Page 65 of Try Line Hearts
Lucas grinned, feral, biting his lower lip to stifle a moan. “Why don't you fucking make me,” he shot back, voice a guttural command. He fisted Eli's curls tighter, slamming forward again, burying his cock to the hilt. Eli gagged hard this time, throat working desperately around the thickness, tears streaking his cheeks as his nose pressed into Lucas's pubes.
The vibration of the gag shot straight to Lucas's core, pleasure coiling tight, his thighs tensing. He pounded relentlessly, the slap of Eli's chin against his balls echoing faintly in the cramped space, drowned by the crowd's cheers outside. Eli's hands gripped Lucas's thighs, nails digging in, urging him on even as he choked and sputtered.
Lucas's mind raced—fuck, the risk, the way Eli submitted so completely, letting him use his mouth like a tight hole. Sweat beaded on Lucas's forehead, dripping down as he chased the edge, breaths coming in sharp pants. Eli's eyes locked on his again, pleading and hungry, and that did it. Lucas bit down on his fist, teeth sinking into skin to muffle the roar building in his chest.
His cock pulsed, hot cum erupting in thick ropes down Eli's throat. Eli tried to swallow, but Lucas held him there a beat too long—Eli gagged violently, pulling back with a gasp, the last spurts streaking across his cheek and splattering onto his jersey in pearlescent, sticky lines.
They separated eventually—breathless, flushed, Eli attempting to clean his jersey while their dignity lay somewhere on the floor with the spare cones.
Eli laughed under his breath. “We’re going to hell.”
Lucas adjusted his kit, pulse still loud in his ears. “Worth it. If this is how I get to celebrate a win, I’ll gladly wait at the gates themselves.”
Eli’s smile softened at that.
For a moment—just one—it felt easy.
Like this was all there was: heat, secrecy, shared breath, the unspoken agreement that whatever this was, it belonged to them and no one else.
Lucas squared his shoulders, ran his hands through his hair, and stepped back into the corridor like nothing had happened. Captain again. Public face in place.
Eli followed a moment later, towel already slung over his shoulders, grin firmly back where it belonged—easy, charming, unreadable to anyone who hadn’t just been on their knees for him.
The illusion lasted exactly as long as it took the adrenaline to ebb.
Later, as the stadium emptied and the team filtered toward buses and recovery rooms, Eli hung back near the physio area, stretching out his calves and half listening to a conversation he wasn’t meant to hear.
Two backs. One of them grinning, voice pitched low but careless.
“—heard Lucas’s agent’s lining him up with some singer. Big name. International chart stuff.”
Eli stilled.
“What, like… dating?” the other asked.
“Yeah. Smart move, honestly. Shuts people up.”
“Christ. Imagine the press.”
“Exactly. Apparently, it’s basically done. Dinner next week or something.”
Their voices faded as they moved on, laughter echoing down the corridor.
Eli didn’t move.
A date.
A woman.
Planned. Strategic. Public.
He leaned back against the wall, towel still looped around his neck, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. The words replayed themselves with cruel clarity.
Basically done.
Dinner next week.
Shuts people up.
