New York
August in New York didn’t pull its punches.
The heat pressed against the pavement like a warning. The air, thick and electric, clung to skin and soaked shirts. Rory didn’t mind. He’d grown up in the Irish rain, training through fog and sleet. This—this was something else. Alive, heavy, full of momentum.
The kind of atmosphere where anything could happen.
He and Andrés were both in the States, easing into the hard-court season with smaller tournaments before the US Open. Their presence at a modest event in Connecticut had raised some eyebrows—most top players skipped it—but no one asked questions. Not out loud. Maybe some guessed they were chasing form. Maybe some suspected they were chasing each other.
They hadn’t seen each other since London. Since the elevator. Since the hotel room door clicked shut behind them and their bodies finally did what their eyes had been aching for years.
After that night, things shifted. They didn’t talk about it, but something between them had settled—less nervousness, more charge. They trained at nearby facilities, even overlapped once at the same New York gym. No one would’ve guessed the fire smoldering just beneath the surface.
So when the draw placed them on opposite sides of the net in Connecticut, neither man was surprised.
⸻
The match was late afternoon, the sun still high but sliding toward gold. The crowd wasn’t huge, but it buzzed with energy. There was something different about how these two moved—every point tense, every look loaded.
Both wore standard tennis whites, their shirts fitted, shorts high on the thigh. Rory’s red curls stuck to his forehead, the heat bringing out a golden sheen in his skin. His calves flexed with each lunge, the white crew socks pulled tight above his ankles, his sneakers pounding against the court with determined rhythm.
Andrés was more controlled, but not by much. His black curls were damp, curls pushed back with a headband. His white polo clung to his chest, darkening with sweat. His legs moved with signature Spanish precision, his footwork surgical, his eyes never straying too long—but when they did? They burned.
It wasn’t just a match. It was a performance.
A memory. A tease.
Rory won. Barely. Two tight sets, one tiebreak. He didn’t celebrate. Just nodded once, chest heaving, and walked to the net.
Andrés met him there.
Their handshake lingered—hands wrapped tighter than necessary, fingers pressing. Rory’s eyes dropped briefly to Andrés’s lips. When their eyes met again, it was the kind of look that should have been private.
They walked off the court side by side, silent.
⸻
The locker room was quiet.
Most players had left already, and the lights overhead buzzed in that strangely intimate way they did after matches—too white, too still. Rory had showered, towel wrapped low on his hips, his chest and shoulders still flushed from exertion. His hair was damp again, curling at the edges, water dripping onto his clavicle.
Andrés came in a few minutes later, towel slung casually over his shoulder, body still glistening from the rinse. His chest hair was wet and clinging, his thick forearms flexing as he pulled open his locker.
Rory watched him for a moment, then stood.
He walked over, barefoot on the cool tiles, towel snug around his waist.
“You were good today,” Rory murmured, standing close—just a foot between them.
“I lost,” Andrés said quietly, not looking at him yet.
“Still good,” Rory replied. His voice dropped. “Still you.”
Andrés turned then. Their faces were inches apart. The air between them seemed to crackle—part humidity, part history.
“You been thinking about London?” Rory asked, voice barely a whisper.
Andrés’s lips curved. “You mean the match?”
Rory’s jaw twitched, amused, but he didn’t look away. “I meant the elevator. The hotel. The door.”
Andrés exhaled slowly, his breath warm against Rory’s cheek. “Every night.”
And then Rory kissed him.
It wasn’t frantic—just firm, slow, the kind of kiss that closed the distance but opened something else. Their towels brushed, chests touched, their mouths moved like they already knew each other. Andrés’s hand went to the back of Rory’s neck. Rory’s fingers curled against Andrés’s ribs.
They broke apart slowly.
Andrés didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “Where are you staying?”
“Back in the city,” Rory said, voice low. “Got a place in the West Village.”
A beat.
“You want to come over?”
Andrés’s eyes flicked down, then back to Rory’s. “You still drink red?”
