Page 40 of High Notes & Hail Marys

Sterling pulls off you with a wetplopthat sounds absolutely lurid in the small space.

“Yes, you can,” he says, matter-of-factly.

You are worried about his throat, and it makes you hold back. You’re also a little afraid that you aren’t going to come at first, despite the fact that you are shivering with arousal. You’re bordering on over-stimulation, watching Sterling’s curly head bobbetween your thighs. It might take too long; it might hurt him to do this for as much time as it’s going to take, with your body being stubborn.

Then helooksat you. He makes eye contact, his blue eyes rising like twin stars over the plane of your abs and locking with yours. He holds the gaze for a moment. Then he mouth-fucks you even harder, swiveling his hand on the base of your cock in tandem with the up-down movement of his mouth.

It’s like a getaway car speeding from zero to sixty in three seconds, tires peeling out. All of a sudden, you go from questioning the outcome of this venture to crying out and erupting into Sterling’s generous, clever mouth without enough warning to even choke out a considerate announcement. He works you through it with his lips, tongue, and hand, patiently milking every drop out of you until you are pretty sure your very soul left your body through your dick.

After, there is only the roar of the engine and the sounds of you two catching your breath.

Sterling climbs up the bed and drops a lingering kiss on your forehead.

“I’m going to jump back in the shower,” he tells you, “and then I have some stuff I’m going to review on my iPad over at the desk. This bed is pretty small. You sleep, okay?”

You’d prefer to cuddle a little bit, but you dare not push your luck. Besides, your eyelids are getting crazy heavy. Your last coherent thought is that Sterling looks amazing padding back to the bathroom, his ass on delectable display.

You pull the sheets around you, close your eyes, and sleep like a baby as the plane quietly crosses time zones and twenty-eight hundred miles.

Chapter Ten

GRAYSON STUNS ON LONDON STAGE WITH ALBUM ANNOUNCEMENT!

Sterling Grayson is arguably the biggest star of our generation, and he proved the reasons why with his five-day gamut of shows at Wembley Stadium this past weekend, every single one a sell-out. Grayson’s energy never flagged for a moment during the events, which pulled tens of thousands of fans, including dozens of big name celebrities. It seemed like every A-lister in the United Kingdom pulled strings to get a seat at the Goalposts Tour, the current hottest ticket on Earth. Luminaries and commoners alike were spellbound as Grayson strutted, gyrated, and (in an impressive feat of aerial artistry) flew through the songs that have defined his career. It’s rumored that the Queen Consort was in attendance, albeit secluded in a private box.

But the major headline of the London residency came on Night Five, when Grayson paused his guitar between sets to break the news that his ninth full-length studio album, entitled ‘Golden,’ would bereleased in February, and that pre-orders were live. Graylings, as Grayson’s fans are called, immediately crashed his website in the pursuit of limited-edition signed copies and merch emblazoned with the album title. Six of Grayson’s previous eight studio albums, including every one of the last four, have spent multiple weeks atop the Billboard Top 100 at release, and it appears that ‘Golden’ will be no exception.

Absent from the festivities was Grayling’s paramour, American football player Kaius Reinhart. Reinhart’s team, the Miami Cyclones, eked out a close victory against the New England Minutemen this past Sunday night, and Reinhart remains at practice in the States as the Cyclones prepare to face the Green Bay Riots in Week 11 of the regular season. The couple’s devoted legion of shippers, dubbed “Trainspotters,” let out a collective, heartfelt “aww” when Grayson announced that, after his show, he’d be heading straight back to his lodging to watch a stream of Reinhart’s game. It was a rare peek behind the curtain for a couple that had notoriously kept a tight lid on their love life.

Grayson’s next tour stop will be Dublin on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.

***

“What’s the weather like in Ireland?” you ask.

“Well, it’s dark,” he says. “But I think it’s clear? A bit overcast. Pretty cold.”

“Mmm,” you answer, shouldering your phone. You just got home from the practice facility, but it’s already well into the night in Europe, where Sterling just landed. The six-hour time difference isn’t great, but you are willing to work with it if it means you get to talk to Ster before he checks into his hotel and goes to bed. You are half-focused on rummaging in your fridge for something to eat. Not dinner—it’s too early for that—but something to fill the hole in your gut. You always come home hungry after midweek team activities.

“I’m guessing it’s gorgeous in Miami,” he says, sounding wistful.

“Yup.” You look over the refrigerator door at the kitchen window, through which the late afternoon light is shining warmly. “In the seventies today. Sunny. Perfect weather for being outside.”

“I’m jealous,” he replies. “I’ve never gotten used to the weather over here. It’s always cold and wet.”

You had the foresight to prep some snacks earlier in the week—God, you love when you do nice things for yourself like that—and there are some little containers of munch-y stuff. Cut Havarti cheese, individual servings of mango chunks, some cubed deli meat. You gather several of the containers and two chilled water bottles and cradle it all in your big arm, heading toward the bedroom with your treasure.

“Cold wouldn’t be so bad,” you say. “Even 72 gets hot after a few hours running in the sun. You should see my undershirt. I’ve got a nice sweat line under my boobs like a Hooters girl.”

“Eww,” Sterling groans, but you can tell his heart’s not in it.

“You okay?” You put the phone on speaker and toss it onto your bed. Your mother would faint if she saw you sitting on your bedspread, eating,andwithout having showered first—having four boys who played ball made her kind of a stickler for hygiene—but she’s not here. You dig into the first of your containers and grab a piece of mango. “You sound tired.”

You can’t see Sterling’s face, which is frustrating. “No, I’m fine. I actually took a nap on the flight over.”

Frowning, you lick the fruit juice from your fingers. You should have grabbed a fork, but you don’t feel like getting up again. Eating like a barbarian, it is. “That’s good. You just sound… I dunno. Far away.”

“Iamfar away,” he says. “I just flew eight hours from New York.”

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