The evening unfolded slowly under strings of patio lights, the scent of charred beef and woodsmoke thick in the humid air. I picked at the last crust of garlic bread on my plate, its chewiness suddenly tedious. Beside me, Matt leaned back in his plastic chair, laughing at something one of Shawn's mates—a bear of a man—said about a controversial rugby tackle. Shawn stood nearby, flipping burgers with practiced ease, nodding along, his deep chuckle blending seamlessly with the others. No lingering glances. No awkward pauses. It was jarringly... normal. As if bursting in on his son knuckle-deep in his boyfriend hadn't happened mere hours ago...
I watched Shawn scrape a burger onto a plate, his thick forearm flexing effortlessly. He passed it to his mate with a grin, the easy camaraderie between them radiating warmth. Yet the laughter washing over the patio felt distant, muffled, like shouting through thick glass. My fork traced meaningless patterns in the cooling grease on my plate. Matt nudged me playfully under the table, whispering some crude joke about the neighbour's lawn ornaments, his thigh warm against mine. I forced a chuckle, nodding, but my mind was already drifting back upstairs, replaying that sharp *crack* of the door hitting the wall. The sudden silence. The thick, humid shock hanging in the air. Matt hadn't minded. Shawn hadn't minded. It was just Dad and Son logic – sex happened, doors got burst into, no big secret revealed. They’d both moved on, beers in hand, flipping burgers as if witnessing your son’s fingers buried knuckle-deep in his boyfriend was just Tuesday afternoon viewing. Normal. Fine. But for me, the sting lingered, sharp and persistent beneath my skin.
The vividness of the scene Shawn walked in on played on a relentless loop behind my eyes. Me, ass arched high, sweats pooled around my thighs, trembling and marked. Matt looming over me, fingers sunk deep. The sheer *presentation* of it. Shawn’s perspective burned hotter than the barbecue coals. What flashed through his mind in that frozen instant? My flushed, cum-streaked face buried in the sheets? The obscene spread of my thighs? The slick gleam where Matt’s fingers disappeared? Did he see the tremor running through me? Did he register the desperate, choked gasp I couldn’t stifle? I hadn't seen his expression; my back was turned, my world narrowed to Matt’s touch and the impending crash of release. But imagination painted it vividly: wide eyes snapping from my exposed flesh to Matt’s possessive grip, disbelief warring with primal understanding, maybe even… appreciation? The thought sent a fresh wave of heat prickling across my scalp, unrelated to the patio lamps.
A booming laugh – one of Shawn’s mates recounting a muddy scrum – jolted me back. I blinked, focusing on the half-eaten potato salad in front of me. Matt’s hand settled warmly on my neck, his thumb rubbing soothing circles. He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "Stop thinking so loud, bubble butt," he murmured, low and private. "Dad’s over it. We’re good." His certainty was solid, grounding. Another burst of laughter erupted nearby, Shawn joining in this time, his deep rumble vibrating through the humid air.
They *were* good. Utterly unruffled. Only my thoughts spun like frantic moths against the glass of normalcy. "Yeah," I muttered, pushing my plate away abruptly, the scrape loud against the plastic table. "Peachy." My voice was brittle, sharper than I intended. Matt’s thumb paused on my neck. He turned his head slowly, studying my profile. "What crawled up your ass?" he asked, low and direct, his usual playful rumble flattening into seriousness. The question hung, a challenge disguised as concern.
He watched me for a long beat, the easy grin gone. Then, a slow exhale escaped him, deep and deliberate. "Alright," he conceded, pushing his own chair back. The scrape echoed mine. "C'mon." He stood, towering beside me, all sculpted muscle and effortless grace even after beers. "I'll grab another beer." He jerked his chin towards the house. "You can tell me what's wrong." His gaze held mine, steady and patient. "And I'll fix it. Okay?" It wasn't a demand or a placation. It was a promise from a man who understood the battlefield wasn't always physical. My anger flickered, momentarily stunned by the sheer decency in his offer – the lover beneath the athlete reaching out, unflinching. He hadn't caused the humiliation, hadn't orchestrated the intrusion. Blaming him was pointless, illogical… yet the simmering unease remained, demanding an outlet besides my own clenched jaw.
I followed him inside, the screen door slapping shut behind us, muffling the backyard noise into a dull murmur. The cool air of the kitchen washed over my flushed skin. Matt went straight for the fridge, the heavy door swinging open with a familiar groan. He snatched a cold bottle, condensation already beading on the dark glass. Leaning back against the counter, he twisted the cap off with a sharp hiss, took a long pull, and fixed me with that unwavering stare. He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush. Just waited, beer in hand, giving me the space to find the words tangled in my throat.
The hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet kitchen. Sunlight slanted through the window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. I leaned against the cool counter opposite him, crossing my arms tightly. "It's just…" I started, my voice rough. "Him seeing me like that.
Matt lowered his beer bottle, his brow furrowed slightly. "What about it?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "He saw me pleasing you. Making you feel good." He shrugged, a ripple moving through his powerful shoulders. "Dad gets it. He knows sex happens."
I swallowed hard, focusing on a chip in the laminate countertop. "But... the way he saw me. On display...."
"What about it? You're usually not that shy." Matt’s brow furrowed deeper as he took another slow pull of beer. "Hell, he saw you making me feel incredible." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Want me to tell you exactly what Dad said when I talked to him earlier?" His eyes held mine steadily. "After he recovered from the shock? He clapped me on the shoulder, hard. Said, 'Son, you handle your man like a fucking pro.' Then he grinned—that wicked grin—and added, 'Hope it was hot for you both... 'cause damn, it looked good.'"
I stared, stunned into silence. "He... said that?" The words felt thick in my throat. Matt nodded once, firmly. "Yeah. And before you spiral—no, he wasn’t hitting on you. He’s still young, yeah, but he’s my dad. He saw his son owning his partner." He took another slow sip, eyes locked on mine. "He saw *us*. Together. Messy. Hot. And he respected it." The raw honesty in Matt’s words sliced through the tangled knot of my anxiety. Shawn hadn’t seen shame or vulnerability; he’d seen skill, passion, connection. Pride, not pity. The realization hit me like cool water—sharp, cleansing.
My shoulders loosened, tension dripping away. "Okay," I breathed, letting out a shaky laugh. "Okay, yeah. That’s… actually kinda better." Matt’s grin widened, triumphant. "Told you." He pushed off the counter, closing the small distance between us. His hand settled warm and heavy on my hip, thumb tracing the ridge of bone there. "Dad gets it because he *lives* it. Rugby taught him intensity. Life taught him not to flinch." His fingers tightened possessively. "Seeing me claim what’s mine? That’s not awkward for him. That’s fucking *primal*."
Outside, Shawn’s deep laugh rumbled through the screen door, mingling with the sizzle of burgers. Matt leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "So stop worrying if he thinks you’re hot," he murmured, low and amused. "He thinks *we* are. Together. That’s the point." He nipped my earlobe lightly. "Now come on. My protein’s probably charcoal." He pulled back, nodding toward the backyard, "I'll head back out." His gaze lingered, softening. "But if you need... upstairs? I know that talk wasn’t exactly your scene." He shrugged, effortless. "No judgment."
I just smiled, warmth blooming in my chest. "Go," I whispered, shoving him playfully toward the door. "And stop being so fucking perfect." His grin flashed, bright and wild, before he vanished into the humid evening air.
The next two weeks settled into a rhythm as comforting as Matt’s steady breathing beside me each dawn. Mornings began tangled in sheets, sunlight filtering through blinds onto his sculpted back, my smaller frame tucked against the furnace of his warmth. We’d disentangle – him off to grueling football training smelling of sweat and determination, me navigating spreadsheets in a sterile office cubicle smelling faintly of stale coffee and disinfectant. Evenings were ours: sometimes quiet dinners just the two of us, Matt demolishing mountains of pasta while I picked at salad; sometimes raucous gatherings at Shawn’s weathered picnic table with his rugby mates, the air thick with laughter, beer foam, and the smoky perfume of grilling meat. Shawn was a constant, reliable anchor – pouring drinks, teasing Matt relentlessly about his ‘pretty boy’ football moves, tossing me an understanding wink when Matt got overly competitive. Everything felt settled, predictable, *safe*. Except… it wasn’t.
Shawn’s words, relayed by Matt that evening in the kitchen had lodged themselves deep. They echoed unexpectedly, surfacing at inconvenient moments. Seeing Shawn emerge from the garage one afternoon, sweat-darkened t-shirt clinging obscenely to the thick slabs of his chest and shoulders, a streak of grease on his forearm – I didn’t just see Matt’s dependable dad anymore. A jolt, sharp and undeniable, shot through me. He was just… *hot*. A powerful, middle-aged man radiating rugged vitality. I dismissed it instantly – absurd, intrusive, disrespectful. Yet the denial grew thin. Watching him laugh, head thrown back, throat working, during a backyard barbecue, muscles flexing beneath a faded band tee; catching him early one morning in worn sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the defined V-cut starkly visible as he stretched – each glimpse chipped away at my resolve. The eye candy was undeniable, exhilarating, but beneath it coiled a knot of apprehension. What did it mean? Was I betraying Matt simply by *noticing*? The forced normalcy stretched taut over this burgeoning awareness.