Rory smirked. “Bring a bottle.”
⸻
The sun had dipped completely by the time Andrés arrived.
Rory’s building was tucked into a quiet corner of the Village, all brownstone charm and rooftop gardens. He opened the door barefoot, wearing a soft black t-shirt that hugged his arms, jeans loose at the thigh but tight at the waist. His white socks padded over the hardwood as he stepped back to let Andrés in.
Andrés looked good. Too good.
He wore fitted jeans, bright white sneakers, and a navy button-down rolled at the sleeves. His white crew socks were thick and clean, peeking above the edge of his shoes. He held a bottle of red and a grin.
“Nice place,” he said, stepping inside, glancing around at the exposed brick and guitar leaning against a bookshelf.
Rory shrugged. “It’s quiet. No photographers. No agents.”
“Good,” Andrés said, handing him the wine. “I hate an audience.”
Rory uncorked it while Andrés sank into the sofa. He handed over a glass, then sat beside him, their legs barely touching.
The TV played quietly—some old match on mute, a younger version of Rory smashing forehands in slow motion. Andrés sank into the couch, kicking off his white sneakers and putting resting his socked feet, clad in white crew socks and slightly damp from the day.
“You’ve gotten better,” Andrés said, gesturing at the screen.
Rory smiled. “I’ve gotten angrier.”
They talked. Not about tennis. About food. About music. About getting older. About the pressure of pretending not to need each other.
Somewhere in the middle of the second glass, Rory leaned back, stretched out, ankle resting on his knee again. His foot—socked and relaxed—grazed Andrés’s calf. Andrés didn’t move.
He set his wine down.
“So what are we doing, Rory?” he asked softly.
Rory’s eyes found his. “Whatever you want.”
Andrés didn’t answer. He just shifted closer, slow and sure.
The kiss this time was deeper. Drawn out. Their mouths met and stayed, tongues teasing, breaths growing heavier. Andrés’s hand curled against Rory’s jaw. Rory pulled him closer by the waistband of his jeans, gripping the denim, thumb brushing against the warm skin beneath.
They broke apart for a breath.
“You still scared?” Andrés murmured.
Rory pressed their foreheads together. “Yeah. But I want this more.”
Andrés smiled.
“Then show me.”
The city buzzed outside. Inside, they kissed again—more urgently now—hands exploring over denim and cotton, the years of tension finally, gloriously, unraveling on the sofa.
The kiss was soft, almost tentative, like they were both testing the waters. Rory’s lips brushed against Andrés’, warm and lingering, before pulling back just enough to gauge the reaction. Andrés didn’t move away. Instead, his dark eyes locked onto Rory’s, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. The silence was heavy, charged, and Rory’s heart pounded in his chest as if he’d just sprinted across the baseline to return a drop shot.
Andrés leaned in again, this time with more intent. His hand reached up, fingers grazing the side of Rory’s jaw, guiding him closer. Their lips met more firmly this time, the pressure building like the tension in a tie-breaker. Rory’s breath caught, his fingers instinctively tightening around the stem of his wine glass before he set it down on the table beside them. His other hand found its way to Andrés’ thigh, the denim rough under his palm.
The kiss deepened, slow and exploratory at first, then more urgent. Andrés’ tongue flicked against Rory’s bottom lip, asking for entry, and Rory opened for him without hesitation. The taste of wine mingled with the faint saltiness of Andrés’ skin, intoxicating and wild. Rory’s hand slid higher up Andrés’ thigh, squeezing lightly, and Andrés let out a low, barely audible groan that sent a shiver down Rory’s spine.
Their bodies shifted closer, knees bumping, elbows brushing. Rory’s plaid shirt hung open, and Andrés took advantage, sliding his hand underneath it to touch bare skin. His fingers traced the hard lines of Rory’s abs, calloused from years of gripping rackets, but surprisingly gentle now. Rory shivered under the touch, his own hands tugging at the hem of Andrés’ tank top, desperate to feel skin against skin.
