“Put your arms around my neck,” I command, my voice still low. He does, and with both hands now free, I wrap my slick one around his cock, stroking slowly in time with the thrust of my hips. My other, I splay across his belly and—
“Oh, you don’t play fair,” he pants as my thumb circles his sensitive navel.
“Never said I did.” I nip the crest of his ear, then tighten my grip on his abdomen to hold us steady as I fuck into him, somewhere between hard and soft, fast and slow. My concentration is split between thrusting, stroking, and circling—so much so that when Tahegin tenses against me, his arms pulling my face into his neck, I don’t even realize my orgasm is so close to the surface. Not until he clenches with a cry as his release washes over him, and I come, too, pleasure coursing from my balls to tip with every thrust.
We watch each other in the mirror, sweaty and panting, the mess between us growing. My thumb traces his navel one last time, a final spurt of come dribbling from his slit and over my fist still around his slowly twitching cock.
“Fuck, Rix,” Tahegin gasps through heavy breaths. His head falls fully onto my shoulder, and those blue eyes finally drift closed in the warm afterglow of sex. “I love the way you do that.”
I smile into his neck, humming. “Mm, do what?”
“Me.”
That makes me chuckle. “I love doing you, too.” I plant soft kisses up and down his shoulder, and his head tilts to give me more access. “And I love you.”
“Sap,” he teases.
“Only for you,” I respond truthfully.
Tahegin hesitates before asking, “Is that the reason you came over tonight?”
Trying to make sense of his words, I don’t immediately answer. My clean hand captures his chin, turning him to face me so I can kiss him while pulling out. His mouth twitches into a frown at the feel of me leaving his body, so I kiss him hard enough that he forgets the momentary discomfort. Laying him onto the pillows, I slip my boxers down the remainder of my legs and use them to wipe the mess off his stomach and from between his legs. “I didn’t come here specifically for sex,” I say in case that is what he’s thinking.
“No, of course not.” He sits up, crossing his legs and clasping his hands in his lap. “I mean . . . I called you, not Aleks, and I can’t help but wonder if I only did it because I know it’s wrong, but I also figured I could . . . persuade you. You know, since you’re such a simp for me.” He laughs, but it’s hollow compared to my usual carefree Tahegin.
“It’s not the smartest idea,” I begin after a minute of consideration. “But I love you, so I’m here to help. Aleks would do the same.”
“Yeah?”
I smack a kiss on his lips. “Yeah, babe. Of course. Only difference is he wouldn’t fuck you like I do.”
“He might.”
“You take that back right now.”
“Or what? What are you going to do, Mr. I Keep My Shirt On During Sex?” He plucks the material of my T-shirt between two fingers.
My body betrays me by blushing, even as I roll my eyes, trying to play it off. The truth? I hadn’t made it that far because I was so focused on Tahegin. He should feel honored, really. “Whatever. Aleks isn’t shit compared to me.”
Tahegin gives me a worried look. “So . . . are we doing this?”
I nod. “Get it.”
Five minutes later, we’re dressed in boxers and sitting opposite each other on the kitchen floor. The sink, I notice, is halfway full of dirty dishes, much like mine at my apartment, and it is the first time—other than the laundry earlier—that I have seen anything out of place in his home. I don’t comment on it, though. I figure he will tell me if something is going on other than his housekeepers being out sick.
Spices and condiments litter the floor between our spread legs, and the Treasures’ playbook is open beside me.
Tahegin told me last year—before I started teaching him sign language—that he is an auditory learner. When he called me earlier, he confessed that he’s having trouble learning the new plays without someone talking him through them. Four years ago, when he started with the Rubies, that person was Aleks. Now, it’s me, and I love being the person he trusts to help him.
The problem is, my team is playing his team tomorrow, and having access to his playbook feels like cheating. I keep telling myself that he knows our plays from last year, even though we’ve revamped and renamed for this season, but it still feels wrong.
It’s for Tahegin, I remind myself as I move condiments—offensive players—and explain how the spices—defensive players—respond in kind.
This is okay, right? We can keep our relationship and our professional careers separate.
I hope.
CHAPTER 30
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“What the hell is going on?” I sign to Hendrix. The Treasures’ offense is on the field, so both of us are on our respective sidelines, standing at either end of the same thirty-yard line.
Hendrix gives me the universal sign for “I don’t know”—i.e. shrugging his shoulders, eyes wide.
Don’t get me wrong, the Treasures are a decent team, but with our coaches throwing in the new players—me—and the plays in serious need of TLC, we aren’t doing that good. Certainly not well enough to be ahead by two touchdowns and a field goal before halftime.
The official’s calls have been . . . questionable, to put it politely. The Rubies have been getting penalized for shit that wouldn’t hold up on a replay, and it’s all against their offensive line. Pass interference, intentional grounding—come on, Aleks was in the pocket!—and an “incomplete” pass, which they challenged and won.
On the next turnover, I head out to my spot on the field, checking the Rubies’ offensive setup to ensure I’m in the best position for what I’m anticipating their play to be. My eyes catch on Aleks, who winks, then Kit behind him, the small guy looking pale like he’s seen a ghost or maybe he is sick. As the play clock winds down, my gaze lands on the receiver lined up across from me.
Oh.
“Mathis put you out here?” I ask Hendrix as nerves fill my gut. He’s been on the sideline most of the game so far while the newer receivers had their turns to show what they are made of—preseason testing and all that. The few plays Hendrix has been in, I have, thankfully, been on the other end of the line or on the bench. This is our first matchup.
“Coach is trying to save—face—” His words are interrupted as the ball is snapped, and he dashes past me.
I curse my inattention and run as fast as I can to catch up. The late notice actually comes in handy when Hendrix fakes one way before turning the other. I don’t lose precious time correcting myself, instead darting straight to where I know his target position is.
