Page 25 of Stetson
I didn’t bottom very often but damn, Barrett never failed to remind me how much I loved it. He worked slow, pulling off occasionally to spit onto his fingers. Saliva dribbled over my balls and down my taint, and he replaced his mouth over my cock. Everything was hot and wet. The air was thick and it was sending my body into overdrive.
By the time he had both fingers deep inside me and his nose buried in my crotch, I was at the end of my rope, and it hadn’t even been five minutes. Then Barrett crooked his fingers, found that magic little bundle of nerves. My hips jack-knifed toward the feeling. Barrett choked and I cried out, alternating between thrusting forward to fuck his mouth and spearing myself onto his fingers. When that all too familiar chill crept down my spine, I managed to turn on the flash.
“Don’t swallow,” I instructed, voice hoarse.
I didn’t have to tell Barrett I was close. When my balls drew up and I tightened my fist in his hair, I leaned into the orgasm. My thighs trembled. My heart raced. I gave into the need to let my eyes shut. Barrett coughed around me, the first drops of my release hitting his tongue. I shot again, feeling it trickle out of his mouth and down my shaft, pooling in my groin and dripping down to the chair. With each pulse, I loosened my grip on Barrett. Still reeling from aftershocks, I pried my eyes open. Barrett wore a faint grin on his dick-swollen lips.
It widened into a smile as he sat back on his heels, wiping the come off his mouth, then licking his hand free. I ended the recording, letting my phone clatter to the floor. I fisted Barrett’s t-shirt, pulling him into a messy kiss.
“Are you okay?” I asked when I came up for air.
He nodded, lips brushing mine. “Stetson likes being watched.” He swallowed, panting in an effort to catch his breath. “Tell him to text you when he gets in the shower after the game, then send him that video. What happens next, I’ll leave up to you.”
I smiled, pride filling my chest that—combined with the effort of remembering how to breathe—was ready to burst. “GoddamnI love you,” I snarled, tugging him to his feet. I stood on wobbly legs, and shoved him down in the chair that nearly tipped backward under his weight. “Switch.”
13
STETSON
We wereat the bottom of the ninth inning, two runs away from beating the Oklahoma Twisters. Like their namesake, they were destroying the field. They were absolutebeasts, making us work for each hard-earned run.
Sweat stung my eyes. My walk-up music was drowned out by the pounding in my head. The Thrashers had two outs, and one man on third. Either I kept this game going, or I was going to be the one to end it. I raised my bat, locking eyes with the pitcher. I tightened my grip on the handle and counted my breaths, along with the pounding of my heart. I wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of a long game. I hadn’t mistaken the way the catcher wobbled in his stance before I put my back to him, or the pitcher taking an extra second to roll out the aching muscles in his neck. When he readied himself to wind up, I dropped my eyes to the ball in his hand. He tried to hide it, but I could see the position of his fingers.
Splitter.
I aimed low and swung.
Hit.
The crowd roared. My heart matched each heavy footfall. The cheers got louder as my teammate hit home, tying the game. I rounded first, hearing the ball slap into the baseman’s glove. I knew his move before he made it and slid to a stop, pivoting to race back to first, only to see the ball fly over my head again. I hovered between the two bases, the thundering in my ears growing louder.
I was stuck.
One coach yelled at me to get back on first. Another one screamed, red-faced, for me to take second. I couldn’t see a way out. Either way, I’d get tagged. The Twisters were too good. In a split-second decision, I faked back to first, then spun and dropped to slide into second. The baseman took a step off the plate. A glove touched my ankle. I squeezed my eyes shut, hours seeming to pass while the umpire came over to make his call.
The only sounds to be heard were the deep, heavy breaths from myself and the player standing above me.
“Out!”
I was too tired to even groan. Throwing my helmet aside, I took the hand that was offered to me by the guy who’d tagged me out. “Good game!” he called, squeezing my shoulder before heading off to celebrate with his teammates.
I trudged toward the line-up, then we collected our things from the dugout and walked silently into the clubhouse. Losses always sucked, no matter the circumstances.
Losses on home turf, however, sucked a different kind of suck.
The clubhouse was dead silent. No one had anything to say. There was nothingtosay. We’d played our asses off and everyone in that room knew it. Still, our head coach paced by the door, fumbling for words.
He finally settled with, “Good game. Rest up. See y’all in the morning.”
A chorus of grumbles and “Yes, Coach,” followed, then the team dispersed. Some left, heading home to spend the night with their families. A few players headed for the clubhouse showers. I plopped myself down in my seat and dug my phone out. I was nasty, sweaty, my white uniform streaked with grass and red Georgia clay.
This was my first loss of the season. Hell, it was the first of my pro career, and there was only one thing I wanted, one thing Ineeded.I pressed the call icon with a shaking finger and lifted my phone to my ear, cringing at the sweat-slicked screen sliding along my cheek. It rang once, twice, three times.
“Hey baby… Barrett’s here. You’re on speaker.”
I shuddered, instantly feeling better. I glanced around, making sure I was truly alone. “Hi Daddy,” I whispered, running a hand through my hair and pushing my cap off in the process.
“Uh-oh, bad news?”
