Page 39 of Happy Krampus Xmas & the Meet Not Cute
“Mediocre fucks. You need a proper one. I have an eye for it. I’ll help you.” He sounds excited about it, the complete opposite of what I’m feeling right now. I know how persistent and relentless he can be when he gets an idea in his head—fuck the consequences.
I do believe him when he says he hasan eye for it. Gabe is fucking gorgeous and kind of scary with his unfazed demeanor and cold stare. Pretty sure he’s fireworks in bed. The silent ones usually are. Bez on the other hand is crass and brusque. I interacted with him only a couple of times when he possessively warned me off Lori—like I’d ever hit on that bag of crazy.
But I find multiplicity fascinating—two or more personalities sharing one body. Next year I'd like to check the seminar on identity disorders hosted in the psychology department. It sounds captivating to me.
I make my way back to the locker room. “I’ll save a spot for you in class on Wednesday. We can compare notes afterward and study together.”
“Brilliant. Looking forward to it. You’ll need to help me out as well.”
“With?” I ask. Need to be cautious with Lori. Never know what he’s cooking up.
“A Krampus intervention!” Before I can question himmuchmore, he hurriedly adds, “We’ll be revisiting the topic of your hookups then, too. Cheerio.”
When he hangs up, yesterday’s lesson recording resumes in my ears, and I sigh before pushing through the locker room door. When I reach the benches, I frown at the dirty uniform on the floor. I must have dropped it while I was talking to Lori. I’ll bring it to the laundry room on my way out.
I put the cart back near the wall and grab a couple of rags before moving toward the showers. The recording ends, and instead of being greeted by silence, I hear the sound of water falling in the showers. Before I can ask myself if I left it open there’s a hard thud, followed by a painful grunt.
Is someone there? Fuuuck! I haven’t rinsed the cleaner yet and it sounded like someone slipped on the slick floor.
I drop the rags and quickly round the wall that divides the room from the showers. I have only a second to glance at the naked blond god lying on the floor before my sneakers lose traction and I land face-first on a smooth, warm, wet chest.
His pec is certainly softer than the floor tiles, but it still hurts like a bitch when my nose smashes against it.
He lets out an “oomph” as I utter a “shit!” I fell on a mountain of wet muscles that smell like sweat and soil and cinnamon.
My elbow is stuck under me, spearing his belly, and I’m trying to straighten myself, but my shoes keep sliding on the slippery floor. I manage to move my lower body and straddle hisverydefined abs, my legs stretched out painfully on both sides of his waist.He’s huge.My uniform pants are rapidly getting soaked at the knees.
Panting and aching, I lift my head from his chest and meet the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re filled with confusion and shock. The latter must be reflected in mine as well.
“Who are you?” he asks in a raspy voice.
“Who are you?” I echo his words.
“I’m a football player, clearly.” He lifts his hands, and I remember once again that I’m on top of him. “Can you move?” It’s more an order than a question.
“I’m fucking trying, man!” I flatten my palms on his golden pecs—nice ink he has there—and slide my torso down, attempting again to push my hips up to no avail. The soles of my shoes can’t stop gliding on the wet tiles. Fucking hell, I might have sprayed an exaggerated amount of cleaner on the floor.
“Stop!” The jock suddenly grabs on my hips, fingers to skin since my wet shirt rose up over my belly. I look into his widening eyes. Something flashes across his face as a pink hue starts forming on his cheeks.
Is he embarrassed or turned on?Maybe a little bit of both. I feel a hardmuscleplumping against my ass—a very, very, very promising muscle. I’m dying to get a peek.
I smirk at him and wiggle my butt right over the stiff, big, bare cock under me. His calloused fingers dig into my skin, so deep I’m sure they will leave bruises.
His jaw clenches and his features are twisted in anger—hunger? I can see interest in his eyes, but also wariness. Pity, I’d have enjoyed a hard fuck in the shower. Lori is right in wanting to help me since I’m considering being fucked by a repressed jock. I sigh and shift my body to my left.
He tenses even more under me, lifting his head from the floor for a moment to glare at me.
“Calm down, I’m taking off my shoes.”
“Why?”
Are all jocks really dumb? I don’t have much experience with them. Bullies and psychos, tons. Athletes, none.
“My sneakers slip on the floor; my socks shouldn’t do the same.” I fucking hope. The water still falling from the showerhead a couple of feet from us has turned cold, but the guy under me feels like a furnace. Hot and hard. A tempting mix.
“Are you going to tell me who you are?” he asks, as I finish with the laces on one shoe and turn to the other.
I tap on the word cleaner under the college logo on the right pec of my uniform. His brows tighten, creating a cute frown line between them.