Andrés broke the kiss just long enough to pull the tank over his head, his curls mussed from the motion. Rory’s eyes drank him in—the golden skin, the smattering of hair across his chest, the lean muscle that rippled as he moved. Fuck. He looked goddamn perfect, and Rory couldn’t resist leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Andrés’ collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.
Andrés tilted his head back, a soft sigh escaping his lips as Rory’s mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing a nipple before soothing it with his tongue. His hands tangled in Rory’s red hair, tugging gently, urging him on. Rory obliged, his broad hands roaming over Andrés’ back, pulling him even closer until their bodies were pressed together.
The heat between them was unbearable, and Rory reached for the button of his khakis, fingers fumbling in his haste. Andrés stopped him with a hand on his wrist, his breathing ragged. “Slow,” he murmured, his voice rough. “We’ve got all night.”
Rory smirked, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been waiting three years for this.”
Andrés laughed, low and throaty, before leaning in to capture Rory’s lips again. This time, his hands went to Rory’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His palms smoothed over Rory’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples, and Rory arched into the touch, a sharp intake of breath escaping him.
“Still think you’re better than everyone else?” Rory teased, his voice uneven as Andrés trailed kisses down his neck.
“Right now,” Andrés murmured against his skin, “I’m only thinking about you.”
Rory’s hands went to Andrés’ jeans, working the button and zipper with practiced ease. He pushed them down, his breath hitching slightly when he saw the prominent bulge in Andrés’ boxers. His fingers slid under the waistband, brushing against the hot, hard length of him, and Andrés let out a soft curse in Spanish.
“Off,” Rory demanded, tugging at the boxers until they joined the jeans on the floor.
Andrés complied, kicking them aside before turning his attention back to Rory. His hands went to Rory’s khakis, sliding them down his hips and letting them pool at his feet. Rory stepped out of them, his own boxers quickly following, and suddenly they were both bare except for their white crew socks.
They paused for a moment, eyes sweeping over each other, taking in every detail. Rory’s body was a map of hard-earned strength—broad shoulders, defined muscles, and a trail of red hair leading down to his cock, already hard and straining. Andrés was leaner, more wiry, but no less impressive, his bronzed skin glowing in the dim light of the suite.
Andrés dropped to his knees, his hands resting on Rory’s thighs as he looked up at him through thick lashes. “I’ve wanted to do this,” he admitted, his voice husky, “since the first time I saw you.”
Rory’s breath hitched as Andrés’ lips closed around him, the warmth and wetness sending a jolt of electricity straight to his core. His head tipped back, a low groan escaping his lips as Andrés took him deeper, his mouth hot and relentless. The sensation was maddening, every nerve in Rory’s body alight with pleasure.
Andrés’ tongue swirled around the sensitive underside, teasing the ridge just beneath the head with practiced precision. Rory’s fingers tightened in Andrés’ curls, his hips twitching involuntarily as he fought the urge to thrust deeper. But Andrés kept him steady, one hand gripping Rory’s hip while the other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking in slow, deliberate motions.
The rhythmic combination of Andrés’ mouth and hand was unbearably good. Rory’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. He could feel the pressure building, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over him as Andrés worked him with an almost sinful skill.
And then Andrés did something that nearly unraveled him completely. Beneath the flickering light of the suite, he stepped closer, a sly grin playing on his lips. “Turn around,” he commanded softly, his voice laced with a promise that sent shivers down Rory’s spine. Without hesitation, Rory obeyed, his heart pounding as he placed his hands on the back of the couch for support. The anticipation was electric, every nerve in his body on edge as he felt Andrés kneel behind him.
The first touch of Andrés’ tongue sent a jolt of pleasure through Rory, sharp and unexpected. He gasped, his fingers gripping the couch tighter as Andrés’ mouth explored him with a hunger that left Rory breathless. Every lick, every swirl of Andrés’ tongue was meticulous, deliberate, driving Rory closer to the edge.