The awareness solidified slowly, persistently, like fog thickening on a cool morning. It wasn’t a sudden epiphany, but a creeping realization I couldn’t outrun. Denial felt like trying to hold water in my fists. During a casual weekday dinner at Shawn's, I found myself acutely aware of the way his thick fingers curled around his beer bottle, the rough texture of his calloused palm as he passed me the salt shaker, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through the table when he joked. It wasn’t flirtation on his part – his warmth remained paternal, his focus squarely on Matt’s latest game stats. But *my* perception had irrevocably shifted. The dependable, slightly goofy dad-figure now shared space in my mind with the undeniable physicality of the man: the powerful shoulders straining his t-shirt fabric after a gym session, the way his worn jeans hugged his thick thighs as he bent to retrieve a dropped fork. The eye candy was thrilling, a secret pulse of heat in mundane moments, yet the accompanying fear was a cold counterpoint – a dread of what these involuntary thoughts might unravel, a silent scream questioning my own loyalty simmering beneath the surface of everyday smiles and shared meals.
The dam finally breached on a lazy Saturday evening. Matt was away – his university team playing an away game broadcast online, leaving a strange quiet in my apartment. Normally, I’d hole up alone, but Shawn’s casual invitation, delivered via text ("Come watch Matt smash heads on my big screen? Might order pizza."), felt impossible to refuse. Arriving around 5 PM, a little late as usual, I found the living room bathed in the eerie blue glow of the pre-game studio analysis. Shawn was already sprawled comfortably on the large leather sofa, bare feet propped on the coffee table, his laptop humming beside him, connected to the TV via a thick cable. "Hey!" he called out, not taking his eyes off the screen where commentators dissected Matt’s position. "You missed absolutely nothing crucial, just some bloke talking about wind resistance." He chuckled softly.
I kicked off my sneakers near the door. Dressed in a soft, worn band t-shirt and jeans, I hovered near the hallway. "Hey, Shawn. Mind if I ditch these stiff jeans real quick? Got some sweats in Matt’s room." Shawn waved a dismissive hand, his gaze still locked on the TV. "Course, kid, make yourself at home." He paused, glancing at the laptop screen displaying a countdown timer. "Game won't start for another hour anyway," he added, scratching his stubbled jaw. "Just got this damn web stream running five minutes ago—wasn’t sure if I'd figure it out or not." He chuckled softly, the sound rough and low. "Technology hates me." I flashed him a teasing grin. "Maybe rugby taught you how to tackle players, not routers." Shawn snorted, shaking his head. "Be right back."
I climbed the stairs slowly, enjoying the familiar creak of each wooden step beneath my feet. The inside the bedroom smelled faintly of old wood and faded cologne—for me it was already like a second home. I rummaged through his dresser drawer, pulling out my favorite pair of soft black sweatpants I kept there. Then, on impulse, I grabbed a worn oversized gray University t-shirt from Matts side. I slipped into the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face. The droplets traced paths down my temples as I patted my skin dry with a towel, the coolness a welcome anchor. Comfort wrapped around me like a shield. Clean, refreshed, and swathed in soft fabric, I padded back downstairs, the floorboards cool underfoot.
Shawn hadn’t moved from the sofa. He was leaned back deep into the leather cushions, arms draped loosely over the top of the backrest. The loose-fitting white t-shirt had ridden up slightly on his right side of his arm, revealing the thick, corded swell of his triceps flexing subtly as he shifted his weight. From behind, his neck looked impossibly broad, a solid pillar anchoring his proud, slightly tilted head as he stared intently at the pre-game chatter flickering across the large screen. The sheer scale of his shoulders stretched the cotton fabric taut, shadows playing in the valleys between slabs of muscle earned through decades of rugby scrums. He looked relaxed yet formidable, like a lion sprawled in familiar territory.
