Roland Garros
The French Open pulsed with summer heat, the red clay beneath Andrés Solano’s feet dry and fine like powder. The court was a familiar stage, but everything around him buzzed with new energy—uneasy, electric.
He adjusted the sweatband around his wrist, his deep brown eyes scanning the crowd. The sun glinted off his tan skin, his black curls damp with sweat and pushed back under a white cap. A thin mustache framed his upper lip, subtly sharpening the angles of his otherwise boyish face. The sleeves of his fitted white polo clung to his toned biceps, a sheen of sweat outlining every muscle as he flexed his grip on the racquet. His socks, once pristine white, were streaked with orange clay above his polished white tennis shoes.
And across the net—Rory MacKenna.
Rory stood with his arms loose at his sides, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted. He had the kind of face that stayed with you: freckles scattered across sun-burnished skin, a strong jaw covered in soft ginger stubble, and unruly red curls that stuck out beneath his headband. His green eyes were sharp, unreadable, set deep beneath his brow, and they met Andrés’s with a look that could cut glass.
Rory’s shirt hugged his chest, damp and clinging to the lines of his abs, the silver crucifix around his neck glinting as he rolled his shoulders. His legs—muscular, dusted with red hair—tensed beneath his short tennis shorts, and his white crew socks were pushed down slightly, revealing strong calves and scuffed sneakers. He looked like someone who didn’t care if he got dirty—only if he won.
They shook hands at the net.
“I saw the picture,” Rory muttered under his breath, voice taut.
Andrés said nothing, the muscles in his neck twitching.
The match began.
It was vicious. Groundstrokes like gunfire, volleys that tested the edges of the court. Every point felt personal. They weren’t just playing to win—they were playing to prove something. The crowd could feel it. So could the commentators.
By the final set, both were dripping in sweat, shirts stained at the chest and spine, shorts clinging to their thighs. The clay stuck to their socks, their shoes, their skin. Rory won the final point with a sharp ace and didn’t celebrate—just stared across the court at Andrés like it wasn’t over.
Locker Room
The locker room was cool and quiet, but the tension followed them inside.
Andrés sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His curls were plastered to his forehead, and his shirt clung to his back like a second skin. Clay dust clung to his calves, his socks pulled down from the match. He rubbed a towel over his neck, glancing across the room.
Rory was standing by the lockers, peeling off his shirt. His chest was broad and dusted with light red hair, sweat glistening down the lines of his abdomen. The crucifix still hung there, resting above his sternum. His shorts sagged slightly, revealing the waistband of white briefs beneath. His socks were a mess—stained, wrinkled, pushed halfway down his calves. But he didn’t care. He never cared how he looked. He was all instinct, heat, and edge.
“You know,” Rory said suddenly, tossing the shirt into his bag. “You could’ve told me.”
“Told you what?” Andrés’s voice was hoarse.
“That you were with someone. That it was real.”
Andrés looked up, his brow furrowed. “We kissed after a match. It happened. It doesn’t mean—”
“It meant something to me,” Rory interrupted. He turned, eyes flashing. “I thought it meant something to you, too.”
Andrés stood slowly, the towel falling from his shoulders. He walked over, sweat still dripping down his temples. They stood less than a foot apart now, tension crackling between their bare chests and heaving lungs.
“You had your chance, Rory.”
“Maybe I’m done letting chances pass.”
There was a pause. Just breathing. Just heat.
And then Rory kissed him.
A few minutes passed.
They didn’t talk as they walked down the hallway and into the private elevator that took them to Rory’s hotel suite. Still dressed in their sticky, sweat-soaked tennis gear—shirts plastered to their torsos, clay-stained socks in worn sneakers—they stood in silence as the doors slid closed.
Andrés leaned against the mirrored wall, lips parted slightly, his damp curls brushing his cheekbones. Rory stepped forward, the light catching the green in his eyes.
“I hated seeing that photo,” Rory said, voice low.
