, wide eyes, plump lips, knitted brows. He couldn’t take it.

Smiling, you leaned in and ghostly touched his tip against your lips. Ferran waited for you to put him in your mouth and suck him off until he could cum, but you weren’t that nice. Better yet, you were leaning down to nuzzle against his balls, one of his ultimate weaknesses. He let out a sound deep within his throat when he felt your fingers dance around his girth while your tongue stuck out to lick the two mounds.

You moisturized them both and popped one of them into your mouth, and that’s when he almost lost it. You sucked on it real good, your cheeks hollowing as you moaned around him, creating even further buzzing. You could practically feel the amount of cum he had to hold back, and it made you drip down your thighs. You were so fucking horny.

You continued sucking on it, taking his other one soon enough and swirling your tongue around. You let it go with a pop and quickly dived back in to suck on them both at the same time, squeezing them together and letting the tip of your tongue poke at them to make him bring his knees up and try to thrust upward for more somehow. His once pink tip was raging red, and he let out a long groan when you kept his balls inside your mouth, pulling on them and letting go before finally grabbing the end of his cock to wrap your pretty lips properly around him.

"Fuck!" Ferran shouted out, trying to pull away now that you had him, even though that was the one thing he wanted. Your hand moved over and under the base as you sucked hard on the head, still playing with his wet balls, ready to explode. You winked at him when you relaxed your throat and jaw and went down and down until your nose touched his pubic bone.

Ferran felt that first drop of cum and held back so hard. He knew you felt it shoot down your throat when you swallowed immediately.

"Ahhh…" he let out while you continued to give him one of the greatest blowjobs ever, fondling his balls and then pulling away slowly with glossy eyes before kissing all the way down his dick so that your saliva could surround him.

"Mmm…" You giggled, paying more attention to the first few inches of his cock and the slit.

"I can’t- I can’t fucking hold it- fuck!"

He didn’t get to speak anymore before he was cumming, letting out the largest load of cum you had ever seen. It shocked you, so you pulled away to let it seep out, landing on your face and even your hair, completely covering your hand and his tummy.

"Oh, now I’m mad," you seethed, moving up to straddle his large body as his stomach and chest heaved up and down to catch his breath after his brutal high.

Bringing your hands up to his neck to squeeze as you grinded against his cock, which was getting erect again already, You gave him a menacing look, and he gasped, trying to breathe.

"I-I… s-sorry, mami, I didn’t mean to. I just-"

"Of course you didn't mean to," you snapped at him as you let his throat go. He coughed and saw fogginess until he was suddenly face to face with you. Looking into his pretty brown eyes, you melted and decided to give into him.

"I’m gonna fuck that cock. I don’t care anymore," you said as you spread yourself open over him and grabbed at his dick. He was still vibrating from his high, so when you placed him at your entrance, you felt the quivering surrounding you as well, and it felt so good; almost for him to cum again in seconds.

Ferran tried moving his head up to catch your tits and was happy when you put them right on his face so that he could be at least a little distracted when you placed his entire length inside your sweet cunt. You kissed his forehead and proceeded to move your body downward until you were only filled with him. You fit him like a glove, and it was almost magical how you both felt for each other. So full, so warm, so tight.

You momentarily hushed him when he whimpered, spitting on your tits to have him collect it and leave a trail with his own spit, sucking once more. You pressed them together against him to nuzzle them on his face, and he gently nibbled on the beautiful, hard nipples.

When he seemed calmer, you decided to lift your hips and then roll down on his cock by swaying your ass. Ferran’s brows furrowed at feeling himself finally raw in your core.

"Oh," you mumbled as you continued hopping on him, only moving your lower body while keeping him close to the upper part of you. The cuffs were making his wrists bruise up, and you wanted to kiss them better, but him not being able to touch you was at least a little extra punishment.

You hoisted yourself up before slamming down on his erect, shaking dick at such a merciless pace that it hurt both of you so good.

He was stretching you out in the most amazing way possible, and you were shutting around him as if you needed more to live. He was grazing your g-spot just barely, and he knew it. He knew your special place like the back of his hand, and yet you didn’t let him touch it, even though it was more painful for you. His wet tip was throbbing inside of you at the mere thought.

"Oh, mami"

You leaned back to spread your thighs some more, the backs of them touching his own as you stayed in place with his balls cushioned up against your ass so that you could rotate your body. He felt himself stir at every angle, your walls heated. You bit your lip hard when he hit your cervix a tad, and your arousal was creaming him up. "Ah, your dick is so big, niño, I love it so much."

Ferran kept his head rested back, feeling himself close to becoming undone again, and then your slow pace quickly changed into a rapid one. Your smaller hands had moved to rest on his chest to lever yourself, and you brought your feet up to rest flat on the bed with bent knees. It was hard for your small body to be on top of Ferran’s broad and hard frame, but with all the training you had, you knew all the tricks by now. Spreading your legs in your crouching position, you spat down onto your clit and let it slip down to his pubic bone. You twisted your body and started to bounce hard on his cock, making him grit his teeth and let out a heavy groan.

Your tits bounced in the same rhythm, and you arched your neck back so that he could watch how round they were, still glistening from your spit and his. His protruding vein was grazing you so deliciously that it made you yelp.

"Whose dick is this? Whose dick is this, niño, tell me- fuck!" You almost toppled over when you felt Ferran suddenly thrust up to meet you in the middle, hitting your g-spot directly. "Oh my God!" you shrieked with your nails digging into his skin as he did it again. "Oh my God, Ferran!"

"Yours." Ferran groaned and planted himself back down. "Fuck!"

Getting near him again, you kissed him deeply and let yourself pull him out of you. Both of you sighed at the emptiness, but Ferran’s heart sped up when you kissed along his jaw, down to his neck next, putting extra pressure on a certain spot. He had raggedy breaths and loved having you mark him. First those gorgeous nails, and now a beautiful hickey along the side of his thick neck. He definitely could not be shirtless in front of anyone for the time being.

You kissed his chest and stuck your tongue out when you got to one of his perky nipples, sucking and playing with them while your own were pressed up against his ribcage. Ever since being pulled out, Ferran’s cock was standing up and resting against your core, so you still felt each other there, but barely.

"Mi amor," you kindly said to him as you reached up for the keys of the cuffs. 

