My eyes darted back to my chest, but the damage was done. I was hyper-aware of every inch of his hands as they pressed against my body, the heat of his skin, the rough texture of his palms, the skilled pressuring of his fingers. Unless you want the whole team to bombard you with whistling and clapping. The coach had taken one look at me during tryouts and muttered something about “potential,” which I’m pretty now was just code for “we need warm bodies.”
The first practice was a wake-up call. I wanted to hate it, to push him away, but instead, I leaned into it, giving myself over to the pleasure he was apparently so adept at giving. His firm, round, and perfectly proportioned ass could have been a centerpiece at a museum of male anatomy. That was just… nerves. “You good?”
I nodded way too fast, like my head was trying to break a speed record. But my eyes kept drifting, pulled by some magnetic force. “Dude, turn around. Dear God, please don’t let me be gay, I thought, repeating it like a mantra.
