Page 40 of Tight End

Tingles erupt in my groin as I rub harder.

His thick muscles caging me against the wall, strong thighs locked against mine, his massive cock slamming into my ass to stake his claim on me…I want to lie here and let those memories loop through my mind forever.

That possessive streak is sexy as fuck.

I jerk into my hand, thrusting my hips. My breaths are stilted, short and sharp as the sensations course through me like a dose of adrenaline-spiked lust.

Precum seeps from my slit. It coats my fingers as I fuck my hand, my mind short-circuiting from the overload of carnal need consuming me. I squeeze my dick, dragging my hand up and down, eyes shut tight.

My balls tighten and I suck down air as sparks explode from my core. They shoot to the tips of my fingers and toes as the orgasm tears through me.

Holy fuck.

I lie there with my cum-soaked hand wrapped around my cock. I can barely think, the pounding between my temples is that hard.

And to think I could have probably just gotten up and pissed Sam off to the point of fucking me again instead of doing the job myself.

A buzzing sound jolts me from my vision of Sam’s lips wrapped tight around my cock. My eyes fly open and with my free hand, I grab my phone off the nightstand.

A text from Ben flashes across the screen.

Pressconference will be at the Wallingford Hotel in an hour. I’ll send a car to Sam’s apartment.

I let out an unsteady breath. Fuck. I forgot about the press conference.

This whole thing is such bullshit. The guy was looking to flex his dick and he picked the wrong audience. Why should that become my problem? Does everyone really think we’ll lose fans because I defended my bandmate? Are they gonna suddenly start hating our music? There are plenty of celebrities who’ve done way worse shit than me and guess what? Nobody’s canceledthem.

So why the hell are they so goddamned worried?

Scrolling through my notifications, I roll my eyes at the endless string of texts from Lane and the rest of the guys and toss the phone onto the mattress.

I sit up slowly and reach for my t-shirt on the floor. I clean myself up and get out of the bed. My jeans and boxer briefs are on the floor, too. But instead of getting dressed, maybe I should take a stroll around the place to see if I can find Sam.

Let off some steam before I have a sea of cameras stuck in front of my face.

An hour won’t give us a lot of time, but judging by the way my cock jerks when Sam’s face floats into my mind, I don’t think I need much at all.

I walk toward the bedroom door naked when chills spike down my back.

A deep ache assaults my heart when the music hits my ears.

That song.

My mind trips back to a Sunday morning before Davis had moved up north.

The smell of bacon and eggs filling our house, Davis playing Maroon 5 while he cooked, which was part of his whole breakfast ritual. Didn’t need to be Sunday morning, either. He played that song every damn day.

I let out a groan as I pad into the kitchen. “Not again with this song.”

Davis sings along, ignoring me as he scoops two platefuls of fluffy scrambled eggs out of the pan.

I stab a forkful from the pan mid-transfer and shove them into my mouth.

He flips me off but doesn’t stop singing.

“Adam Levine is a total hack,” I say before taking a long gulp of orange juice.

“Jesus, are you ever going to let it go? Just because he ignored you after your opening set at their show doesn’t mean he’s a hack.”

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