Ferran’s eyes widened as he tried moving up in anticipation, making you giggle as they finally clicked open. "There you go…"

You hardly had time to say or do anything else before your body was being flipped over and slammed down against the bed. You looked at Ferran’s dark eyes and large body on top of yours before he was gripping your waist to turn you and place you face down, ass up.

Your face was mushed against the bed sheets, and he didn’t even take a second for you to get used to his dick again before he was slamming himself inside your dripping cunt, making you take it all within the first swift, one hand on your spine. Your legs flailed behind him, heels nearly digging into his ass as you screamed into the mattress just as he started penetrating you with his hands clutching your ass, thighs smacking against yours.

His legs were on either side of you next as he rammed into you with such heaviness, grunting again and again as the bed slammed itself against the wall. He was so good at switching it up, and that made you desire him more than anything. He was a good sub, but nothing beat him being a dom; he fucked your tiny pussy with everything that he had. Just like a daddy would.

"My pretty little pussy… pretty little ass…" Ferran hummed, admiring the way you coaxed him up. Taking you raw in doggy style had to be the best thing for him with such a view and getting back to feeling dominant. After moments of his sloppy thrusts, Ferran teased your fuckhole by pulling out and grinding his hips only slightly. Then, he was gripping your shoulders next to plunge hard and fast, pulling out, pausing, and then going in back deep inside you.

Your eyes completely rolled back, and you nearly blacked out. His dick was back to hitting your g-spot, and he made sure to do it with every single pounding next. "Fuck, yes, niño!" Ferran gripped your hair, pulling on it harshly, arching your head back so you could look at him. "Yes papi!" You quickly corrected yourself, barely able to say anything with how much your head was pulled back. 

"Yeah, that’s right," he grumbled before releasing your hair and letting your head drop down. You squeaked, feeling his hard palm slap against your asscheek. 

His sloping dick stroked and pounded away like there was nothing more important than the two of you cumming. His muscles were bulging out of his arms, his skin was slapping and sinking against yours, and everything was a wet mess.

And then you felt yourself starting to unroll. Your mouth parted, reaching back for his healing wrists, and he only gyrated his hips more until he felt you squirt and gush all over him.

It trickled down to his balls, causing more wetness to spread in between you two, and you could’ve sworn you felt your heartbeat in between your legs.

"Fuck I’m- I need to cum-" Ferran pleaded soon after.

This was only the best part, getting so lost in your own pleasure with Ferran that you both didn’t even connect with reality and switched between begging and commanding. You couldn’t wait to feel his thick, sticky, creamy cum inside you.

You reached back with both hands and grabbed at his hips. "Yeah, baby, cum inside me."

Freezing up, Ferran came solely from that, groaning as he let his cum shoot out, deep in you. He kept himself there so that you could take it all, cock twitching, and though he loved to leave it there for him to make you a real mom one day, he didn’t even give you one second after his orgasm before going down and collecting your cum along with his.

Your body trembled, shaking your ass a little, as you felt him slurp it all out. "Oh, my dirty boy."

He kept it inside his mouth, and with a sweaty, naked body, you went to your back with your tongue out for him to spit it in yours. You swirled it around and wiped at your lip, giving him a smile as you swallowed it all.

"Am I forgiven?" Ferran asked as he tried to catch his breath, leaning on his elbow as his body weight landed on yours crushing you beneath him.

With a smile, you lifted the covers, inviting him to lie next to you, and soon he got comfortable, leaning slightly against the headboard. His arm spread out, and you moved closer, snuggling into his side as your head rested comfortably against his chest and your leg draped across his thighs, feeling the soft towel on your skin. Pedri reached out for his phone and started scrolling through his Instagram as you watched on the stream, leaning your phone on his abdomen. His fingers tangled themselves in your hair as he played mindlessly with it, replying to some DMs with the other hand. Suddenly the stream caught his attention as much as it alerted yours, as your boyfriend screamed excitedly over a player.

"Man, fucking finally got Pedri!" He yelled as you looked at Pedri’s special edition card as his play figure made its entrance on the bottom of the screen, "gonna beat your ass with my lineup, hermano!" He rambled on to his friend through the headset as he saved the card in his lineup, and you looked up to see Pedri’s reaction, who had a smug smirk on his face almost cracking up. That cheeky bastard. 

"You want me to call him? I can try, I don’t know if he picks up, tho" alarmed you looked back at your phone, seeing as your boyfriend was reading through the comments, the people wanting him to call Pedri. Ever since the footballer agreed to visit him in one of his streams testing out the new FIFA with him, Pedri has made several appearances on your boyfriend's streams, mostly by playing against him as they chatted about football. Your boyfriend was over the moon when Pedri first agreed, only because his manager saw that as a great opportunity to carry on the campaign as Pedri was one of the main faces of this year's edition of the game. It turned out that the two got along pretty well and played with or against each other whenever Pedri had more time to play at home and was up to it. 

When Pedri made his first appearance on your boyfriend's stream, you were as starstruck as him. He was a big fan of his and adored him as an athlete, so having him actually come to your house and be there for a couple hours seemed unreal. Pedri proved himself to be an amazing guest and person. You had some bad previous encounters with „guests" that visited your boyfriend for his Twitch career purposes, but Pedri was the most humble guy you got to know. The conversation with him was so easy and light that whenever he visited your home, he always had a little chat with you as you laughed together before he went to your boyfriend, who was setting up his stream. These little encounters you had led to everything you have now. Pedri quite literally took over all your free time as you sneaked around Barcelona. 

Suddenly Pedri’s phone started ringing, and you looked at him, panic overtaking you as you muted your stream as quickly as you could. "What’s up, hermano?" Pedri answered the phone cheerfully, not once breaking eye contact between you two as your boyfriend could be heard on the other end. You sat up as the covers fell off, exposing your matching red lingerie set to Pedri, but that was the least of your concerns right now. Pedri continued chatting with your boyfriend about joining him for a FIFA game as soon as he got some free time.

A smug smirk adorned his face the whole time, his free hand stretched out as he pulled on the strap of your bra, pulling it down and exposing your tits to him fully. He grabbed your boob, and you bit down on your lip to suppress the moan that was about to slip. Pedri didn’t give two fucks about the consequences, and god knows why this turned you on so much as you felt some wetness pool between your legs. It was probably the thought of getting caught or either Pedri being just a complete bastard, as it turns out, you fancied the bad guys way too much. 

