Page 52 of Cherry Picking
He walks off, pulling Nash alongside him and probably going over my recovery notes.
Anyone who says that you can’t work up a sweat sitting on your ass has clearly never endured an hour of PT with Nash riding them. He sets a strict, no-bullshit type of regimen, and he makes damn sure you stick to it.
That means I’m tired, sore, and in dire need of a nice hot shower before gunning back to my apartment with my tail between my legs and hoping Griff is home to ease the ache in my body caving inward toward my chest.
Griffin is blasting Taylor Swift through the apartment when I walk through the door—sans crutches because I've been cleared for low-range movement without them—and nothing makes me smile brighter than walking in on him in goalie mode.
Most times when we're home, Griff is unwinding from spending all day obsessing over his job, but sometimes he takes that work home, and it makes him look like one sexy fucker. A weird, sexy fucker, but sexy none-the-less.
He's standing at our kitchen counter scrolling through his phone with one hand while munching on a slice of pizza with the other. All with one leg stretched and propped on the counter like it's the most natural stance in the world.
“Hey there, frat boy,” I call out between the melancholy piano keys filling our apartment.
He looks up with a smile to match my own and discards the rest of his food on the table to return his attention to the stretch that looks like it would break much more than my reconstructed knee. How he gets into those positions, much less out of them, is a wonder to me.
Griff braces one hand around the ankle on the counter and bends to do the same with his leg on the ground.
“Think you can stay like that with my dick in your ass?”
I peer around the edge of the counter to see the lifted brow expression on his grinning face. “You looking for an invitation?”
I'm hit with a shock of familiarity. Not just from seeing Griffin's warm up routines throughout the years but from watching Matty turn our space into his makeshift studio. Music and dancing would light the place up until the moment he was too tired to keep his eyes open, and now a similar liveliness has taken root.
Griff stands up straight but doesn't break position, and he grabs the front of my shirt to drag me into a kiss.
It’s meant to be a short kiss in greeting, but the moment I taste him something flickers to life inside me. I haul an arm around his waist and pull him into my body, the leg on the counter hooking around my hip and ending with my hand on his ass and all of his weight in my arms.
It’s only for a brief moment as I drop him onto the counter next to the fridge and deposit him there. My hands are free to roam his broad chest covered in only one of his workout tanks cut all the way down the sides, and he leans back against the cabinets to give me room to duck my head to his neck and start trailing my tongue down his skin.
While I lick my way through his salty perspiration, his hands slink under my shirt and yank me closer, forcing my hips to his so I can feel the hard on trapped in his track pants.
“You gonna give me my pregame pounding?” He groans into my ear as I lift his shirt and scrape my teeth over a pebbled nipple.
It wasn’t a purposeful routine we picked up, but with our own buckets of frustrations to deal with, it’s one that we found ourselves falling into. Usually one where Griff pushes me on whatever hotel room bed we’re shacking up in and riding me until he’s sufficiently ‘warmed up’ for the game.
I’ve been testing my leg strength for the last few days, and god would it feel good to fuck him proper again.
“Think you can take it? Looks like you worked up quite a sweat without me.”
He grins and grips a hand in my hair to tug me to his lips. “Fuck me up, baby.” His tongue swipes into my mouth, and what little reservations I have slip away.
The two of us work together to toss his tight ass pants to the floor, leaving him in a jock that is definitely not one of his usuals. In fact, if I knew he were wearing that under his gear, I’d probably break my ‘no fucking in the locker room’ rule becausegoddamn.
“Something you want to tell me, frat boy?”
Griffin huffs a laugh into my neck and plants his hands on his thighs, spreading them wide and giving me a good look at the dark red lace encasing his cock.
“It was a gag gift from Rory. A little tight, but I thought you might appreciate it.”
Appreciate might be putting it lightly.
“Change of plans.”
I break away to admire the way he looks all splayed out for me, and then I slap his thigh and steal a quick, rough kiss from his lips.
“Bedroom. Keep that on and get comfortable.”
His megawatt smile lights up the whole damn room as he hops down, smacks my ass in return and jogs off down the hall while I take his phone and turn off the workout music still blaring through the room.
