He adjusts himself in front of the entire stadium, and the girls behind me muffle their squeals.
It’s growing annoying, how much they fawn over what’s mine.
I stand up and walk down the aisle to a closer seat, moving to a place where I don’t have to listen to them. And where I have a better view of him. And him of me.
And right here, I have a view—of his legs, his ass, the sweat dripping down his temples.
By the time the game is over, I’m hot and bothered, ready for him to shower and head to his place. The place I plan on being bare-ass up, wearing only his jersey. A surprise.
I sneak out of the stadium and head over there, walking through the door of the frat house and up the stairs, not greeting anyone I pass. Not that anyone says a word. I wonder if they know why I’m here. I wonder if they can hear what we do in his bed.
Not that it stops me.
When the door shuts, I start to strip. And when I’m naked, I work my ass open with lube. Lots of it. I want to be ready so when he arrives home, he just slips right into me.
But first, I need to let him know to come here and not head right to my place.
Grabbing my phone, I snap a picture of myself—the jersey rucked up my chest, my legs spread, my wet hole in frame—and send it over to him.
He reads it, but doesn’t respond.
I can imagine him rushing to get here to me, so he can get into my ass as fast as possible. The thought has my dick hardening. Fuck, who knew I’d be so obsessed with getting dicked down day in and day out? Who knew Colton would be the one to bend me?
If I continue to lie here and work myself up, I’m going to come before he gets here, and I want to come with him.
So, I roll out of bed and move around his room once more. I still haven’t found my lucky coin or my jockstrap.
And I’m pretty sure that tie I wore on our first date is in his box of stolen things.
I can’t find it anywhere.
My fingers brush along the furniture in his room, over the books on his bookshelves, the papers on his desk, and when I’m staring out the window, waiting for him to arrive, the door bursts open and he rushes in.
“Fuck. You weren’t answering your phone,” he says, almost frantic. “Put your pants on. Hurry.”
He tosses them at me, and I just stand there, trying like hell to understand. “Hurry the fuck up, Myles.Please.”
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask as I quickly tug them on, and then he waves his hand around. “I’ll tell you later. Shit, the jersey too. Put your sweater on. Fuck. Fuck!”
Grasping for it, I’m pulling it over my head when the door opens and someone walks in—a man in his fifties whom I don’t recognize. He’s wearing a sleek suit and tie, his hair perfectly combed back.
He walks in like he owns it, like he owns Colton.
I don’t like that at all. No one owns Colton Cavanaugh.
But if anyone does, it’s me.
“You have a guest,” the man says, his voice clipped and annoyed. “I told you I needed to speak to you privately.”
“And I told you I’d see you this weekend.”
“I was on campus.”
“Still, I don’t have anything to say to you. Not here. This ismyplace.”
The man shifts on his feet, his displeasure growing. He tries to hide it, but it seeps from him, through his pores and onto his skin.
“I’m sure your guest won’t mind,” the man says and then turns to face me. He takes a step toward me and holds out his hand. I stare at it and then up at his face.
