Lovely

“Took you long enough,” he says.

“I was brushing my teeth.”

“Mhm.”

You climb up onto the bed on your knees. He watches you the whole way. His eyes go over the sleep shorts, the thin t-shirt, back to your face — and by the time you’re crawling toward him, he’s already reaching, one hand on your thigh, sliding higher, guiding you where he wants you.

You catch his wrist.

“No.”

His eyebrow goes up.

You put a hand flat on his chest and push. He lets you. Goes back against the pillows without a word, arms falling wide on either side of him, and looks up at you.

“Okay, baby,” he says. Low. “Show me what you want.”

You climb over him. One knee, then the other. Sit up on his hips with your hands on his stomach.

His hands come to your thighs.

—

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow lines up and down as you lean down to kiss him. He meets you halfway, mouth warm and sure, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck like he can’t help it. The kiss starts easy, almost lazy, but it doesn’t stay that way. It never does with him.

You shift your hips, grinding down against the growing bulge in his sweatpants, and he makes a low sound into your mouth. His grip on your thigh tightens. When you pull back just enough to look at him, his eyes are darker, that smug little tilt already pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep doing that,” he murmurs.

You do. Rolling your hips again, slower this time, dragging over him until his breath catches. His free hand moves up under your t-shirt, palm hot against your skin, pushing the fabric higher until he’s cupping your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple. He squeezes once, firm, watching your face the whole time.

“Take this off,” he says, tugging at the hem.

You sit up and pull the shirt over your head. The second it’s gone, his hands are back on you, both of them now, kneading, thumbs flicking, mouth following a second later. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue lazy and wet, while his other hand slides down to grip your ass, spreading you a little as he pulls you tighter against his cock.

You can already feel how hard he is. How much he’s letting you set the pace even while his hands tell you exactly how bad he wants it.

He switches sides, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, then soothes it with his tongue. When he pulls off, he looks up at you, lips shiny, voice low and rough.

“You gonna ride me tonight, baby? Or you just gonna tease me until I lose it?”

You get up on your knees to answer him. Work the sleep shorts off, one leg then the other, and his hand slides between your legs while you’re still balanced — two fingers pressing against you where you’re already wet.

“Already?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, low, doesn’t stop touching.

You push his sweats down enough to get him out. He’s hard in your hand. You line him up, one hand braced on his stomach, and lower yourself — slow, because it’s a lot, because it’s always a lot.

His head goes back against the pillows.

“Oh — fuck, baby.”

His hands find your ass. Palming. Pulling you the last inch down until he’s all the way in.

“Take your time,” he says.

—

You try. But the stretch is deep, the angle pressing him right where you need it, and after a few slow rolls your rhythm starts to slip. Your thighs shake.

Joe’s hands lock onto your ass, fingers digging in as he holds you down flush against him, no room to lift, no room to recover. That smug little smirk curves his mouth while he watches you struggle.

“Oh, but I thought you could take this dick, baby.”

He grinds up into you, slow and deliberate, keeping you pinned. You whine his name, broken and needy, and he lets out that low laugh, clearly enjoying the way you’re falling apart on top of him.

“Already whining?” he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. “Thought you wanted to ride me. Now you can’t even handle sittin' pretty on it?”

His thumb strokes over your ass, almost soothing, the contrast making it worse. Then his tone shifts, still low but warmer. “Look at you though… doing so fucking good for me. Taking every inch like that. Such a good girl when you try.”

Then he moves underneath you. Lets his hands slide back to your ass, thumbs digging into the meat of it, and lifts you an inch off him before letting you drop.

“Go on then.” His voice is low. “You wanted to ride me. Ride me.”

You brace against his chest and start again. Slow at first — you can’t help it, your thighs are already shaking — and he watches you with his hands on your ass, letting you find it.

You get it back. Rolling your hips forward, lifting up, dropping down. The angle is deep and every time you sink he makes a low sound in his chest.