I approached quietly, a strange mix of casual ease and low-key excitement humming beneath my skin. Placing my hands lightly on his shoulders from behind, I squeezed gently, feeling the dense heat radiating through the thin cotton. "Hey there, stranger," I greeted him, injecting a playful tone. "Been keeping busy without your favorite audience? Or just enjoying the rare peace and quiet?" My thumbs brushed against the knots of tension high on his trapezius muscles—solid as river stones beneath my touch. Shawn chuckled, a deep rumble I felt vibrate through my palms. "Peace? Nah," he replied, tilting his head slightly toward me without turning. His voice was warm, tinged with amusement. "Laundered Matt's smelly gear, fixed that leaky faucet upstairs... thrilling stuff." He paused, shifting, the t-shirt stretching taut across his back. "You're right though. Bit too quiet without him shouting at the TV."
I kept kneading—not a professional massage, just firm, circular presses with my palms and thumbs, tracing the hard ridges framing his spine. Shawn sighed softly, relaxing into the touch. "Mmh. That's... damn nice, Danny," he murmured after a moment. "Got knots thicker than my skull." A comfortable silence settled, punctuated only by the faint drone of analysts predicting Matt’s game. Then, abruptly, a loud, protracted growl erupted from Shawn’s midsection. I froze mid-press. Shawn coughed awkwardly. "...Right. Forgot lunch."
A grin tugged at my lips. "Forgot?" I teased, stepping back slightly. "Or were you saving yourself for gourmet stadium hot dogs?" Shawn twisted on the sofa to face me, scratching his beard sheepishly. "Honestly? Coffee. Just... coffee. Lots of it." His stomach growled again, louder this time. "Alright, alright," he conceded, raising his hands. "Starving. You?"
"Same," I admitted. "Couldn't eat earlier. Now I'm ravenous." Shawn pushed himself off the sofa with a grunt, stretching his arms overhead. The movement pulled his t-shirt taut across his stomach, revealing the powerful lines of his obliques above the waistband of his joggers. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the kitchen. "Let's see what Matt hasn't demolished." As I turned to lead the way, Shawn paused. His large hand settled warmly on my shoulder, pulling me into a brief, firm hug. It wasn't lingering—more familial, solid—but his warmth enveloped me. "Appreciate you, Danny," he murmured, releasing me. "Always thoughtful. Matt... he chose damn well." The compliment bloomed in my chest, unexpected and warm.
The kitchen glowed softly under pendant lights. Shawn hoisted himself onto one of the tall stools flanking the island countertop, watching as I rummaged through cupboards. "Pasta?" I called out, pulling down a box of fusilli. "With tomatoes? Got basil?" Shawn nodded. "Fridge door shelf. And cheese in the drawer." I gathered ingredients theatrically—slicing garlic with flair, tearing fragrant basil leaves, grating parmesan in a steady rhythm. Shawn leaned forward, elbows propped on the cool granite countertop, chin resting on his folded hands. His gaze felt heavy, attentive. "You know your way around," he observed quietly as I poured olive oil into a pan. "Matt survive on anything besides protein shakes?" I laughed, stirring garlic until it sizzled golden. "He tries. But yeah... I handle the important stuff." The intimacy wasn't loud—just the sizzle of tomatoes hitting hot oil, the scrape of my spoon, Shawn’s steady presence behind me—but it settled deep, private, and disarmingly sweet.
Shawn shifted suddenly, stretching his arms overhead until his back popped. "Right," he declared, sliding off the stool. "Forgot the essentials. Beer?" Before I could answer, he was already heading toward the fridge. He pulled two icy bottles from the bottom shelf, condensation instantly beading on the brown glass. "Here," he said, handing one to me. Our fingers brushed; his were rough, chilled from the bottle. He popped the cap off his own with practiced ease, the *hiss* sharp in the quiet kitchen. I twisted mine open clumsily. "Thanks," I murmured, raising it slightly. Shawn clinked his bottle against mine with a soft *clink*. "Cheers." He took a long pull, throat working as he swallowed, eyes drifting back to the simmering tomatoes. "Damn," he chuckled, wiping foam from his upper lip. "You're really going to town on that sauce. Full-on chef mode." The compliment warmed me more than it should have.
I just smiled, a slow curve of my lips as I stirred the fragrant mixture bubbling in the pan. The rich scent of garlic and basil filled the air, thick and comforting. "Well," I said, my voice dropping slightly lower, smoother, "someone forgot to feed himself properly. Can't have my boyfriends dad collapsing from hunger." I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his gaze. Shawn raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amused surprise crossing his face, but his expression remained relaxed, easy. He leaned back against the counter, taking another sip of beer. "Fair point," he conceded, his deep voice rumbling pleasantly. "My fault entirely. Starvation duty." He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Glad you're here to keep me in line, kid." The casual endearment sent a small thrill through me, mixing with the simmering heat in my belly. He seemed utterly unfazed, interpreting my tone as simple camaraderie.