The sudden hotness that washed over your body made your nipples hard, and Pedri noticed straight away, the grin on his face, which only grew as he pinched your nipple pulling on it, making you want to scream out, but instead you tried to push his hand off your body. It didn’t help as Pedri grabbed your neck forcefully, making you stop your movements as your breath got stuck in your throat. You looked at him with those pleading puppy eyes he, oh so adored on you, and they always made him cave in. He inhaled sharply before cutting off your boyfriend on the other line. "I’m kinda busy right now, but greet your girl from me and tell her she’s the sweetest." Pedri’s grip on your neck loosened as he told his last goodbye before ending the phone call. 

"You’re such an asshole" you murmured commenting on his last words, as you hit his chest with your palm. Pedri only chuckled in response, as he got up from the bed to connect his phone back to the charger near the windows, you sat up aswell and stretched out your hand to pull on Pedri’s towel, making it fall down exposing his completely naked back to you. "Your boyfriend is the biggest loser I know" he replied as he let go of his phone, putting it on do not disturb. Turning away, he watched as you removed your bra completely with one swift movement, throwing it somewhere in the hotel room as you sat at the end of the bed.

Pedri hummed, a smirk on his face, as he walked back towards you until your legs spread to let him in closer, his hips almost pressed against yours as he crowded your space. He grabbed your chin to make you look up at him. 

“What do you need?” 

“Fuck me, Papi.” You purred, leaning back on your elbows so you put his focus on the rest of your body you knew he adored so much. Pedri stepped back from the bed, ignoring your whimpers as you already missed him close to you.

“Where princesa?” He muttered, stroking his cock as he watched you spread your thighs open moving your thong to the side, exposing yourself to him.

“Needy little slut.” He hissed.

“Needy for papi.”

“Needy for this.” Pedri grabbed his heavy member that was getting harder and suggestively swung it with his hand as the other groped at his balls.

“Please…” you begged as your mouth watered at the sight of his cock. Pedri reached into his bag and you couldn’t help but whimper at the appearance of the familiar foil. At your sound of disappointment, Pedri smirked.

“What do you think? Me balls deep raw inside of you? After he done that aswell?” You felt a blush heat your cheeks as you looked down at your spread legs, at your pussy that you could practically see getting wetter. “Maybe I shouldn’t give a fuck, take a couple pics, send him a few of your little creampies, huh?” You whimpered and rubbed your clit while you listened to Pedri speak so filthy while he pulled at the heavy cock between his legs.

“Oh, yeah definitely” Pedri grunted at the thought, not even looking at you as he closed his eyes facing the ceiling for a moment. “Should fill you up and send you home with my cum between your legs. Bet that bitch would enjoy that if he decided to fuck you again.” You watched as he walked closer to you, his hand still squeezing his base as his length jutted proudly from between his legs. 

“Probably just have to show some tits or tell him you love him.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Papi, please.” You whined, you couldn’t take anymore games from him.

Pedri always felt the need to taunt your boyfriend. He wanted you to understand how incompetent your boyfriend was. How he could never give you what Pedri was giving you. He looked at how wrecked you were now, how wrecked you were for him and couldn’t help but smirk. Pedri knew he was getting off on it, the pleasure of having you spread for him and taking you from your boyfriend made his balls tighten and ego push higher that needed. Images of your stuffed pussy pictured and sent via text messages to your boyfriend made him squeeze the base of his cock, his member so swollen he was practically edging himself keeping away from you. 

He hissed as he pulled on his cock quickly before squeezing his base again, his thoughts fixated on all the things he could do to you that he didn’t. 

“Is he nasty like me? Does he suck all the juices out of your pussy, even when they’re his own?” Pedri brought the condom wrapper up to his teeth, ripping the corner before pulling out the rubber, letting the metallic foil fall to the ground. He groaned as he rolled the condom down his cock as he questioned you, finally getting to the edge of the bed.

“Does he let you sit on his face?” He looked at you, your infamous puppy eyes looking up making him moan. When you bit your lip, he smirked.  “Come get it from Papi, princesa.” Hearing his words you reached in front of you excitedly and grabbed Pedri’s hardened member, pulling him by his cock to come close and rubbing his head against your soaked hole. You moaned and circled your hips, letting the lube on the condom smear all over your pussy.

“No, no.” Pedri slapped your hand away and dragged his wet tip up past your entrance resting it on your swollen clit “He’s been balls deep in this used up pussy for too long now, hasn’t he?“

“He makes it feel good when you’re away” You murmured as your lips quivered at your words, edging Pedri on even more. “Not as good as Papi.” You whimpered as his tip pressed against your sensitive nub.

“How often did he cum in you, huh?” Pedri grabbed your face. “He only cums in this pussy cause, you don’t know how to keep you’re fucking legs closed” Pedri slapped your face before grabbing you by the throat. Giggling you spat out your tongue at Pedri as the saliva dripped from your tongue on his hand. He dropped to his knees between your legs. “Does he eat you out like this?” 

Pedri pressed his tongue against your entrance that was drowned in your wetness. He moaned, as his tongue pressed against the warm juices, licking up and tasting you, before leaning back to spit on it some more. Getting nasty the way you liked it, you couldn’t hold back your moans anymore.

“I love fingering your little pussy.” Pedri mumbled, watching with hooded eyes as your body shook and arched above him. “But I can’t do it now. Not tonight.” Getting back on to his feet, he looked down at your body feeling the trust as you submitted yourself to him laying boneless on the bed.

You moaned as he pushed in, his tip slipping through your tight entrance with a sensation that could only be equated to a soft pop. You groaned as your pussy clenched around him, but your took in every inch of his hard cock.

“Fuck, princesa. Tell Papi how much you love his cock.”

You moaned loudly and could feel yourself trembling, already overwhelmed by Pedri’s intensity and the fullness inside you.

“I know you loved it with him,” Pedri chuckled dauntingly, “but I know you’ve missed me between your legs.” You stayed silent, aside from your whimpers. Your nipples ached and your clit throbbed between your wet little pussy lips. Pedri pulled out a bit before pushing back against your body, the two of you making desperate sounds.

