Page 15 of Praised By the Cornerback

Except I’m still staring at him, and my cock is getting harder by the second, pressing uncomfortably against the denim.

I press the heel of my palm against the bulge, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The friction sends a jolt of heat through me, and I let out a breath.

Adrian’s eyes open.

I freeze, my hand still pressed against my crotch, and our gazes lock.

Shit.

His eyes drop to my lap, to the obvious bulge in my jeans, and then back up to my face. His expression doesn’t change. Hedoesn’t look shocked or disgusted, or even surprised. He just watches me with that same calm intensity he always has.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, his voice low and rough with sleep.

I let out a nervous laugh that sounds strangled. “What? I wasn’t—”

He shifts, propping himself up on the pillow, more awake now. “Keep going, Boy Scout.”

I should tell him no. Get up, leave this room, and pretend this never happened. That’s what a sane person would do.

But I’m so hard it’s almost painful, and I’ve been pent-up since yesterday’s practice. I was planning to take care of it when I got back to my room last night, but that obviously didn’t happen.

My hand moves back down, like it’s got a mind of its own and my brain’s just along for the ride.

I palm myself through the jeans, and the pressure makes me hiss. My hips jerk up, seeking more friction.

Adrian’s eyes track the movement. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Show me how you like to touch yourself.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this, sitting here on Adrian Vega’s bed, touching myself while he watches. But I can’t stop either. The words hit me like a match to gasoline, and heat floods through me.

I unbutton my jeans with shaking fingers and pull the zipper down. I wiggle my hips, pushing the denim down my thighs, and my cock strains against my boxer briefs. There’s already a wet spot darkening the fabric where the head is.

I wrap my hand around myself through the cotton and stroke once, twice. A groan tears out of my throat.

“You look so good like this, Boy Scout,” Adrian says, his voice like gravel.

I think I come a little just from those words. My cock jerks in my hand, and I feel a fresh surge of wetness soak into the fabric.

I’ve always liked the idea of dirty talk, but every time I’ve asked a girl for it, it came out awkward and forced, like she was reading from a bad script. But hearing it from Adrian, in that low, commanding voice, does something to me I don’t understand.

“Pull it out,” Adrian says. “Show me your cock.”

I shove my boxer briefs down before I can stop myself, and my cock springs free, flushed and leaking. I grab myself, wrapping my fingers around the base, and give it a slow stroke. My thumb swipes over the crown, gathering the beads of precum, and I shudder.

“Beautiful,” Adrian says.

I freeze, my cheeks burning. Beautiful? You’re not supposed to call a guy beautiful. That’s not… guys don’t say that to other guys. Right?

But Adrian’s looking at me like he means it. Like he’s not just saying it to get me off or because he thinks it’s what I want to hear. He’s looking at me as if he wants to remember every detail.

“You’re perfect like this,” he continues, his eyes never leaving me.

That same calm from the locker room settles into me again, the way it did when he told me I was incredible.

I should feel ashamed. I should feel weird and exposed and completely mortified doing this in front of another man, in front of my rival. But I don’t. I feel safe. I feel like I can let go, like Adrian’s got me and I won’t fall.

I close my eyes and stroke myself faster. My free hand reaches down to cup my balls, rolling them in my palm, and I hiss at the spike of pleasure.

“That’s it. Swipe your thumb over the crown. Use that wetness.”