“Fu*k…” Rory moaned, his voice strained and ragged. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and intensity that left him trembling. Andrés didn’t hold back, his hands gripping Rory’s hips firmly, keeping him in place as he devoured him completely. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion, each gasp and moan echoing off the walls like a symphony of desire.
His tongue traced every inch, teasing and exploring with a fervor that left Rory gasping for air. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and intensity that sent shivers down his spine. Rory’s legs trembled under the relentless assault, his moans growing louder with each passing moment.
“God, Andrés…” Rory panted, his voice trembling with need. He could feel the tension building within him, a coil wound tightly that threatened to snap at any moment. Andrés’ hands gripped his hips tighter, guiding him through the waves of pleasure as they crashed over him relentlessly.
His hands gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles turning white as he tried to steady himself. “Andrés…oh God…” Rory gasped, his voice breaking with every word. His body arched involuntarily, pressing back against Andrés’ mouth, craving more of the intoxicating sensation.
Time seemed to blur, seconds blending into minutes as Rory lost himself in the pleasure. Every touch, every lick brought him closer to the edge, until he was teetering on the brink of blissful oblivion. His mind was consumed by the overwhelming sensation, unable to focus on anything but the way Andrés relentlessly pushed him to his limits.
The sensations were overwhelming—a mix of heat, pressure, and a deep, primal pleasure that made Rory’s knees buckle. He gasped, his fingers tightening in Andrés’ curls as he fought to keep himself upright. “Andrés… I’m close,” he warned, his voice rough and uneven.
But Andrés didn’t stop. If anything, he intensified his efforts, his tongue working faster, his hand stroking harder. Rory’s breathing quickened, his body tensing as the pressure reached its peak. And then, with a strangled cry, he came undone, his release spilling into Andrés’ mouth as waves of pleasure crashed over him.
Andrés swallowed every drop, his tongue coaxing out every last shudder from Rory until he was spent, trembling and gasping for breath. When he finally pulled away, Rory slumped forward against the couch, his chest heaving, his body still tingling with the aftershocks of his climax.
Andrés rose to his feet, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still think you’re better than everyone else?” he teased, his voice low and playful.
Rory laughed breathlessly, turning to face him. “Right now,” he admitted, “I think you might be.”
Their laughter mingled in the air, a temporary reprieve from the intensity of what had just happened. But the hunger in their eyes remained, the connection between them still crackling with unspoken desire.
“Fuck,” Rory whispered, his fingers tangling in Andrés’ curls as he rocked into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, the heat and pressure building with every stroke. Andrés hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through Rory’s body.
When Rory couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled back, breathing hard. “Your turn,” he said, dropping to his knees in front of Andrés.
Andrés leaned back against the couch, spreading his legs slightly as Rory took him in hand, stroking him slowly at first, then faster as Andrés’ breathing quickened. Rory bent his head, pressing a kiss to the tip before taking him into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head. Andrés let out a gasp, his hips jerking involuntarily, and Rory chuckled around him, the sound vibrating through both of them.
“Tease,” Andrés managed to say, his voice strained.
Rory didn’t respond, too focused on the task at hand. He took Andrés deeper, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked, his hand working the base in tandem with his mouth. Andrés’ moans grew louder, his fingers tightening in Rory’s hair as he neared the edge.
When Rory finally pulled away, they were both trembling, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Rory stood, pulling Andrés up with him before turning him around and bending him over the back of the couch.
“You okay?” Rory asked, his voice rough.
Andrés glanced over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face. “More than okay.”
Rory grabbed a bottle of lube from the nearby drawer, slicking his fingers before pressing one gently against Andrés’ entrance. He took his time, working him open slowly, his other hand stroking Andrés’ cock in rhythm with his movements.
When he finally pushed inside, they both groaned, the sensation almost too much to bear.
