“But you lived with Nelson for two years,” Tiller argued. “You’re telling me he never—”
“No! No, he never,” I said, flapping my hands around to emphasize… something. I was shocked by his admission. “Wait, wait. Wait. You, Tiller Raine, big beautiful NFL superstar, have never had penetrative sex?”
He set his jaw and folded his arms in front of his bare chest. “My dick penetrated your mouth as recently as this morning,” he said stubbornly.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean, and stop acting like I’m making a judgment here. I live in a glass house, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that? How is it possible you’ve never fucked someone before like that?”
“I told you, I’m not a big hookup person. I want a relationship. And with Nelson, I just… didn’t trust him enough. Part of me worried he’d go tell everyone that he ‘tapped that’ or something.” I shrugged. “He was the kind of guy who bragged about everything. I didn’t want my ass to be one of the things he bragged about having.”
Something dark passed through his expression, but I had no way of knowing what had sparked it.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I guess I wasn’t ready. What about you?”
He pulled me over to the bed and nudged me into it before climbing in beside me and pulling the thick duvet over us. I sighed and settled against his warm body, not realizing until then how chilly it had been in the room without my clothes on.
“I had a boyfriend in high school, but we were so hopped up all the time, just the idea of anal sex usually made us blow.” His chuckle was deep and relaxed. “We lived for blow jobs, hand jobs, and frotting, to the point there wasn’t really ever a need for more. Maybe we were too intimidated to try it, I don’t know. But I didn’t miss it. Then in college, I got backroom blow jobs at parties and stuff all the time. I even got them from some women when I was horny enough, which was usually after a game.” Tiller stopped and tilted his head. “Wait. What about all those fucking guys who’re always getting all up in your business at Sidecars? I fucking hate that.”
It was true. For some reason, our favorite sports bar was like a magnet for weirdos. I’d never understood how the place attracted so many gay and bi guys, but maybe it had something to do with it being Tiller Raine’s local hangout. If they couldn’t have him, I was the next best thing. “I’m your sloppy seconds,” I said without thinking.
His eyes turned stormy. “The hell you say.”
“I meant, I get your sloppy seconds.” I crawled on top of him and straddled his hips. His now-flaccid dick was warm under my ass. I rocked a little bit to get it going again. “I think you’re the draw to Sidecars, and then they see me in all of my skinny, geeky splendor and decide this,” I said, gesturing to my pale naked chest, “beats that,” I said, gesturing to his firm, rounded pecs, “every day of the week. Who the hell needs NFL muscles when they can get sauté muscles instead?”
I flexed my biceps until we both burst into laughter.
Tiller grabbed me around the waist and flipped us over until I was solidly, deliciously under him. His dick was plenty hard by now, and he pressed it into my inner thigh with a groan.
“I’ve always preferred sauté muscles,” he teased in a low, seductive voice. “And watching other men hit on you at Sidecars makes me want to punch something. Jack Wooden was the worst. He showed up there every fucking night during baseball season because he knew we came there to watch the Rockies games and he wanted to get in your pants.”
I thought about the good-looking high school teacher we’d met through one of Tiller’s teammates. “Aww, he’s lonely.”
“He’s horny. Not the same thing.”
I ran my hands up into Tiller’s thick hair. “He was sweet. Except he always sat too close to me.”
Tiller’s eyes bugged. “Babe, he sat close to you so he could cop a feel of your butt. Every time you stood up to go to the men’s room, he stared at your ass like a damned proctologist.”
“That explains what happened,” I muttered under my breath.
“Ya think?” Tiller was on a roll. “He tried asking you out every which way. You finally agreed to a date—at Sidecars on Rockies night, which was hilarious—and when he took that to mean he might actually get you to suck his dick in the back hallway, what the fuck happened?”
I felt my face heat even more than it already was with his big dick pressing its thick length against my leg. “I needed a wingman?”
He grinned like the Cheshire cat. “You needed a bodyguard. A big, strong man to come save you from that pushy punk.”
I ran my fingers down his neck to his chest and rubbed them against his nipples. “I actually think he was more excited to get into a bar fight with the great Tiller Raine than he would have been to get his dick sucked by some no-name.”
Tiller leaned down until our noses were practically touching. “You are nowhere close to being a no-name. And if you’d sucked anyone’s dick in the back hallway of my favorite bar, I would have had to find a new favorite bar.”
Suddenly, I remembered the night he started seating me on the inside of a booth at Sidecars. We’d always sat at a high-top table before that, but he’d complained one night he didn’t like having his back to the room. When he’d moved us to a booth, he’d nudged me in first, every time. Now I saw it through a different lens.
My chest filled with warmth. “You sneaky little shit.”
His brows lifted. “Who, me? How so?” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait, did Sam tell you about Lonny? That traitor.”
Lonny was another Sidecars regular who was always trying to get in my pants. “What about Lonny?”
“What were you talking about when you called me sneaky?”
“Nothing. What about Lonny? Whatever it was, Sam didn’t tell me.”
“Good. He wasn’t supposed to.” He leaned down and sucked on my collarbone a little. It made me gasp, but I was determined to hear the story. I yanked him back up by his hair.
“Not so fast, Casanova. Tell me.”
He sighed and propped his head in his hand. “I overheard him asking Sam for your number one night, after you’d already shot him down a million times, so I gave him Bret McGraw’s personal cell number.”
I thought of the big-ass left tackle who was probably the only player on the entire Rigger roster who didn’t hesitate to spout anti-gay bullshit under the guise of his devout faith. This, while the man slept around on his wife at every single away game and had arranged for at least one Rigger cheerleader to get the Plan B pill. And it hadn’t been because of the generosity of the man’s spirit.
I couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Poor Lonny. I hope Bret wasn’t too hateful to him.”
Tiller scoffed. “Lonny lost any chance with me when he cupped your junk right after you’d politely told him no to a drink.”
I wrapped my legs around him. I wanted to hump his dick, rub my body all over his until we both came, screaming. But I wanted information even more. “You saw that?”
Instead of answering, Tiller took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply. The taste of him, the feel of his warm exhalations and his strong fingers on my face were enough to make me lose my train of thought.