“Yeah, baby. There you go.”

One of his hands comes off your ass and slides up your body, cupping your tit, thumb dragging over your nipple. He watches his own hand while he does it. His mouth is parted.

“Look at these fucking tits.”

He squeezes. You whine.

“Bouncing for me every time you drop down. Fuck. That’s what I’ve been thinking about all day.”

His other hand stays on your ass, and he uses it to pull you tighter as you grind down — meeting your rhythm now, letting his hips roll up into yours.

“That’s it.”

His grip flexes.

“Look at you. Working so hard for it.”

The praise almost undoes you. You whimper his name, and he catches it, thumb dragging harder over your nipple.

“Yeah? You like that? You like when I tell you how good you’re being?”

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” you breathe.

Joe’s smirk deepens, but his eyes stay soft on your face. “Yeah, you do.” He gives your tit one last firm squeeze before both hands drop back to your ass, spreading you as he starts guiding your movements. “Then show me. Fuck yourself on it like you mean it.”

You do. You pick up the pace, rising and dropping harder, chasing the drag of him inside you. The wet sound of skin meeting skin fills the room along with your ragged breathing. His grip gets tighter, almost bruising, helping you slam down every time you start to slow.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans. “Greedy little thing. Can’t get enough, can you?”

You shake your head, whimpering, and he laughs again — low and rough.

“No, you can’t. Look at you bouncing on my dick like you were made for it.” His voice drops even lower. “Such a pretty fuckin' mess for me.”

Your legs start to burn, but you don’t stop. The praise and the filth keep hitting you in waves, pushing you closer. Joe’s hips start snapping up to meet you, fucking into you from below, and one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit.

“Come on, baby,” he says, voice strained now. “Want to feel you come all over me. Give it to me.”

The combination of his thumb and the deep, relentless drag of his cock finally sends you over. You cry out, clenching hard around him as the orgasm hits hard. Joe keeps moving through it, fucking you through every pulse, low curses falling from his mouth until his own rhythm stutters.

“Fuck — baby —”

He pulls you down tight, holding you there as he comes, hips jerking up into you one last time.

—

You collapse against his chest, breathing hard, and Joe’s arms come around you immediately. One hand smooths up and down your back in slow, steady passes while the other cups the back of your head, holding you close. His heart is still pounding under your cheek.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice soft now. “I got you.”

He stays inside you for a long moment, just letting you both come down, pressing lazy kisses to your temple and the top of your head. When your breathing finally evens out, he carefully lifts you off him, laying you on your side before pulling you right back into his chest.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing along your jaw so you’ll look at him.

You nod, still a little floaty. He studies your face for a second like he’s making sure, then leans in and kisses you — slow and gentle, nothing like the way he was talking to you a few minutes ago.

“Did so good for me, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “So fucking good.”

He reaches over for the water on the nightstand and hands it to you first, then takes a sip himself. After that, he pulls the blanket up over both of you and tucks you tighter against him, one leg thrown over yours, his hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like soap, sweat, and home.

“Love you,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. His arms squeeze you once, like he needs you to feel it more than hear it.

You stay like that — tangled up, his chest warm under your cheek, his hand never stopping its gentle path up and down your back — until your eyes start to get heavy.

“Bye, baby.”

She stands there a second longer. You wait. She goes.

The door closes behind them, and it’s five past ten on a Sunday, and you have your afternoon back and your evening back and the whole quiet stretch of a day you didn’t plan for.

You put the car in reverse.

—

You’re two blocks out when the dash lights up with Joe’s name.

Your stomach drops.

He shouldn’t be calling. He’s been dark since yesterday morning — he always is, home or away. You know the rhythm. You stopped texting him Saturday.

You pick up on the third ring.

“Baby, everything okay? You’re supposed to be dark.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

You breathe out. He isn’t done.

There’s a sound like him running a hand down his face. Then, quiet, mostly to himself: “Fuck.”

“Joe.”

