I have been awake for probably ten minutes before realizing why my pillow feels like warm concrete. It's Matt's shoulder blade. His entire torso radiates heat like a furnace left on overnight, seeping through the Egyptian cotton sheets tangled around his waist. Outside, October wind rattles the sash window, but in here? It's a sauna built for two. My nose wrinkles at the stale champagne-and-sweat smell lingering from last night's victory party. Matt's muscle-bound arm lies heavy across my hip, fingers twitching against my thigh—probably dreaming about scoring tries again.
Shifting onto my side, I trace the constellation of freckles dotting his trapezius muscle. His breathing stays deep, rhythmic. Morning light bleeds through the curtains, painting gold stripes over his body.
His eyelids flutter. "Stop staring," he mumbles into the pillow, voice thick with sleep. One calloused hand slides down to squeeze my ass—firm, possessive. "Morning, bubble butt."
I nip his trapezius, tasting salt and last night's celebration. "Football star," I whisper against his skin. "How's the champion feeling?" Sunlight catches the curve of his bicep as he stretches, muscles rolling like tectonic plates beneath freckled skin.
Matt groans, turning to face me. Sleep-crust clings to his lashes. "Like I got tackled by a freight train." His grin is slow, wicked. "Worth it." His thumb finds the dip of my waist, tracing idle circles. Outside, the wind shakes dry leaves against the pane, a brittle counterpoint to the warmth cocooning us. Sunlight pools on the rumpled sheets, turning the champagne stains on the pillowcase into amber constellations.
"Freight train, huh?" I press closer, inhaling the musk of sweat and victory still clinging to his skin. My lips brush the corner of his mouth. "Maybe you need a dedicated recovery specialist." I kiss him properly then, slow and deep, tasting sleep and the faint tang of last night's cheap bubbly. His hand slides lower, kneading my ass with a possessiveness that makes my pulse jump.
He breaks the kiss, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. His eyes, finally fully open, hold a lazy, satisfied heat. "Recovery specialist? Is that what they're calling it now?" He stretches again, the muscles in his shoulders bunching powerfully. Sunlight glints off the dusting of freckles across his nose. "Feels pretty damn good being champion, Danny. Especially waking up like this." His gaze drops pointedly, appreciatively, to where his hand still rests.
A comfortable silence settles, filled only by our breathing and the distant rattle of leaves. I rest my head back on his shoulder, the solid muscle a familiar anchor. "Best perk of dating the star player," I murmur, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip. The warmth radiating from him, the quiet intimacy of the tangled sheets, the golden autumn light – it feels perfectly, effortlessly right. Outside, the world might be turning cold, but trapped here against Matt’s furnace-like body, wrapped in the lingering musk of champagne and exertion, I feel utterly insulated.
"So," Matt rumbles, his thumb still circling my hipbone possessively. "Family dinner tonight. Dad’s doing his famous roast." He shifts slightly, his thigh pressing warmly against mine beneath the sheets. "You’re coming, right? Officially moved in your toothbrush and half your wardrobe into my room here... might as well show up for the free food." His grin is teasing, but there’s an underlying warmth, an acceptance of the semi-permanent state of my toothbrush residing next to his in the shared bathroom down the hall – even if the room technically belongs to Shawn’s house. My clothes spill out of Matt’s drawers onto the floor, a messy testament to how much time I spend here.
I poke him lightly in the ribs, earning a soft grunt. "Oh, please. You *like* having me clutter up your space," I counter, my voice low and playful. I slide my hand down his flank, feeling the powerful muscles tense slightly beneath smooth skin. "Admit it. You enjoy having someone warm to crawl back into bed with after practice, someone to steal your hoodies..." I trail off, my fingers drifting lower, tracing the waistband of his boxers. The air thickens, charged with the unspoken electricity that always hums between us in moments like this. Sunlight catches the fine hairs on his forearm resting near my face.
Matt captures my wandering hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss against my knuckles. His eyes hold mine, the lazy heat intensifying. "Alright, bubble butt," he concedes, his voice a husky murmur that vibrates against my skin. "Guilty as charged. Maybe I just like knowing you’re here when I wake up." He pulls me closer, his other hand sliding firmly up my back beneath the sheet, pressing me flush against his chest. The heat is almost overwhelming now, a delicious contrast to the chill wind outside. His breath ghosts warm against my temple. "So... roast dinner. Seven sharp. Don’t be late." He punctuates the instruction with another deep, lingering kiss, effectively ending any further debate about my residency status for the moment. The simple domesticity of the plan, layered over the raw physical connection, feels strangely perfect.