The pasta water boiled furiously, adding its own rhythmic percussion to the kitchen symphony. We settled into companionable quiet punctuated by easy conversation: Matt’s likely performance tonight, the leaky faucet Shawn finally fixed ("Should've called you sooner," he joked), the ridiculousness of online stream commentators. Each shared laugh felt natural, buoyant, loosening something inside me. Yet beneath the surface, my thoughts raced, heated and insistent. The sheer bulk of him leaning against the counter, the way his worn t-shirt stretched across the powerful curve of his chest when he gestured, the low rumble of his laugh vibrating deep in his own chest – every detail fed a growing, restless hunger. My gaze lingered a fraction too long on the thick vein running down his forearm as he lifted his beer bottle again. The urge to touch, to trace that line, pressed against my restraint. Did he truly not notice the subtle shift in my energy, the slightly huskier tone creeping into my replies? Or did the easygoing rugby player simply not care, interpreting any flicker of warmth as harmless affection? The ambiguity was both terrifying and exhilarating, a slow-burning fuse I couldn't help but feed.
Plates clattered onto the countertop. We ate standing at the island, elbows brushing occasionally – fleeting points of contact that sent jolts through my skin. Shawn devoured his portion with appreciative grunts, praising the sauce’s depth while I pushed fusilli around my plate, hyper-aware of his proximity. The scent of garlic and basil mingled with the faint, clean musk of his skin. The food tasted good and soon it was all gone. "Damn fine," Shawn mumbled around his last bite, wiping sauce from his lips with the back of his hand. He didn't rush off. Instead, he lingered, leaning against the counter beside me, nursing the last of his already second bottle of beer while I scraped my own plate clean. His presence was a solid, warm weight beside me, a silent acknowledgment that felt unexpectedly intimate.
"Little chef deserves a break," Shawn teased softly as I reached for his empty plate. His fingers brushed mine – deliberate? Accidental? – sending a spark up my arm. He held my gaze, a playful glint in his eyes beneath thick brows. "Leave 'em," he insisted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet kitchen. "I'll tackle the carnage later. Been scrubbing Matt's messes since he was knee-high." He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Besides," he added, tilting his head toward me, "you've already played housewife extraordinaire whipping up dinner. Don't want you spoiling me too much." The term 'housewife' landed strangely – a teasing barb, spoken while Shawn's gaze lingered on me, assessing, amused. Heat climbed my neck. I managed a shaky laugh, pretending to be flustered by the dig at me.
Suddenly, Shawn straightened, his focus sharpening past my shoulder toward the muted TV screen in the living room. "Ah, hell," he muttered, draining his beer bottle. "Game's kicking off. Almost missed the kickoff." A large, impossibly warm hand landed firmly on my shoulder. It wasn't a tap; it was a grounding pressure, halting me completely. His grip tightened just slightly, turning me bodily away from the sink and toward him – and the living room beyond. Before I could react, his other arm slid solidly around my shoulders, pulling me snugly against his side.
I didn't hesitate. Didn't resist. Stepping with him felt instinctual, my body aligning easily with his broader frame as he guided us toward the couch. My pulse hammered, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs, loud enough I feared he might hear it. Matt – fiercely loyal, beautiful Matt – felt distant, blurred momentarily by the overwhelming immediacy of Shawn's heat engulfing me, the rough texture of his worn t-shirt against my cheek, and the intoxicating scent of clean sweat, beer, and something uniquely masculine that clung to him. His arm remained heavy and possessive across my shoulders, fingers casually brushing the sensitive skin near my collarbone. Each slight shift of his muscular torso pressed him tighter against me. The sheer stupidity of this thrummed through my veins – reckless, dangerous, a betrayal simmering beneath the surface – yet the undeniable thrill surged stronger. He was fascinating. Solid. Real. And right now, impossibly close. I laughed softly, a nervous flutter escaping my lips, trying desperately to mask the arousal coiling tightly in my belly, making my skin hypersensitive to every point of contact. It wasn't just proximity; this felt intimate. Charged.