“Oh god,” Pedri groaned, “fuck me. Even wrapped, it’s so hot inside you.” You whimpered underneath him. You watched as Pedri’s head lulled back, his neck on display to you, making you want to bite. He had a smirk on his face, his eyes closed. He was savoring the way you felt as he slowly pulled himself from your body. The pleasure on his face and the pulse that came from his cock made your cheeks burn.

You cried out as his hips snapped against you, the ferocity in his movements pushing the breath from your lungs as he buried himself inside you. His pelvis snapped into your pussy creating the filthiest sounds in the room. “You need this,” Pedri grunted. “need me.” You squeaked and reached for him, your fingertips just skimming the skin of his forearms.

You gasped as your pussy contracted around him and you barreled straight down the tunnel vision in your eyes, your vision going black as you squeezed your eyes shut and screamed. Distantly, you could hear Pedri moan and his hips snap with no rhythm into yours.

“Please, no.” you whined, your body buzzing from cumming. You pushed at Pedri’s lower pelvis while curling your finger towards your clit, nudging both forcefully. “No?” Pedri’s cock drilling slowed to a drag in and out of your body. You moaned deep from your throat at the way he pulled and pushed into you so perfectly.

“No, please.” You let him slap your hand away and pin it beside your head on the mattress. “Take me how you want, Papi.” You heard him give out a chuckle as your fingers spread your pussy lips open, and you knew he knew, exactly what you wanted. Pedri licked a stripe up your neck before he suddenly leaned back, your connection lost as he slipped out of you.

“You still want Papi with no rubber?” You shook your head furiously in agreement. “Ah, fuck, this is gonna be good.” You cried out as he pulled the condom off of himself and pushed his bare cock in between your quivering lips. Both of your mouths dropped open in silent groans as you were rejoined as you always had before. “Oh, there is nothing better.” Pedri groaned. “Been thinking about getting back in this pussy for weeks. You’re like a fucking drug.” 

“Papi,” you gasped. “Pedri, Papi.” You babbled on as you could feel the pain slowly take over your body, you knew you’d be aching after but you love it anyway, the pleasure was just too good. “Fuck this pussy is worth the trouble it comes with, isn’t it?” He taunted you. “Best little cock slut I’ve ever been in. That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it? Taking cock?” You whined as a cry left your lips while he giggled above you, his eyes still shut as he was getting lost in himself too. “Shut the fuck up.”

Pedri opened his eyes and looked down at you, the look on his face much different than what he was just saying. He leaned over you, kneeling between your legs to lay on you. His hips stopped pulling him so far from you and you found him giving you short, choppy thrusts, keeping the same strength but not pulling himself so far away from you. He brushed his lips to yours and you sighed at the gentle touch. “You can have this all the time.” Pedri kept his voice low, the barely audible words only meant for this moment in time, not to be caught by anyone else. “I can be the one making you smile and cum all the time.”

“I need you now.” You put your hand to his cheek. “I need you so badly.” Pedri wrapped his arms around you and leaned over you, letting his body weight hold you down against the mattress. You heard him sigh before a switch seemed to flip in him, bringing him back from his daydream. He snapped his hips and drove himself into you over and over. You were helpless, the only thing you could do was hold on to his toned body.

You laid there on your back, being brutalized by Pedri in the most pleasurable way. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your ankles crossed behind his back. You could hear him, you could definitely feel him, but you felt nothing but pure ecstasy coursing through your veins. The high was immeasurable and the world seemed to slow down outside of your body.

“Cum all over me, princesa.” Pedri muttered into your neck. You arched your back, your nipples pressing against the soft warmth of his chest. It felt like fireworks, physically and mentally, your body and mind crackling as things seemed to right themselves as you desperately held on to what you considered as the wrong. 

You puffed out loudly closing your eyes from exhaustion, as Pedri pulled himself from you. Your thighs squeezed together and your knees came up to your tummy as you curled in on yourself. The hot warmth of Pedri’s cum inside you made your pussy tingle and the feeling of his thick substance clogging your hole made you tremble. It had been too long and just as good. Pedri rolled over next to you, giving you a soft smile that looked innocent, if not for the heat induced blush on his cheeks reminded you of what you’d been doing.

“You took me so well, princesa“ He cooed as you looked down at his tanned, toned chest, your hand stretching out to caress his sweaty skin, your nails scratching feather like over his short hairs there. 

“Ah,” he simply sighed, not giving you any further attention until you ripped your eyes away from his nails and looked into his. 

“That’s all you have to say?” His plan had worked, your hands now sitting on your hips, pulling your dress dangerously high as you fiercely caught his gaze. It was an intense look, much more passionate than you had seen before. It was a dark gaze, one that couldn’t even mimic the look on his face before kick-off. No, this one was entire of its own species. It was like you had awoken something inside of him. 

He moved closer to you, bridging the little space that was between the 2 of you in the first place. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. You let out a slight gasp as you felt him growing against your thigh, having to suppress your moan with a bite of the lip. 

“Now,” you were certain you felt his jaw clench as he paused his speech, almost as if he was finding a way to grasp onto words or even formulate his thoughts, “your brother is looking over here and I wouldn’t want him to think his little sister was practically begging me to take her home and have my way with her.” 

You gulped, confirming the truth as you turned your neck only to find Granit’s eyes glued to the front of the nightclub. You gave him a soft smile, reassuring him he could return his attention back to the group before giving in to Martin again. 

“Then do it, Captain.” 

You weren’t sure how you ended up in the situation you were currently in. Some bullshit lies about you not feeling good and Martin kindly offering to give you a lift back home raised no suspicions about Arsenal’s number 34. And how thankful you were for that. 

The midfielder couldn’t even place his keys on your kitchen counter before you attacked him with a longing kiss. You moaned into his mouth as you blindly navigated your way through the flat. His tongue sinfully dipped into your mouth, intertwining with your own as you were pushed against the marble countertop. 

Martin didn’t stop his assault for a mere second, capturing you into his embrace and latching onto you tightly as your fingers found themselves interwoven in his golden hair. 

He moaned out as you took his bottom lip between your teeth, suckling on it softly as the two of you opened your eyes simultaneously. He stared into you, a passionate look that had you clenching your thighs to relieve the aching urge to have him inside of you. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” the midfield admitted, moving his lips onto your throat as your head blew back from pure pleasure. 

