Page 301 of Coach
But I followed the kid, one bleacher after the next, one metallicthunkat a time.
We reached the hardwood and strode down the center.
“Anything else, Coach?” Stan asked.
“No, thanks, Stan. Save me a seat and some pizza, all right?”
“Sure thing, Coach.” The boy smiled and ran in the direction of his teammates, now exiting the gym with a flock of parents and siblings following close behind. Less than a handful of heartbeats later, Mateo and I stood alone on the far sideline at center court.
The click of someone turning out the lights echoed off the halls.
An electronic hum heralded the slow decline in light, casting shadows, then darkness throughout the massive chamber.
Mateo closed the distance between us.
“Hey you—” was all I got out before his hands clamped onto the sides of my head, and his lips threatened to suck the breath from my lungs. We’d shared some hungry kisses, but none were as ravenous as that post-game pucker. Dear God, Mateo kissed me as though we stood on the edge of the world as an asteroid barreled toward Earth.
And for once in my life, I melted into his arms and surrendered control.
Mateo’s fingers climbed up my neck, to the back of my head, where they dug into my scalp. He wasn’t holding me so much as claiming my space, my skin—claiming me—as his own.
“Mateo.” My breath came out a rasp. “Someone might see us.”
He didn’t slow or let go, but between kisses, he mumbled, “My office. Now.”
Without warning, he spun me around and shoved me before him and toward the door that led into the bowels of the gym. We stumbled through the now-empty locker room, past piles of discarded socks and underwear that smelled like something otherworldly had died and festered in place, and into a glass-doored office whose plaque read, “Mateo Ricci, Head Coach.”
The moment the door clicked shut, I heard the zip of Mateo closing the blinds that covered his door.
We were alone. Finally.
Slivers of light sneaking through slits in the blinds were the only light in the room.
“You’re going to fuck me right here, on my desk,” Mateo growled as he turned the lock on his door.
“Uh, babe.” My mind warred with my now-pulsing cock. “We’re in your office . . . at school.”
He didn’t hesitate, just yanked his polo over his head and threw it against the far wall.
“And you’re going to fuck the life out of me. Right here. Right now.”
I blinked. Then blinked again.
He bent down and tore off one shoe, then the other, then his socks.
A second later, his pants landedbeside his shirt.
Then his underwear.
I’d barely braced myself against his metal teacher’s desk before the glory that was naked Mateo stood before me. His chest and shoulders shimmered, still slick with sweat from the humid gym. His hair was mussed from all the well-wishes of the boys and parents, and his cock . . . fuck me runnin’ . . . he was already harder than I was. When had that happened?
“You. Naked. Now.”
Time wound backward, and I was in high school again. Mateo was the coach barking orders at me, orders I dared not disobey. No, I’d never been propositioned or molested by a coach or teacher, but the whole naughty school boy fantasy had followed me into adulthood.
And we were about to play it out.
My chest vibrated with excitement.