We sank onto the soft leather couch together, Shawn's arm still draped heavily over me. The kickoff unfolded on the massive screen, players colliding like miniature storms, but my attention fractured instantly. The warmth radiating from Shawn's thigh pressed flush against mine, even through the thin layers of our sweatpants, was an electric current. His thumb began tracing tiny, absent circles on my shoulder – a lazy rhythm that felt deliberate, hypnotic. My breath hitched. Every nerve ending screamed. I stole a glance upward. Shawn's profile was sharply defined in the flickering blue light: the strong jawline shadowed with stubble, the thick column of his throat, the intense focus in his eyes fixed on Matt tackling an opponent near the sideline. Yet… his thumb never stopped its slow, maddening caress. His chest rose and fell in deep, steady breaths beneath my cheek. Was he oblivious? Or was this deliberate torture? The air thickened, heavy with the unspoken tension thatvI felt humming between us, the roar of the small crowd on TV fading into a distant buzz beneath the roaring in my own ears. My own hand trembled where it rested uselessly in my lap.
Shawn shifted suddenly, stretching his long legs with a deliberate groan of contentment. He lifted his bare feet—large, solid, and unexpectedly graceful—onto the low coffee table before us. The worn hem of his sweatpants rode high, revealing thick, densely muscled calves that tapered down to powerful ankles. His thighs, even relaxed, pressed against the soft fabric like sculpted granite, the sheer scale of them impossible to ignore. My breath caught. Hot. So damn hot. His massive hand remained anchored possessively on my shoulder, thumb still tracing those maddening circles. Against the roaring chaos in my mind—betrayal screaming, loyalty clawing—I somehow wrestled control. Leaning forward slightly, I slipped from the warmth of his arm, the cool air hitting my skin like a shock. "Another beer?" I offered, my voice miraculously steady as I reached for his empty bottle on the table. I hadn't truly planned it; the action was pure instinct, a desperate escape hatch from the electric proximity threatening to incinerate my resolve.
Shawn’s gaze flickered briefly from the screen—a fleeting acknowledgement—but his posture remained unchanged, a mountain of relaxed muscle draped across the sofa. "Cheers, kid," he murmured, his deep voice a low rumble that vibrated in my bones. His focus snapped back to the game instantly, where Matt was driving hard downfield. I walked into the kitchen's quieter light, the cool tiles jarring under my bare feet. The silence amplified the frantic drumming of my own heartbeat. Grabbing a fresh bottle from the fridge, the icy condensation stung my palm, a grounding counterpoint to the feverish heat still radiating from where his hand had rested. My gaze drifted back through the doorway. Shawn hadn't moved an inch. He remained sprawled, legs still dominating the table space, the powerful lines of his thighs and calves starkly outlined in the flickering TV glow. His focus was absolute, riveted on his son's game, yet his sheer physical presence felt like a deliberate, unconscious display of raw masculinity. The contradiction—utterly relaxed yet overwhelmingly potent—tightened the coil low in my belly.
I twisted the cap off the new bottle with trembling fingers, the sharp *hiss* echoing too loudly in the quiet kitchen. Pausing, I deliberately ran my own damp palms down the worn fabric of my sweatpants, trying to anchor myself. My eyes traced the path back to the sofa. The sight was arresting: Shawn’s massive frame swallowed the leather cushions, his head tilted back slightly against the rest, neck corded and thick. The t-shirt clung to the broad expanse of his shoulders and the swell of his chest with each slow breath. His legs, stretched out fully now, seemed impossibly long and powerful. My mind raced. Was Matt seeing this intensity? Did Shawn ever grasp the effect he projected? Probably not. That was the terrifying beauty of it. His obliviousness made the raw spectacle even more potent, a forbidden feast laid bare.