“Fuck, Martin,” you breathed out as his teeth scraped against your sensitive skin, causing you to lean further into him. 

“After every match,” he paused in between each kiss as he moved further down, his breath now dangerously floating on your collarbone, “every team dinner” pausing to hold your breasts in the palm of his hands and toy with the peaks of your nipples that shined through the material of the satin dress, “and every night out, I’ve wanted you.” 

“Oh, really? I couldn’t say the same,” you lied, hoping to get a reaction out of him as you opened your legs wider, inviting his wandering hands further down your bodice. His calloused fingers danced close to the bottom of your dress as he let out a slight chuckle. He hiked the material up in one swift, aggressive movement before diving his fingers into your soaked core. 

You stifled your moans as he ran his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness onto his fingertips and spreading it messily. Martin took them out, your juices covering him as he gave you a satisfied grin before running them against the dampened cloth of your thong. 

“I would say that you were a liar,” he whispered into you, grabbing a handful of your hair and bringing his lips to yours once more. This time around, it was messier, sloppier, rushed, and hungry. The two of you fought for dominance, a trait you shared with your brother that he would be sure to bring up later. Your legs wrapped around his waist, effectively bridging the gap between the two of you and attempting to soothe the ache of your core against his denim-clothed leg. You rubbed yourself against him, rocking your hips back and forth against the rough material, sending shoots of pleasure throughout your body. 

Your manicured nails grabbed onto his erection, his length filling up your hand as it begged to be released. 

“Fuck, you’re killing me here,” he groaned out as he saw the growing wetness collecting on his pant leg. “Who knew you were such a dirty girl, getting off on my thigh?”

“Please, Martin,” you didn’t have the energy to continue the playful banter, just wanting to feel him inside of you after months of desperation. 

“What my girl asks for, she gets,” he grinned, biting your earlobe and releasing a hiss from your throat as you hurriedly lifted your dress above your head. It was thrown across the room, sure to be clumsily stumbled over tomorrow morning. 

He stared at your nearly naked figure, blowing a breath of air out as his eyes fell onto your breasts. He didn’t even know where to begin, but it became all too natural for him very quickly. He gathered your naked breasts into his hands, taking your hardened nipples in between his rough fingers and pinching them ever so softly. 

You cried out in pleasure as he continued the motion, watching your face screw up in pure enjoyment as he took them between his lips. His tongue danced across the peaks, flickering ever so slightly. Grabbing his hair and pulling his mouth off of you, your hands tracked down to the zipper of his jeans, pouting about the unfairness of your lack of clothing. 

His length pushed against the material of his cotton underwear, begging to be released from its constraints. You took him into your hand, massaging him through the material, and watched his eyes roll back at the movement. 

“God, fuck,” he moaned out as you continued with the twisting motion, pumping him ever so slightly into the palm of your hand. 

“Please, touch me,” Martin begged as he hid his face in the crook of your neck, not being able to take any more of your painstaking teasing. You smirked as your manicured nails reached under his waistband, running them ever so closely, reaching closer to his cock with each passing second. Finally, you took his whole length, smearing the tip of his member with his leaking precum as you glided over him. 

“We can do whatever you want for the rest of the night, but please, fuck,” he struggled to string his sentence together as your doe eyes pierced into his, still moving ever so gently across his length, “I need to be inside of you.” 

“Whatever you want, you get, Captain,” you moaned into his ear, a breath of relief releasing from his chest as you relaxed into him. 

You gave into his pleads, Martin not even bothering to slip the lace off of your body, simply pushing it to the side in a rush as his cock threaded closely to your entrance. 

You took hold of him, gathering your slicked-up wetness on the head of his member, pushing it through your folds in a sweeping motion before positioning him. He pushed into you, moaning at your winces as you accommodated to his stretch. His cock sat inside you for a brief moment, bottoming out. 

“Fuck, so tight for me,” He moaned out, feeling your walls clench around him as he sat motionless inside of you. 

“Martin, move, please,” You begged, gasping at the pleasure of the footballer snapping his hips into you. He moved with no mercy, thrashing into you, holding onto his veiny forearms as your legs weakened around him. 

“Faster, faster,” you moaned into him, wanting to feel every inch of the man before you. Savoring the moment, not wanting it to end. And hoping it wouldn’t be the first and last time you felt him stretching you out, maneuvering your body with such expertise. 

He brought his thumb to your clit, pushing down on the bundle of nerves and causing you to let out a slight scream of pleasure as you felt the knot in your stomach begin to unravel. 

“Please, don’t stop Martin,” his eyes rolled back as he heard his name being moaned out, especially from your pretty lips. He couldn’t believe you were here, in front of him. Too many late nights and cold showers he spent trying to erase the sinful thoughts he had of you and here he was now, inside of you, and it felt like heaven. 

Your breasts bounced up and down as he moved in and out of you, his eyes moving down to them and burning them into his memory. You were sure to wake up with bruises as his fingers dung into your hips, reaching depths you didn’t even know were possible before. 

“I’m close,” you breathed out as his thumb continued to vibrate against your bundle of nerves, paired with the feeling of the fullness of his cock inside of you, you were a goner. You grabbed onto his bicep, trying to stabilize yourself for your impending orgasm as he continued at the same pace. 

You dropped your head back in pleasure, but Martin was quick to force your eyes back to his. 

“Look at me when you cum,” he demanded, nodding your head embarrassingly quickly as you heeded his orders. Finally, the familiar feeling approached you, accompanied by a wave of wetness slicking his cock as you shook underneath him. 

You moaned out, a mix of swears, sweet nothings, and chants of his name as the pleasure rode throughout your body. You swore you could see stars as the waves kept washing over you, shaking your core. You kept your eyes peeled open, your mouth forming into an O-shape as he continued pumping in and out of you. It was all too much. The mere look on your face was enough to send Martin over the edge, but as your walls clenched around him, it was over for him, too. 

“Come inside me,” you managed to get out, still in shock from your orgasm. Martin looked like he could marry you right in that instant, spilling inside of you as his hips stuttered. He grabbed onto the marble countertops, attempting to not fall on top of you as he filled you. 

You both winced as he continued to move his member, finally pulling out of you. You moaned as his calloused fingers approached your entrance, pushing the mixture of the two of you in and out before collecting it onto his fingers and moving them to pass your lips and onto your tongue. 