“I’m here. Just — hang on.”

You hear him move. A door opens somewhere on his end, then closes. The hallway sound is gone. He’s somewhere quieter now.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says again. “I just — ” Another stop. “I don’t want to come home to an empty house tonight.”

He keeps going. “Head over whenever. Kai’ll send you the codes. Just wanted to ask before I turned my phone back off.”

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He exhales. Not a laugh — the breath he’s been holding since he decided to make the call.

“You sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

There’s a stretch of nothing on the line. Not empty. Just him being on the phone with you and not hanging up.

“Go be dark,” you say, gentle. “I’ve got it.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah. I’ll — see you.”

“See you.”

The call ends. You drive.

You take the long way home. Your body is a minute or two behind where you are, and you don’t feel like arriving until it catches up.

—

You pull into your driveway and sit with the engine off for another minute.

Then you go inside and pack a bag.

You don’t overthink it. Underwear, a t-shirt, your toothbrush, your face stuff. You put it all in the small duffel, then stand in your bedroom for a second, looking at the bag on the bed, and think about how strange it is to pack for his house on a Sunday morning, with the sun coming through your bedroom window.

You put your phone on the charger while you shower. You come back to a text from a Kentucky area code you don’t recognize. Wheels down around 10:45. He’ll be home around midnight. — Kai

You save the contact. Text back a thumbs up.

By 11:30 you’re locking your front door behind you.

—

You’ve made the drive a dozen times. Never alone.

The gate opens for your car — you’ve been on the list for a couple of months now — and you drive up the long approach. His cars are all in the garage. The driveway is empty except for you.

You let yourself in.

The alarm chirps its warning tone, and you punch in the code before it goes off. The house is very quiet. The kind of quiet a house has when its person isn’t in it.

You take your shoes off in the entryway because that’s what he does, and you carry them and your bag through to the kitchen because that’s the room you know best.

There’s a plate in the fridge with a note on it. Mr. B — heat 3 min if you want it warm. Extras in the container. — Anthony.

You didn’t know his chef’s name was Anthony. You learn it now, from a Post-it, in his empty kitchen, on a day he didn’t know he was going to ask you to be here for.

You don’t heat the plate. You pour yourself a glass of water, stand at the island, drink it, and look around.

—

Kickoff is at 1:00.

You know that because you looked it up on the drive. You didn’t have to. Joe has never once asked you to watch. He doesn’t watch when other people are playing. He doesn’t want you to feel like you have to.

You’re going to watch.

You find the remote after some looking — it’s in a drawer, because of course it is — and you turn the game on and the volume down and you sit on the corner of the sectional and tuck your feet under you and watch him play football in his house.

It’s strange. The camera does a wide shot of the stadium, and then a tight shot of him in the tunnel, and the tight shot is a face you have kissed. He looks like himself and also like the thing he becomes on Sundays — jaw set, eyes forward, the specific stillness he has before he goes to work.

He is very good at this. You forget sometimes. You spend so much time thinking of him as the guy who overpays for turkey pinwheels that you forget the entire country understands him primarily as this.

The first drive stalls at midfield. Punt. The camera finds him on the sideline with a tablet in his hand, and he doesn’t look angry. He looks like he’s already three drives ahead. His off-hand is doing the thing it does when he’s thinking, thumb tapping his own knuckle.

They score in the second quarter. He throws a ball to Ja’Marr that the announcers spend forty seconds talking about, and you find yourself in the empty room saying nice out loud, quietly, to no one.

By the third quarter you can tell it’s not their day.

Nothing catastrophic. Just a series of small things — a hold that erases a first down, a throw that goes off Tee’s fingertips, a coverage that keeps closing faster than it should. You watch him on the sideline between drives, and you watch his hand, and you watch him not sit down.

In the fourth quarter, he takes a hit, and your hand is at your mouth before your brain has caught up. He’s fine. He’s up in a second, waving off the trainer, but you sit on the edge of the couch in his empty house with your hand still there for a full minute afterward, and you understand, then, why he doesn’t like you to watch.