Andrés didn’t move. “Then you shouldn’t have waited this long.”
And just like that, the tension snapped.
They kissed—hard, hungry, everything pent up between them spilling out in the narrow space. Rory grabbed the back of Andrés’s neck, pulling him close. Andrés pushed back, hands on Rory’s damp waist. Their sneakers scuffed against the floor, and the elevator hummed quietly around them.
When the doors slid open, they didn’t stop.
They stumbled out, breathless, flushed, their rivalry spiraling into something far more dangerous.
And neither of them knew what it would mean.
The hotel room door slammed shut behind them, the sound muffled by the thick carpet. Rory kicked off his sneakers and collapsed onto the bed, his clay-streaked socks still clinging to his feet. His chest heaved, sweat glistening on his freckled skin, the crucifix hanging between his pecks catching the dim light.
Andrés stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes locked on Rory’s socked feet. The white cotton was gray with dust, the edges frayed from hours of play. Without a word, he knelt down, hands trembling as he reached for Rory’s ankles. His calloused fingers traced the arch of Rory’s foot through the fabric, feeling the heat radiating from it. Andrés leaned in, nuzzling his face against the sole, inhaling the sharp scent of sweat and clay. “Fuck, you smell incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.
Rory let out a low groan, sinking deeper into the mattress. His fingers clenched the sheets as Andrés’s lips pressed harder against his socked foot, the damp fabric clinging to his tongue. Rory’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Yeah? You like that, don’t you, you fucking freak?” His voice was teasing, but there was a hunger beneath it, a need that matched Andrés’s own. He could feel the heat of Andrés’s breath through the cotton, the way his mustache tickled his ankle, and it sent shivers down his spine.
Andrés didn’t reply—he was too busy savoring the taste of Rory’s sweat, the sharp tang of salt mixed with the earthy grit of clay. He dragged his tongue along the arch of Rory’s foot, sucking hard enough to make Rory gasp. The sound was raw, unfiltered, and it only fueled Andrés’s desire. He bit down gently on the sock-covered toes, just enough to make Rory arch his back and moan. “Fuck, your feet are perfect,” Andrés muttered, his voice thick with lust. “Dirty, sweaty, and all mine.”
Rory let out a breathy laugh, but it was drowned out by another moan as Andrés moved to the other foot, his hands gripping Rory’s calves to hold him in place. “You’re such a dirty bastard,” Rory said, his voice trembling. “Licking my fucking socks like some desperate, horny dog.” But there was no malice in his words—only heat, only want. He squirmed under Andrés’s touch, his cock straining against his shorts.
Andrés pulled back just enough to look up at Rory, his eyes dark and predatory. “You love it,” he growled, his lips brushing against Rory’s sock as he spoke. “You love knowing how much I fucking crave you.” He sucked on Rory’s toes again, this time harder, his tongue pressing insistently against the fabric. Rory’s hips jerked involuntarily, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
“Shit, Andrés,” Rory gasped, his fingers threading through Andrés’s damp curls. “You’re gonna make me come just from this.” He tugged roughly at Andrés’s hair, pulling him up until their faces were inches apart. Their breaths mingled, hot and heavy, and Rory’s green eyes burned with intensity. “Don’t stop,”he demanded, his voice low and rough. “Keep going until I’m a fucking mess for you.”
Andrés didn’t need to be told twice. He kissed Rory deeply, their facial hair scraping together, before diving back down to worship his socked feet with renewed fervor. Rory’s moans filled the room, each one louder and more desperate than the last.
“Holy shit,” Rory breathed, his fingers gripping the sheets. “Your mouth is so fucking hot.”
Andrés pulled back just long enough to look up at him, his mustache brushing against Rory’s ankle. “Your turn,” he said, his voice rough. He crawled onto the bed, sliding his legs forward until his socked feet were inches from Rory’s face.
