Page 16 of Praised By the Cornerback

I obey without thinking, dragging my thumb through the precum and spreading it down my shaft. The slide gets smoother, and I groan.

I crack my eyes open and glance at him.

Adrian’s on his side, propped up on one elbow, and he’s watching me like he can’t look anywhere else. His hand is pressed against the bulge at the front of his sweatpants, his palm moving in slow circles.

His face has gone hungry, like he’s barely holding himself back.

It pushes me closer to the edge. I stroke myself at a punishing pace now, my wrist flicking on every upstroke, my hips thrusting up into my fist.

“You should see yourself right now, Boy Scout. You have no idea how much you turn me on.”

I whimper, like some pathetic, desperate thing, and I don’t even care. “Adrian.”

His name comes out broken, and his eyes flare.

“Come for me,” he says, his voice dropping even lower. “Show me what a good boy you are.”

The words go straight through me. My entire body locks up, every muscle tensing, and then I’m coming. I groan, loud and shameless, as I spill into my hand. Hot ropes of cum coat my fingers, splatter across my T-shirt, and I keep stroking through it, milking every last drop.

My vision whites out for a few seconds. There’s only the intense, overwhelming rush of pleasure.

When I finally come back to myself, I’m slumped against the headboard, my chest heaving, my hand still loosely wrapped around my softening cock.

I open my eyes and look at Adrian.

He’s still watching me. His hand moves over the bulge in his sweatpants, slower now, and there’s a large wet spot soaking through the gray fabric.

He came in his pants, without even taking himself out, just from watching me.

Holy shit.

I stare at him, struggling to wrap my head around it. I just jerked off in front of Adrian Vega, while he watched and talked me through it.

And it was the best orgasm of my life.

5

Adrian

I arrive at the practice field thirty minutes early. The grass is still wet with dew, the air cool and sharp. I drop my helmet near the sideline and start stretching, working through the familiar routine on autopilot while my brain replays this morning on an endless loop. Connor’s face when he came. The sounds he made. The way he looked at me after, dazed and vulnerable, like I’d cracked something open inside him he didn’t know was there.

I crossed a line. That much is obvious. I let my control slip, said things I shouldn’t have said, pushed him somewhere he might not have wanted to go. The fact that he seemed into it at the time doesn’t change the reality that I took advantage of the situation. He was half-awake, probably still half-drunk, and I talked him through jerking off like I had any right to do that.

The smart move is distance. Give him space to process without me hovering around making it weird.

I move through my stretches with more focus than necessary, trying to burn off the restless energy. Hamstrings, hip flexors, shoulders. The sun climbs higher, warming the air, and I’m just finishing up when I hear someone approaching across the grass.

I glance up.

Connor’s walking toward the field, helmet hooked under one arm. He looks rough around the edges. There are faint shadows under his eyes, and his skin has that pale quality that comes from not enough sleep or too much alcohol or both. But he’s moving with his usual easy confidence.

I straighten, bracing myself for weird tension or some acknowledgment of what happened a few hours ago.

Connor drops his helmet in the grass beside mine. “Morning.”

His tone is completely normal, as if we’re just two guys showing up for practice.

“Morning,” I say back.