“God,” he watched you swirl your tongue around him, collecting every last drop of him and swallowing the heavy mixture proudly. His cock twitched once more, hardening again at the sight of you in front of him. Your hair was a mess, sweating seeping from your skin, and his cum dripping out of you and onto your thighs was a sight to cherish. 

Your eyes floated back down to cock raising once more, furrowing your eyebrows and anticipating what his next move would be. The two of you let out a loud laugh as he picked you up, carrying you into your bedroom before the two of you lost yourselves within one another until the early hours of the morning. 

————- 

You were woken up by a banging on your front door, startled as Martin was knocked out cold from the festivities of the night before. You closed your eyes, begging for the sound to go away, sighing a breath of relief as it finally stopped. 

But, that hadn’t lasted long. A familiar voice beckoned, making you jump out of bed, pulling yourself out of the entanglement of Martin’s leg as you scavenged your bedroom for a shirt. 

“Martin, wake up,” you hissed at him before you violently shook him, waking up the poor boy. 

“Damn, baby, couldn’t even wait until I woke up before asking for some more,” he laughed, a pink blush floating across both of your cheeks as he pulled onto your arms, asking you to come back to bed. 

“No, Martin,” but you were cut off from your requests as you heard the voice one more, this time causing both of your stomachs to drop. 

“Hello! Let me in!” Granit’s voice boomed through your flat, causing Martin to similarly jump out of bed and gather himself together.  

“Ah,” he simply sighed, not giving you any further attention until you ripped your eyes away from his nails and looked into his. 

“That’s all you have to say?” His plan had worked, your hands now sitting on your hips, pulling your dress dangerously high as you fiercely caught his gaze. It was an intense look, much more passionate than you had seen before. It was a dark gaze, one that couldn’t even mimic the look on his face before kick-off. No, this one was entire of its own species. It was like you had awoken something inside of him. 

He moved closer to you, bridging the little space that was between the 2 of you in the first place. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. You let out a slight gasp as you felt him growing against your thigh, having to suppress your moan with a bite of the lip. 

“Now,” you were certain you felt his jaw clench as he paused his speech, almost as if he was finding a way to grasp onto words or even formulate his thoughts, “your brother is looking over here and I wouldn’t want him to think his little sister was practically begging me to take her home and have my way with her.” 

You gulped, confirming the truth as you turned your neck only to find Granit’s eyes glued to the front of the nightclub. You gave him a soft smile, reassuring him he could return his attention back to the group before giving in to Martin again. 

“Then do it, Captain.” 

You weren’t sure how you ended up in the situation you were currently in. Some bullshit lies about you not feeling good and Martin kindly offering to give you a lift back home raised no suspicions about Arsenal’s number 34. And how thankful you were for that. 

The midfielder couldn’t even place his keys on your kitchen counter before you attacked him with a longing kiss. You moaned into his mouth as you blindly navigated your way through the flat. His tongue sinfully dipped into your mouth, intertwining with your own as you were pushed against the marble countertop. 

Martin didn’t stop his assault for a mere second, capturing you into his embrace and latching onto you tightly as your fingers found themselves interwoven in his golden hair. 

He moaned out as you took his bottom lip between your teeth, suckling on it softly as the two of you opened your eyes simultaneously. He stared into you, a passionate look that had you clenching your thighs to relieve the aching urge to have him inside of you. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” the midfield admitted, moving his lips onto your throat as your head blew back from pure pleasure. 

“Fuck, Martin,” you breathed out as his teeth scraped against your sensitive skin, causing you to lean further into him. 

“After every match,” he paused in between each kiss as he moved further down, his breath now dangerously floating on your collarbone, “every team dinner” pausing to hold your breasts in the palm of his hands and toy with the peaks of your nipples that shined through the material of the satin dress, “and every night out, I’ve wanted you.” 

“Oh, really? I couldn’t say the same,” you lied, hoping to get a reaction out of him as you opened your legs wider, inviting his wandering hands further down your bodice. His calloused fingers danced close to the bottom of your dress as he let out a slight chuckle. He hiked the material up in one swift, aggressive movement before diving his fingers into your soaked core. 

You stifled your moans as he ran his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness onto his fingertips and spreading it messily. Martin took them out, your juices covering him as he gave you a satisfied grin before running them against the dampened cloth of your thong. 

“I would say that you were a liar,” he whispered into you, grabbing a handful of your hair and bringing his lips to yours once more. This time around, it was messier, sloppier, rushed, and hungry. The two of you fought for dominance, a trait you shared with your brother that he would be sure to bring up later. Your legs wrapped around his waist, effectively bridging the gap between the two of you and attempting to soothe the ache of your core against his denim-clothed leg. You rubbed yourself against him, rocking your hips back and forth against the rough material, sending shoots of pleasure throughout your body. 

Your manicured nails grabbed onto his erection, his length filling up your hand as it begged to be released. 

“Fuck, you’re killing me here,” he groaned out as he saw the growing wetness collecting on his pant leg. “Who knew you were such a dirty girl, getting off on my thigh?”

“Please, Martin,” you didn’t have the energy to continue the playful banter, just wanting to feel him inside of you after months of desperation. 

“What my girl asks for, she gets,” he grinned, biting your earlobe and releasing a hiss from your throat as you hurriedly lifted your dress above your head. It was thrown across the room, sure to be clumsily stumbled over tomorrow morning. 

He stared at your nearly naked figure, blowing a breath of air out as his eyes fell onto your breasts. He didn’t even know where to begin, but it became all too natural for him very quickly. He gathered your naked breasts into his hands, taking your hardened nipples in between his rough fingers and pinching them ever so softly. 

You cried out in pleasure as he continued the motion, watching your face screw up in pure enjoyment as he took them between his lips. His tongue danced across the peaks, flickering ever so slightly. Grabbing his hair and pulling his mouth off of you, your hands tracked down to the zipper of his jeans, pouting about the unfairness of your lack of clothing. 

His length pushed against the material of his cotton underwear, begging to be released from its constraints. You took him into your hand, massaging him through the material, and watched his eyes roll back at the movement. 

“God, fuck,” he moaned out as you continued with the twisting motion, pumping him ever so slightly into the palm of your hand. 