Surprisingly, we didn't tumble back into the sheets that morning. Matt’s groan as he peeled himself out of bed was genuine – the toll of yesterday’s match etched into his muscles. "Gotta hit the physio," he grumbled, stretching gingerly, every movement showcasing powerful limbs stiff with exertion. I had my own commitment: Advanced Pilates with Kieran at 1:30 PM. By the time I finally extricated myself from the lingering warmth of Matt’s bed, showered, and stumbled downstairs clutching coffee, the house was silent and empty. Shawn, Matt’s imposing dad, was predictably long gone – probably already deep into his own demanding routine. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed once, its deep tone resonating through the stillness. One PM. Late autumn light streamed weakly through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the sink piled with last night's party glasses. The sudden solitude felt vast after the intimate warmth of Matt’s room.
The sharp bite of October air hit me like a slap as I stepped out onto the porch, instantly banishing the last dregs of sleep. I pulled my borrowed hoodie – one of Matt’s oversized ones, smelling faintly of his cedarwood deodorant and sweat – tighter around me. Kieran would be waiting, likely stretching insolently on his mat already, ready to critique my form with brutal honesty. My car coughed reluctantly to life in the driveway, protesting the cold. As I reversed onto the quiet street, a flicker of wickedness crossed my mind: picturing Matt grimacing under the physio’s hands, then Shawn meticulously carving that famous roast later, the thick gravy thickening on the stove. The decisiveness of Matt’s invitation, the casual acceptance of my presence in his space, warmed me more than the weak sunlight filtering through the windshield. It wasn't just dinner; it felt like another step deeper into the fabric of their lives.
The Pilates studio was predictably overheated, smelling faintly of disinfectant and fenugreek tea from the adjoining cafe. Kieran, sleek in black leggings, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow as I hurriedly unrolled my mat beside his. "Late night celebrating the conquering hero?" he drawled, already folding himself into a complex pretzel shape. I just grinned, settling onto my mat and focusing on the deep pull of my abdominal muscles, letting the physical exertion ground me. The memory of Matt’s possessive grip on my hip, the rumble of his voice promising roast dinner, and the quiet emptiness of Shawn’s house faded into the background, replaced by the demanding precision of Kieran’s instructions and the satisfying burn in my core. Tonight, I thought, breathing deep. Tonight would be interesting.
Afterwards, muscles pleasantly humming, I grabbed an Uber back to my own cramped studio apartment across town – a stark contrast to the sprawling warmth of Shawn’s place. The silence here was different; emptier, lonelier. I showered quickly, the hot water sluicing away sweat and studio smells, then settled at my tiny desk with textbooks spread open. Concentration was fleeting. My phone buzzed on the laminate surface, lighting up with Matt’s name. A picture popped through: him grinning, mid-stretch on the physio table, looking simultaneously pained and smug. *Survived torture,* his text read. *Physio says I’m indestructible. Mostly.* I chuckled, tapping back: *Indestructible? More like stubborn oak. How’s the oak feeling?* We traded playful insults for a few minutes, the easy rhythm of our banter warming me more than the weak radiator under the window. Then, casually: *Dinner reminder. Seven sharp. Dad’s already prepping the beast.* A pause, then another message: *Oh, heads up… Aunt Brenda and Uncle Dave decided to grace us. Bit more… formal-ish? Maybe ditch the ripped jeans tonight?* My fingers flew: *Ripped jeans?! When have I *ever* shown up looking anything less than devastatingly chic?* He conceded instantly: *Point taken. Devastate away, bubble butt. Just… devastate politely?* Laughing, I shut my phone. Devastatingly polite it was.
My wardrobe wasn't vast, but it was curated. I bypassed the comfortable hoodies and faded tees, opting instead for dark, tailored trousers that hugged my hips and ass perfectly, a soft cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, and polished Chelsea boots. Minimalist, sleek, undeniably stylish. I checked the mirror: sharp lines, clean colours, projecting confident ease. Definitely not ripped-jeans territory. Satisfied, I grabbed my coat and ordered another Uber. The journey across town felt longer than usual, the city lights blurring past the window. My stomach fluttered slightly – not with nerves, exactly, but with the awareness of stepping further into Matt’s world, officially meeting extended family under Shawn’s undoubtedly watchful eye. Matt’s playful warning about Aunt Brenda lingered.