Rory didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Andrés’s ankle and yanked him closer, pulling off his shoes and exposing the musty smell of his sports socks, pressing his nose into the arch of Andrés’s foot. The fabric was thick with sweat, the smell heady and intoxicating. Rory’s tongue darted out, licking a slow stripe along the sole, savoring the tang of Andrés’s musk. “Fuck, you taste even better than you smell,” he growled, his stubble scratching against Andrés’s skin.
Andrés moaned, his hips grinding into the mattress. “You’re gonna make me come just from this.”
“Good,” Rory said, sucking on Andrés’s toes through the sock. “I want you fucking desperate for me.”
They moved like that for what felt like hours, worshiping each other’s feet with their mouths and hands, the room filling with the sounds of wet, sloppy kisses and ragged breaths. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the tension between them building with every touch.
Finally, Andrés couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward, capturing Rory’s lips in a fierce kiss. Their mustaches scraped together, the sensation sending shivers down their spines. Rory bit down on Andrés’s lower lip, drawing a yelp from him. “Fuck me,” Rory demanded, his green eyes blazing. “I want your cock inside me right fucking now.”
Andrés didn’t need to be told twice. He fumbled with the waistband of Rory’s shorts, pulling them down along with his briefs in one rough motion. Rory’s cock sprang free, hard and leaking, but Andrés ignored it for now. He yanked his own shorts down, his thick cock already throbbing with need.
Rory spread his legs, his clay-streaked socks still on, and Andrés lined himself up. He pushed in slowly, the tight heat of Rory’s ass almost too much to bear. “Jesus Christ,” Andrés groaned, his mustache brushing against Rory’s neck as he buried his face there.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Rory hissed, his fingers digging into Andrés’s back. “Fuck me hard, Andrés. Make me feel it.”
Andrés obeyed, slamming into Rory with a force that made the bed creak. Their sweaty bodies slapped together, the sounds of their passion echoing through the room. Rory wrapped his legs around Andrés’s waist, his socked feet rubbing against Andrés’s calves as he urged him on.
“You’re so big,” Rory gasped, his nails scraping down Andrés’s back. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of your cock.”
Andrés pounded into him, his rhythm frantic and unrelenting. He reached down to jerk Rory off in time with his thrusts, their combined precum slicking his hand. “You’re gonna make me come,” Andrés warned, his voice shaky.
“Do it,” Rory growled, his green eyes locking with Andrés’s. “Fill me up, Andrés. I want your fucking cum inside me.”
Andrés came with a shout, his cock pulsing deep inside Rory. Rory followed moments later, his release splattering across his stomach and Andrés’s hand. They collapsed together, their bodies still connected, their sweaty foreheads pressed together.
“Fuck,” Rory whispered, his breath hitching.
Andrés kissed him again, their lips meeting in a messy, desperate way.
Andrés pulled back, his breath ragged, sweat still glistening on his forehead. “We’re a fucking mess,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. His dark eyes trailed down Rory’s body, taking in the streaks of cum and sweat that coated his stomach.
Rory smirked, his green eyes narrowing with a mix of satisfaction and hunger. “You love it,” he said, his voice husky. “Now get these fucking socks off me before I lose my mind.”
They moved to the edge of the bed, their bodies still sticky and warm. Andrés knelt at Rory’s feet, his fingers gripping the hem of one white crew sock, now damp with sweat and dusted with clay. He peeled it off slowly, revealing Rory’s strong, freckled foot. The scent of sweat and leather hit him immediately, a heady combination that made his cock twitch. He did the same with the other sock, tossing both aside.
“Your turn,” Rory said, his voice commanding. He pushed Andrés back onto the bed and yanked off his own socks, the fabric clinging slightly to his damp skin. Then he grabbed Andrés’s ankles, pulling him closer. He tugged at Andrés’s socks, peeling them off with a deliberate slowness that made Andrés groan.
“Fuck, Rory,” Andrés muttered, his chest rising and falling as Rory tossed the socks onto the floor.
Rory stood, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood. “Shower,” he said simply, grabbing Andrés by the wrist and pulling him up. They stumbled toward the bathroom, their bodies still buzzing with the aftershocks of their earlier passion.