“Please, touch me,” Martin begged as he hid his face in the crook of your neck, not being able to take any more of your painstaking teasing. You smirked as your manicured nails reached under his waistband, running them ever so closely, reaching closer to his cock with each passing second. Finally, you took his whole length, smearing the tip of his member with his leaking precum as you glided over him. 

“We can do whatever you want for the rest of the night, but please, fuck,” he struggled to string his sentence together as your doe eyes pierced into his, still moving ever so gently across his length, “I need to be inside of you.” 

“Whatever you want, you get, Captain,” you moaned into his ear, a breath of relief releasing from his chest as you relaxed into him. 

You gave into his pleads, Martin not even bothering to slip the lace off of your body, simply pushing it to the side in a rush as his cock threaded closely to your entrance. 

You took hold of him, gathering your slicked-up wetness on the head of his member, pushing it through your folds in a sweeping motion before positioning him. He pushed into you, moaning at your winces as you accommodated to his stretch. His cock sat inside you for a brief moment, bottoming out. 

“Fuck, so tight for me,” He moaned out, feeling your walls clench around him as he sat motionless inside of you. 

“Martin, move, please,” You begged, gasping at the pleasure of the footballer snapping his hips into you. He moved with no mercy, thrashing into you, holding onto his veiny forearms as your legs weakened around him. 

“Faster, faster,” you moaned into him, wanting to feel every inch of the man before you. Savoring the moment, not wanting it to end. And hoping it wouldn’t be the first and last time you felt him stretching you out, maneuvering your body with such expertise. 

He brought his thumb to your clit, pushing down on the bundle of nerves and causing you to let out a slight scream of pleasure as you felt the knot in your stomach begin to unravel. 

“Please, don’t stop Martin,” his eyes rolled back as he heard his name being moaned out, especially from your pretty lips. He couldn’t believe you were here, in front of him. Too many late nights and cold showers he spent trying to erase the sinful thoughts he had of you and here he was now, inside of you, and it felt like heaven. 

Your breasts bounced up and down as he moved in and out of you, his eyes moving down to them and burning them into his memory. You were sure to wake up with bruises as his fingers dung into your hips, reaching depths you didn’t even know were possible before. 

“I’m close,” you breathed out as his thumb continued to vibrate against your bundle of nerves, paired with the feeling of the fullness of his cock inside of you, you were a goner. You grabbed onto his bicep, trying to stabilize yourself for your impending orgasm as he continued at the same pace. 

You dropped your head back in pleasure, but Martin was quick to force your eyes back to his. 

“Look at me when you cum,” he demanded, nodding your head embarrassingly quickly as you heeded his orders. Finally, the familiar feeling approached you, accompanied by a wave of wetness slicking his cock as you shook underneath him. 

You moaned out, a mix of swears, sweet nothings, and chants of his name as the pleasure rode throughout your body. You swore you could see stars as the waves kept washing over you, shaking your core. You kept your eyes peeled open, your mouth forming into an O-shape as he continued pumping in and out of you. It was all too much. The mere look on your face was enough to send Martin over the edge, but as your walls clenched around him, it was over for him, too. 

“Come inside me,” you managed to get out, still in shock from your orgasm. Martin looked like he could marry you right in that instant, spilling inside of you as his hips stuttered. He grabbed onto the marble countertops, attempting to not fall on top of you as he filled you. 

You both winced as he continued to move his member, finally pulling out of you. You moaned as his calloused fingers approached your entrance, pushing the mixture of the two of you in and out before collecting it onto his fingers and moving them to pass your lips and onto your tongue. 

“God,” he watched you swirl your tongue around him, collecting every last drop of him and swallowing the heavy mixture proudly. His cock twitched once more, hardening again at the sight of you in front of him. Your hair was a mess, sweating seeping from your skin, and his cum dripping out of you and onto your thighs was a sight to cherish. 

Your eyes floated back down to cock raising once more, furrowing your eyebrows and anticipating what his next move would be. The two of you let out a loud laugh as he picked you up, carrying you into your bedroom before the two of you lost yourselves within one another until the early hours of the morning. 

————- 

You were woken up by a banging on your front door, startled as Martin was knocked out cold from the festivities of the night before. You closed your eyes, begging for the sound to go away, sighing a breath of relief as it finally stopped. 

But, that hadn’t lasted long. A familiar voice beckoned, making you jump out of bed, pulling yourself out of the entanglement of Martin’s leg as you scavenged your bedroom for a shirt. 

“Martin, wake up,” you hissed at him before you violently shook him, waking up the poor boy. 

“Damn, baby, couldn’t even wait until I woke up before asking for some more,” he laughed, a pink blush floating across both of your cheeks as he pulled onto your arms, asking you to come back to bed. 

“No, Martin,” but you were cut off from your requests as you heard the voice one more, this time causing both of your stomachs to drop. 

“Hello! Let me in!” Granit’s voice boomed through your flat, causing Martin to similarly jump out of bed and gather himself together.  

everyone around cobham was marveled at your persistence to get under kepa's skin, which was difficult to do since he was perceived by everyone as a calm, quiet guy.

"no entiendo por qué no la soportas" (i don't know why you can't stand her) joao said, tilting his head to point sneakily in your direction. you were just getting out onto the pitch with christian, after helping him with some recovery sessions for his knee. the american was clearly laughing at something that you had said, and kepa clenched his jaw at seeing you smile so proudly for making his teammate laugh so much. he wondered why you couldn't be like that with him, always seemed to focus on making him lose his mind instead.

kepa frowned at the disrespectful comment that his teammate had dared to say. "no digas estupideces" (don't say stupid shit), he  grumbled, while trying to ignore the way both joao and enzo looked at each other while hearing kepa seemingly getting protective over you. "después de todo, ¿por qué no le preguntan a ella qué problema tiene conmigo?" (after all, why don't you ask her what's her problem with me?).