The Uber pulled up to Shawn’s imposing house just as the grandfather clock inside began chiming the quarter-hour past seven. Fifteen minutes late – damn traffic. Paying the driver quickly, I hopped out, smoothing my sweater. The porch light cast long shadows. Two unfamiliar cars were parked beside Matt’s mud-spattered SUV and Shawn’s sturdy Land Rover: a sleek silver sedan and a boxy, older Volvo. Family additions. Taking a steadying breath, I strode up the path. The front door swung open before I could knock. Matt stood there, looking unfairly handsome in a crisp navy shirt rolled up his forearms, smelling faintly of soap and roasting meat. His gaze swept over me, appreciative heat flaring instantly in his eyes. "Told you," he murmured, pulling me inside with a grin. "Devastating." Before I could reply, the deep rumble of Shawn’s voice echoed from the crowded living room doorway: "Danny! Get in here. Brenda’s interrogating me about the Yorkshire puddings." Matt squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles reassuringly. "Showtime," he whispered, steering me towards the noise and warmth and the scent of roasting beef. Time to meet the family.
Fast forward: The evening *was* great. Much laughter. Aunt Brenda, a whirlwind in floral silk, proved unexpectedly sharp-witted, trading barbs with Uncle Dave, a quiet man with kind eyes who nursed a single beer. Stories flowed – embarrassing tales of Matt’s childhood mishaps told by Shawn, countered by Matt’s exaggerated retellings of Shawn’s rugby glory days that had Brenda snorting into her wine. Plates piled high with tender beef, crispy roast potatoes swimming in rich gravy, and Shawn’s legendary Yorkshire puddings vanished amidst easy conversation. Wine bottles emptied, replaced by port for Dave and Shawn, while Matt stuck to beer, and Brenda switched to tea. I nursed a single glass of wine, content to observe, answering questions politely but mostly soaking in the warm, boisterous atmosphere. By the time Brenda declared she couldn’t eat another bite and Dave began gathering coats, the grandfather clock chimed eleven. Laughter lingered in the air, thick and warm like the scent of roasting herbs still clinging to the curtains. Outside, the October night felt sharp and cold against the steamed-up kitchen windowpanes.
Now, late at night, Matt and Shawn are drunk as fuck. I didn't drink much – just that one glass. The rest of the family is just going; coats rustle in the hallway, car doors slam faintly outside. Shawn, swaying slightly but still imposing, sees them off at the front door, his deep voice booming hearty farewells that echo back into the suddenly quieter house. I’m already elbow-deep in hot, soapy water at the kitchen sink, tackling the mountain of plates, glasses, and gravy-smeared serving dishes. Matt stumbles into the kitchen behind me, collapsing heavily onto a wooden stool pulled up to the island counter. He props his chin on his hands, elbows splayed wide, watching me with a bleary, affectionate intensity. The flush from the beer and wine paints his cheeks crimson, making his freckles stand out like scattered cinnamon. His navy shirt is rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the strong column of his throat. Outside, headlights sweep across the ceiling as Brenda and Dave depart. Shawn’s heavy footsteps lumber back down the hall. He fills the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, a half-empty bottle of port dangling loosely from his thick fingers. His broad shoulders seem to fill the entire opening. He surveys the scene: me scrubbing dishes, Matt slumped on the stool watching me, the wreckage of the feast spread across counters.
Shawn lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrates in his chest. "Hell of a night," he declares, his voice thick with port and satisfaction. He shuffles further into the kitchen, pulling out a sturdy wooden chair positioned slightly to the side of the sink. He sinks into it with a grunt, spreading his legs wide, the picture of weary contentment. He takes a slow sip from the bottle. "Family," he continues, shaking his head slowly, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Like herding cats. Good cats, though. Mostly." He glances at Matt, then back at me. "You handled Brenda’s interrogation like a champ, Danny. She’s a terrier when she gets going." Matt snorts softly from his stool, his gaze still fixed on my hands moving in the soapy water. "Told you he was smooth, Dad," Matt slurs, his words slightly thickened. "Devastatingly polite." Shawn chuckles again, a deep, resonant sound. "Polite... and efficient," he adds, nodding towards the slowly diminishing pile of dishes. The conversation slows, becomes easy, fragmented. They talk about the game highlights, Brenda’s surprisingly raucous laugh, Dave’s quiet wisdom.