The bathroom was steamy before they even turned on the water, the air thick with the scent of their sweat. Rory reached into the shower and twisted the knob, hot water cascading down in a heavy stream. He stepped in first, pulling Andrés in after him. The water hit their skin, washing away the layers of dirt and sweat and cum, but it did nothing to cool the heat between them.
Rory pressed Andrés against the tiled wall, his hands gripping his hips. “Turn around,” he growled, his voice low and demanding.
Andrés obeyed without hesitation, his breath catching as he faced the wall. He felt Rory’s body press against his back, his hard cock digging into his ass. Rory’s lips found the nape of his neck, teeth grazing the skin as his hands roamed over Andrés’s wet body.
“You’re fucking perfect,” Rory murmured, his voice rough with desire. One hand slid down to grab Andrés’s cock, stroking it slowly while the other explored every inch of his torso.
Andrés groaned, his hands flattening against the slick tiles for support. “Fuck me,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need you inside me, Rory.”
Rory didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped back just long enough to grab a bottle of shower gel from the ledge. He poured a generous amount into his palm, rubbing it between his hands before sliding one slick finger between Andrés’s ass cheeks.
Andrés hissed at the sudden intrusion, his body tensing for a moment before relaxing into Rory’s touch. “Yes,” he moaned, pushing back against Rory’s hand as another finger joined the first.
“You like that?” Rory asked, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He curled his fingers slightly, brushing against that spot that made Andrés’s knees buckle. “You like feeling my fingers fucking you open?”
“Fuck yes,” Andrés gasped, his cock throbbing in Rory’s grip. “Need more…”
Rory removed his fingers, leaving Andrés panting and desperate. He positioned himself at Andrés’s entrance, his cock slick with water and gel. “Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice a low growl.
“Fuck me,” Andrés begged, his voice breaking. “Fuck me hard, Rory.”
Rory didn’t hold back. He pushed into Andrés in one smooth, powerful thrust, making Andrés cry out as he filled him completely. The sensation was overwhelming—hot water cascading over them, Rory’s hands gripping his hips, his cock stretching him in ways that made his head spin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Rory groaned, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving Andrés harder against the wall. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the bathroom, mingling with their ragged breaths and the steady rush of water.
Andrés’s cock was trapped between his body and the tile, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through him. “Rory,” he gasped, his voice strained. “I’m… I’m gonna—”
“Cum for me,” Rory demanded, his rhythm never faltering. “Cum while I’m fucking you.”
Andrés came with a shout, his release painting the tiles as Rory continued to pound into him. The intensity of it left him trembling, his legs barely able to hold him up.
“That’s it,” Rory growled, his own release building quickly. He buried himself deep inside Andrés one last time, his hips jerking as he emptied himself with a low groan.
For a moment, they stayed like that, leaning against each other as the water washed over them.
Rory pulled out slowly, making Andrés shudder at the sensation. He turned Andrés around, pulling him into a deep, messy kiss that tasted of sweat and satisfaction.
“You’re fucking incredible,” Rory murmured against his lips, his hands roaming over Andrés’s body as if he couldn’t get enough.
Andrés grabbed Rory’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. “Again,” he said, his voice hoarse but insistent. “I need more.”
In the quiet dark of Rory’s hotel room, Andrés lay curled against him, their limbs tangled beneath the rumpled sheets, the scent of sweat and clay still lingering faintly on their skin. Rory’s arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, breath warm against the back of Andrés’s neck, anchoring him with a tenderness that cut deeper than he expected. But Andrés stared into the silence, eyes open, guilt blooming in his chest like a bruise. He could still see Elias’s soft smile, still hear the way he laughed at dinner, the way he looked at him like there was no one else. And now—after this—something had cracked. Andrés pressed his face into the pillow and shut his eyes, wishing he could quiet the ache in his chest, wishing this hadn’t felt so good.