They lose by three.

The camera catches him shaking hands with the opposing QB — a line, a nod, whatever it is you say when you lose — and then walking off with his helmet in his hand, his face doing exactly nothing. You know him well enough now to know he’s already back in the film.

You turn the TV off.

—

The house is quiet again.

You wash the water glass. You take the plate from the fridge, put it in the microwave, and eat it while standing at the island. Anthony has done something with chicken, rice, and a green sauce, and it is very good in a way that reminds you that Joe eats extremely well, and that you have been eating cheese and crackers over the sink for eight years.

You wash the plate. Wipe down the counter. Turn the kitchen light off.

You walk through the house the long way because you can. Because he isn’t in it and there’s something specific about being in his space without him — like being trusted with a room. You don’t touch anything. You just look.

His office. A whiteboard covered in his handwriting, half of it in a shorthand you don’t understand. His book on the corner of the desk with a bookmark two chapters further in than the last time you noticed. A framed photo of him and Robin from a long time ago that he has never mentioned and probably never will.

You go upstairs.

His bedroom is neat the way his bedroom is always neat. Bed made. Nothing on the nightstand except a lamp and a water glass and a paperback with a receipt tucked into it. You look at the receipt without touching it — a coffee shop in Cincinnati, three weeks old, a large black and something you can’t read the ink of.

You take a hot shower. His soap. His shampoo. You put on the shirt you brought, then you take it off and put on one of his instead, from the top of the folded stack in his second drawer.

You get in his bed.

—

You mean to stay up.

You lie on your back and think about him doing whatever he does after a loss — the walk to the bus, the flight, the seat he sits in, whether he talks or whether nobody talks to him. You wonder if his teammates know that he called you this morning. You wonder if he’s told anyone. You wonder if he’s tried to picture walking into his house tonight and finding you in it, and can’t.

The pillow smells like him. The sheets smell like him. Your body has been running since 9:30 this morning.

You lie on your side facing the door.

You close your eyes for a second.

You do not open them again.

—

You surface once when the garage door hums somewhere below.

You don’t open your eyes. You’re not fully with it. You register the sound and let it move past you, the way you register Gemma coughing in the middle of the night — enough to know she’s fine and it isn’t your turn to get up.

Time slips.

The house is quiet again, and then it isn’t. A door closing. The soft mechanical sound of the alarm being reset. Nothing comes into focus. You are aware of him in the house the way you would be aware of weather.

The bedroom door clicks open.

You don’t move. Your face is turned toward it, and your eyes stay closed, and you can feel him standing there, or you’re inventing it — you can’t tell. The floor doesn’t creak in this house. He doesn’t announce himself.

Water runs. Runs a while. Stops.

The lamp doesn’t come on. His phone touches the nightstand. His watch after it, quieter.

The mattress dips.

He gets in slow, the way he moves when he’s trying not to wake you, and settles onto his side facing you, and the sheet lifts and comes back down over his shoulder, and his hand finds your hip under the blanket the way it always finds it.

He breathes out.

His breath is what wakes you.

—

You open your eyes.

He’s already looking at you.

His hand is on your hip under the blanket. The rest of him is a shape in the dark — hair damp, one arm folded under his head, the specific stillness he gets when he’s been watching you sleep and doesn’t want you to know it.

“Baby.” Quiet. Just to make sure you’re really there.

For a second neither of you moves. You’re close enough to feel the heat coming off his shoulder. He smells like his soap.

Then his hand pulls, and you go — sliding across the sheet until you’re chest to chest, your face against his throat, his arm coming up over your back to hold you there. His other hand finds the base of your spine and stays.

He exhales into your hair.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he, for a while.

“Wasn’t our day,” he says finally.

“I know.”

“You watched.”

“I watched.”

His arm tightens. That’s it. You feel his ribs expand against you as he breathes out.