"es insufrible" (she's insufferable) he rolled his eyes, while putting on the gloves, almost ready for his practice of the day. "quizá si ustedes dos sólo aliviaran la tensión" (maybe if you two just relieved the tension) enzo wondered, a devilish smile on his face that hinted exactly what he was thinking of. the goalkeeper would never admit it out loud, but he had given the idea some thought over the last couple of weeks. she was clearly pretty in his eyes, but he didn't think that was behind his clear dislike for chelsea's physiotherapist.

still, the thought that enzo had reignited seemed to not extinguish itself as quickly as it usually did. it bothered kepa to no end, and the only thing he wanted to do was get into your office and slam you against the nearest wall to curse you for not leaving his mind.

you begrudgingly let him, rolling your eyes when his big frame brushed slightly against your extended arm. “god, you've got no manners," kepa grumbles under his breath, and it only makes your browns furrow more. "not with tontos like you, no," you assure, while leaning onto the desk, not once averting your eyes from the goalkeeper that was standing across from you, looking attentively at you through squinted eyes. “why did you come into my office, arrizabalaga? quit playing, i don’t have all day”.

when practice had finally come to an end, he was convinced he had thought about 100 scenarios where things went sour: you, yelling at him, screaming profanities and cursing his name for everything he did. which wasn’t that far from what was considered normal conversation between the two of you. still, kepa found himself going straight to you. he realized that, even if he didn't knew where he had to go, his legs would drive him to your office door just the same.

his fists knocked on the metal even before he could make up a lie as to why he was at your door. "what are you doing here?" was the first thing that you asked, feet planted on the floor and no intention of letting him in into the room. "como si no supieras" (as if you didn't know) the goalkeeper grumbled, shooting his brows up as if looking for permission to come in. "will you be a good girl and let me in now?".

what you said seems to have gone over his head, cause he doesnt allude to it when he opens his mouth again. "little girl speaks spanish now. ¿querías impresionarme?" (did you want to impress me?) he cockily says, and you’re sure your eyes are gonna get stuck at the back of your head due to how frequently you’re rolling them. "just looking for new ways of telling you que te vayas a la mierda" (to go to hell) you smile widely, too exaggerated to actually be real, although you don’t really care to hide that it’s fake.

"you've got a dirty little mouth, don't you?".

it’s not the first time you realize that the once innocent banter shared between the two of you was quickly mutating into these sinful sentences, but it’s the first time that he did so while you two were alone. normally, you could escape -both the feelings that his words erupted and him- just going to somewhere else: but kepa’s got you cornered into your office now, and you can see in the glint of his dark, brown eyes, how much he’s enjoying watching you squirm under his heated gaze. he smirks like he's conscious about the fire that every word lights inside of you: it's crystal clear that you feel the rising tension too, and he sees the green light to continue his teasing.

“¿qué ha pasado, niña bonita? ¿te han comido la lengua los ratones?” (what happened, pretty girl? cat’s got your tongue?). you gulp, closing your eyes to try and avoid his presence for a second, but when you open them back up, you can see his face impossibly closer. his wide frame is towering over your smaller one now, and with your body already hardly pressed against the desk, you got nowhere to go. “dime que no lo sientes. dímelo, y paro” (tell me that you don’t feel it too. tell me, and i’ll stop) he mutters, warm breath fanning your face. and although you don’t quite understand what he’s saying, it’s the last tip you need to trip over the edge, losing the smallest thread of critical thinking you had left in your body.

you ragged breath told him all he needed to know: that you needed him the same way he needed you. his lips ghost over your neck, and you whimper at the smallest contact between your skin and his mouth, but he doesn’t kiss you yet. he wants to savor this, to remember how everything was; the before. he’s enchanted by your scent already, and he’s sure that everything will be erased for him after he gets to taste even the littlest piece of skin: and to no surprise, he’s right.

you roll your eyes, annoyed that he stays being insufferable even during this moment. “sí, kepa. por favor,” (yes, kepa. please), you plead in his mother tongue, and that’s all he needs. his mouth finds yours in a hasty kiss, lips hard against yours as you continue to drag him down by his neck. the next time you need to part for air, kepa grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly to place you onto your desk.

kepa starts leaving wet kisses on your neck, and you tilt your head backward to give him more space to work on, while you get your hands onto his hair to draw him impossibly closer. there’s no part of you that’s left untouched by his clothed frame when he separates to ask “do you want this? is this okay?” inches away from your lips, but this time in a language you can actually understand. you nod frantically but he doesn’t go back to kissing you. “i need words, princesa”.

your hips buck into his hands when he grazes your clit, and he smirks against your cheek, before lowering his head to nibble onto your ear. "por favor," you moan again, looking through doe eyes full of pleasure while you beg him to do something, anything. kepa inserts one finger first, slowly going in and out of your warm entrance, and he feels your walls tightening against him. he kisses you again, harder this time, when he inserts another one, curling with more pressure and bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“will you be my good girl and stay quiet?” he asks against your ear, his body separating your legs to keep them open. his right hand wanders on your left thigh, until his finger’s hover where you need him most. once he moved your underwear to the side, his digits become drenched with your arousal and you moan softly at the newfound pleasure. kepa’s looking intently at your face now, analyzing your features to understand what you like most while his long fingers dance through your folds. 

a sudden knock against your door breaks the moment, and you panic slightly at the possibility of being found in a compromising situation.

knuckles deep inside of you, kepa urges you to look at him. "focus for me, yeah?" he says, and you avert your gaze from the door to his brown eyes, again. "i can feel you're almost there," he encourages, while starting to move his fingers in and out of you at a ruthless pace, making your breath shallow and your high rapidly approach again. "let go for me, princesa," he groans, and hurries to meet his lips against yours to catch any noises you could make during your release. 

you’re not sure how you get to hop down the desk and sit on your chair with the way your legs are trembling due to your orgasm, but somehow, you make it. you cough to clear your voice, and make sure that your tone is even when you tell the person knocking that it’s okay to come in.

kepa locks eyes with you when you both notice who it is. "oh. sorry" christian shifted awkwardly when he saw his teammate sitting directly in front of you, sensing that he had interrupted something. you two were never alone in a private room, and if you were, you two could be heard by your angry shouts from miles away. instead, you’re awkwardly smiling while the goalkeeper is pretending to be concentrated over some papers that were resting on the desk, trying -and failing- to justify his presence in your office. “i just came to get my phone back,"  the american gestures to the artifact resting on the massage table.

when christian finally gets what he was looking for, he’s ready to walk out the door: he doesn’t ask why are you two alone, and he certainly doesn't try to prolong his stay any longer than he has to. although his friend doesn't say anything, kepa knows that the american had noticed all of the signs of what had gone down. he just smirked slyly when the curly haired boy looked his way, and muttered "see you later, kepa," at which the goalkeeper nodded.