Returning to the living room’s dim embrace, I placed the cold bottle carefully onto the coaster beside his outstretched forearm. His fingers brushed mine again—a brief, rough contact that sent a fresh jolt up my arm—as he murmured a distracted, "Ta." Without shifting his gaze from the screen, he lifted the beer, taking a long swallow, his throat working powerfully. I sank back onto the couch cushion, leaving a careful few inches of space between us this time. The heat radiating from him was palpable, a furnace against my cooler skin. My shoulder tingled where his touch had been. His hand stayed resting loosely on his own thigh now, thick fingers curled slightly toward his palm. My gaze drifted helplessly downward, tracing the heavy line of his forearm, past the hem of his t-shirt riding low on his hip, to the deep valley formed where his thick thighs met beneath the worn grey sweatpants. The fabric draped heavily, obscuring precise details but unmistakably outlining a substantial soft bulge resting against the inner seam. **Freeballing.** The word flashed hotly in my mind. Matt definitely inherited *that* gene. The sheer size, even relaxed, was undeniable—a weighty presence hinting at dormant power. A phantom taste flooded my mouth—salty skin, musk—and I wondered fiercely: thicker than Matt? Longer? How would it look fully awakened? I swallowed hard, tearing my eyes away as Matt executed a stunning tackle on screen, the crowd roaring on TV."God, look at him go!" I burst out, my voice slightly too loud, too eager. I gestured wildly toward Matt’s triumphant grin filling the screen. "He’s unstoppable tonight! Makes me so damn proud." I forced a wide smile, leaning back against the cushions, trying desperately to anchor myself in Matt’s brilliance. "Best boyfriend ever," I added, the words tasting thick, "Seriously." Shawn chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated deep in his chest. He finally tore his eyes from the play, turning his head slowly to look at me. His gaze was sharp, assessing, cutting through my frantic performance. "Hmm," he rumbled thoughtfully, scratching his stubbled jaw. "Always wondered... what was it that hooked you?" His eyes, shadowed in the flickering light, held mine. "The look?" He gestured vaguely toward the screen where Matt flexed powerfully. "Or the attitude? Kid’s always been cocky as hell. Inherited that too." His lips quirked in a knowing half-smile.
A nervous laugh escaped me, high-pitched. "Both!" I blurted, shifting slightly on the leather. "Definitely both. The swagger... the confidence." I hesitated, the truth bubbling up, raw and honest. "And... yeah. The look." I met his gaze, heat climbing my neck. "He walked into that stupid campus bar radiating *that* energy—like he owned the place, knew exactly what he wanted." I paused, remembering Matt’s predatory grin locking onto me across the room. "And he wanted me. That intensity... I wanted it too. We just... clicked." The memory surged—the first fumbling kiss against Matt’s dorm door, the frantic tearing of clothes, the shock of heat and friction as we stumbled toward the bed. "First time..." My voice dropped, husky with recollection. "It was great... It was messy, desperate... all teeth and sweat and him pushing me down. And it just... worked. Perfectly." I shrugged, a small, private smile touching my lips. Shawn watched me silently, his expression unreadable. The thumb of the hand resting on his thigh began tracing slow circles again—on his own denim now. The gesture felt deliberate, a silent acknowledgment of the raw intimacy I’d just spilled into the charged air between us. The flickering screen light danced across his face, highlighting the faint curve of a smile playing on his lips. The silence stretched, thick as honey, heavy with everything unsaid. My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out the distant cheers from the television, leaving only the deafening thrum of anticipation vibrating in the small space separating our thighs. His gaze held mine, dark and unwavering, seeming to see right through the flimsy shield of my words and into the frantic heat coiling low in my belly.
"But thats way to much Informationen for a Dad, right?" I stammered, suddenly desperate to fill the thick silence. "Sorry, overshare."
The couch leather creaked softly as Shawn shifted his weight toward me. His massive arm lifted from his thigh, settling heavily onto the back cushion right behind my shoulders—not quite touching me, but radiating heat mere centimeters from my skin. "Nah," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated the air between us. "Not too much." He kept his eyes locked on mine, unblinking as the TV’s flickering light carved shadows beneath his cheekbones. His thumb resumed those lazy circles—not on his leg anymore, but on the leather cushion perilously close to my neck. "Honesty’s... refreshing." The pause was deliberate, weighted. His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before snapping back up. "Matt’s lucky."
My breath caught sharply. The distance between his hand and my skin felt charged, electric. I could smell the faint, clean musk of his sweat mingling with the lingering garlic and basil—a heady combination that tightened my stomach. Every instinct screamed to lean back, to press into that radiating warmth, to feel the roughness of his skin. Instead, I gripped my own thighs, digging my nails into fabric to anchor myself. Below, the TV announcer yelled about Matt’s interception, but the sound was muffled, distant static beneath the roaring in my ears. Shawn’s expression remained unreadable—relaxed, yet intensely focused. On me? On the game? The ambiguity was torture.
Shawn shifted again, a subtle roll of his broad shoulders settling him deeper into the cushions. His thigh pressed firmly against mine—solid, warm, and utterly unavoidable. The heat seeped through my sweatpants, a brand against my skin. "He gets it from me," Shawn continued, his tone conversational, almost casual, yet his eyes held a predatory stillness. "That... certainty." He lifted his beer bottle slowly, taking a long, deliberate swallow. His throat worked powerfully, the thick column stark in the dim light. When he lowered the bottle, condensation glistened on his fingers. "Knowing what you want." His gaze swept down my body—slow, appraising—before returning to my face.
Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. My pulse hammered against my ribs, frantic and insistent. The air crackled with unspoken tension—a live wire stretched taut between his thigh pressed against mine, the phantom imprint of his thumb on the cushion behind me, and the dark promise in his eyes...
"But I guess I get carried away," Shawn murmured, his voice suddenly rougher, lower. He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers digging into the stubble along his jaw. "Shit. Sorry, Danny." He gestured vaguely toward the one more already empty beer bottle gleaming on the coffee table. "These... they go straight to my head sometimes. Gets me... intense." His gaze flickered away from mine, landing somewhere near my knees before rising again. "Shouldn't have laid all that on you." The admission felt startlingly vulnerable, cracking his usual easy confidence.
"No," I breathed out quickly, the word escaping almost before thought. "It's... it's fine. Really." My fingers twisted in the fabric of my sweatpants, knuckles white. "Honest conversations... I like them." The air felt thick, charged, amplifying every rustle of our clothes, every shift of leather. The flickering TV light caught the earnest apology softening his eyes, the slight frown etching lines beside his mouth. His thigh remained a solid, burning line against mine.
His gaze snapped back to mine, sharp and searching, holding my eyes captive. The apology vanished, replaced by something primal, undeniable. The distance between us dissolved not with movement, but with sheer magnetic pull. One moment, his face was inches away, his breath warm against my lips, smelling faintly of hops and lingering garlic. The next, his large hand cupped the back of my neck—fingers sliding into my hair, firm and possessive—pulling me forward. His lips crashed onto mine.
It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming. Rough, urgent, tasting deeply of beer and unleashed desire. His shaven face scraped mine as his other hand gripped my hipbone, fingers digging through my sweatpants fabric to lift me onto his lap effortlessly. My gasp vanished into his mouth, replaced by the slick heat of his tongue sliding against mine. His groan vibrated through my chest as my hands instinctively flew to his shoulders, gripping corded muscle beneath worn cotton.
The taste of him flooded my senses—hops, garlic, and something primal beneath it all. His thighs were solid rock beneath me, the thick ridge of his undeniable arousal pressing urgently against my ass even through layers of fabric. One massive hand slid down to grip my hip possessively, pulling me tighter against that heated hardness, while the other tangled fiercely in my hair, tilting my head back for deeper access. Every rational thought—Matt, guilt, betrayal—shattered against the raw, undeniable hunger in his kiss. His teeth grazed my lower lip, a sharp sting that sent liquid heat pooling low in my belly.
He broke away suddenly, breathing ragged, forehead pressed hard to mine. His eyes, dark and dilated in the TV’s flickering blue light, burned into me. "Fuck," he rasped, thumb brushing my swollen lip where his teeth had marked me. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then dragged slowly, hungrily, down my throat to where my pulse hammered visibly. His grip on my hip tightened, grinding me down onto the thick bulge beneath me, drawing a choked whimper from my throat. "Shouldn't... we shouldn't..." The words were a rough whisper, but his body screamed contradiction, hips arching upward, seeking friction against my weight.
Then, silence. Utter stillness. His eyes locked onto mine, the roar of the game forgotten. Only his next words mattered. "Fuck," he growled, low and gravelly, the sound scraping against the charged air. His grip on my hip loosened slightly, but didn't release. "That was..." He paused, searching my face, his thumb brushing my stinging lip again. "...stupid." The word hung heavy, thick with regret that warred with the unspent tension coiling through his huge frame. He didn't pull away, didn't push me off his lap where I still straddled him. His arousal remained a solid, undeniable pressure beneath me, a silent counterpoint to his words. His gaze flicked toward the TV screen where Matt celebrated his interception with teammates, then snapped back to me, sharp and conflicted. "Stupid fucking move, Shawn."
I had scrambled off Shawn’s legs faster than a startled deer. And even now an hour later—curled in my pitch-black bedroom—my skin still burned where his hands had gripped my hips. Where his mouth had devoured mine. Where the thick ridge of him had pressed against my ass through sweatpants. I lay rigid on my mattress, rock-hard and at the same time somewhat ashamed.
I’d fled Shawn’s living room without a word—without daring to look back. Just snatched my jacket and keys and bolted for the door. The cool night air hadn’t cooled anything. My heart pounded against my ribs all the way home. And Shawn… Shawn hadn’t tried to stop me. He hadn’t called after me. We both knew we’d fucked up. Monumetally.
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