I've always been the guy who takes what he wants.
Towering over the field. Girls throwing themselves at my feet. Straight as an arrow, or so I told myself.
Then he showed up. My tutor. Half my size, all sharp edges and dry wit that cuts right through my b******t. Those study sessions in that cramped room? Sweat hanging thick in the air, his voice a low whisper pulling confessions I never planned to give.
One brush of his hand against my thigh. That's all it took for my world to tilt. Massive as I am, I let this smaller man pin me down with a look. His fragile frame against my bulk, and suddenly I'm the one begging. Yielding. Craving the stretch of his touch on places no one's ever reached.
I know the risks. Team's watching. Coach's rules. One whisper of this, and my career's toast. He's got his own walls - that guarded stare hiding how bad he needs this too. But every time his fingers trace my chest, dwarfed by the sheer size of me, I lose it. We tangle over that tiny desk, my hands engulfing his hips, his commands rumbling through me like thunder I can't ignore. Post-game highs got nothing on the hush after, limbs twisted together, his head on my chest like he belongs there.
It's wrong. Tutor and student. Straight jock shattering for a man. But damn if his obsession doesn't mirror mine. What if the scandal hits? What if he pulls back, leaves me wrecked and wanting? Or worse - what if I can't stop, even when it all comes crashing down?