—

The house is very quiet.

His jaw rests against your temple. His fingers move slowly across your back.

“That was weird,” he says.

“What was?”

“Calling you. This morning.”

You wait.

“Sat there in the hotel and couldn’t picture coming back here alone.”

“Kept trying. Couldn’t.”

You slide your hand up to the back of his neck. His hair is still damp.

“So you broke dark.”

“Yeah.” His mouth moves against your hair. “For you.”

You smile into his throat. He feels it. His palm spreads flat at the base of your spine and presses once.

A long stretch of nothing.

Then, very quiet:

“Come do this again.”

You go still. His hand doesn’t move.

“Do what.”

“Be here. When I get back.”

“Every game?”

“No.” A breath. “Just — more.”

You think about the girls. About your house. About the door he’s asking you to leave open a little wider.

“Okay,” you say.

He goes very still. Then his arm pulls you in tighter, and stays.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

—

You don’t know what time it is. You don’t check. His breathing slows. His hand stays heavy on your back.

You reach up and slide your fingers into his damp hair.

He shifts once, presses deeper into you, and falls asleep first.

His hand doesn’t move.

You close your eyes.

—

The room is different in the morning.

Not bright. His blinds don’t allow that. But the dark has thinned — you can see the shape of him now. His face against the pillow. His arm still across you, heavy, exactly where it fell asleep.

You are looking at him before you decide to.

His eyes open.

Not a slow surface — just open, the way athletes wake up. He looks at you for a second like he’s confirming you’re actually there.

You watch his mouth. He watches you watching.

You lean in first. It starts as a morning kiss — and lasts maybe four seconds before his hand slides up under the shirt of his you slept in, palm hot on your back, pulling you closer.

He tries to roll you under him. You feel the intention in the shift of his body — and then he hisses through his teeth when his ribs protest. His hand goes to his side for a second, quick and frustrated.

You push him gently back down before he can try again. He goes, eyes dark on your face.

“Stay,” you say, already breathless.

“Okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

You swing your leg over him fast and settle on his hips. He’s already hard against you. The exhale he lets out is rough, needy.

—

You take your time at first, but the urgency is already there.

You kiss down his chest, careful of the bruise on his shoulder, then lower. You pull his boxers down and take him in your hand, stroking once, twice, before you lean in and lick up the length of him. You don’t tease long — you suck him into your mouth, wet and eager, taking him as deep as you can right away.

“Fuck,” he groans, hand fisting in your hair. “Baby — yeah, like that.”

You work him fast, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside, moaning around him when his hips twitch. He’s breathing hard already, fingers tight in your hair, trying not to thrust into your throat.

You pull off when you can’t wait anymore, climb back up, and sink down onto his cock in one urgent slide.

The moan you both let out is loud in the quiet room.

“Baby.” Against his jaw.

You ride him hard — hips rolling fast, taking him deep with every stroke. You keep your weight off his sore shoulder and ribs, bracing on his chest, but there’s nothing slow about it now. You fuck him like you need it, hips grinding on every downstroke.

His hands grip your waist tight, thumbs digging in. “That’s it,” he rasps. “Ride me, baby. Just like that. You’re so fucking good for me.”

You lean down, forehead to his, moving faster, grinding on every downstroke. The wet slap of skin and your shared breathing fills the room. His hand slides between you and finds your clit, rubbing desperate circles.

“Come on,” he pants against your mouth. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

“Close.”

You come hard, clenching around his cock, moaning his name into his neck. He follows with a rough groan, hips jerking up as much as he can, spilling deep inside you while his arms lock around your back.

You stay collapsed on his chest afterward, both of you panting, hearts hammering. His hand strokes down your spine, shaky but soothing.

Eventually you shift off him carefully and curl into his good side. His arm pulls you in immediately and stays.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. His fingers thread into your hair. “Needed you.”

You listen to his heart slow. His hand stays heavy in your hair.

You feel him fall asleep. You don’t fight it.