I focus on the dishes, the hot water, the clink of china, but my eyes keep drifting. Watching them. Matt, slumped forward on the stool, his powerful frame relaxed yet still radiating coiled energy. The flush paints his neck crimson beneath the undone collar, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw softened by sleepiness and beer. His damp hair curls slightly at his temples. He’s young, boyish in his exhaustion, yet undeniably grown – the defined musculature of his shoulders and arms straining against the rumpled navy fabric, the lean torso I know curves down into strong hips. Pure athlete, sculpted and vital. He catches my glance and offers a slow, drowsy smile, eyelids heavy.
Shawn shifts in his chair, the wood groaning softly under his bulk. He takes another slow pull from the port bottle. He got Matt young, barely twenty-one. Now, pushing late 30s, he’s kept the frame – taller than Matt by an inch, broader across the shoulders and chest, thick like a seasoned oak trunk. Where Matt’s muscles are sharply defined, etched by relentless training, Shawn’s are heavier, layered. Power built from years of rugby scrums and manual labor, softened slightly now but still formidable. His forearms resting on his thighs are thick ropes beneath rolled-up flannel sleeves, dusted with dark hair. The worn fabric of his jeans strains slightly across powerful thighs. He’s bulkier, less chiselled than Matt, but undeniably imposing. Still in his prime, radiating a grounded, weathered strength. His jawline is strong beneath the faint stubble, his dark hair slightly tousled from the evening. There’s a solidity to him, a comforting weight in the room. My gaze lingers for a beat too long on the curve of his shoulder beneath the flannel, the way his throat moves as he swallows the port. A flicker of something warm and forbidden curls low in my belly before I snap my attention back to the soapy plate in my hands. Matt’s voice, thick with beer, cuts through my thoughts. "Remember that time Dad tried coaching my Under-12s? Nearly flattened Tommy Higgins during a tackling drill?" Shawn lets out a booming laugh that shakes the air. "Kid ran straight at me! What was I supposed to do? Stand there like a scarecrow?"
The hot water starts to cool. The pile of clean dishes grows beside the sink. Matt yawns cavernously, stretching his arms high above his head, the navy shirt riding up to reveal a strip of taut, freckled abdomen above his low-slung jeans. Shawn drains the last of the port, setting the bottle down with a decisive *clunk*. He pushes himself up from the chair with a soft groan, the movement surprisingly fluid for his size despite the alcohol. He looks from Matt to me, his gaze lingering on my hands submerged in the sudsy water. "Right," he declares, his voice rough but clear. "Enough jawing. Kitchen's conquered. Time for bed, soldiers."
Matt slides off the stool with a lazy grin, stumbling slightly before catching his balance. He shuffles over to me, his warmth immediately enveloping my back. Strong arms slide around my waist, pulling me firmly against his chest. "C'mon, dishwasher extraordinaire," he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm and beer-scented. "Leave the rest. Dad's right. Time to turn in." His grip tightens possessively. "Besides, gotta conserve your energy. Important duties tomorrow." He nuzzles my neck, planting a sloppy kiss just below my ear. I can feel Shawn’s quiet amusement radiating from behind us.
Shawn moves past us towards the doorway, his heavy footsteps measured despite the port. He pauses, turning back with a soft chuckle. "Listen to the boy, Danny. Kitchen looks respectable enough." His gaze sweeps over Matt draped over me, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "And Matt? Try not to trip carrying your prize upstairs. Wouldn't want to scuff the polish." Matt groans dramatically against my shoulder, but his arms tighten, hauling me sideways with playful force. "Hauling treasure, Dad," he slurs back, his voice thick with affection and fatigue. "Gotta be careful."
Matt keeps one arm locked firmly around my shoulders, steering me towards the stairs. His steps are heavy but steady, the beer-fueled haze seeming to lift slightly with the movement. Shawn follows close behind, his presence a solid, comforting weight in the dimly lit hall. The shared bathroom at the top of the landing is a brief, efficient pitstop – toothpaste splatters, water splashes, quiet chuckles as we jostle for sink space. I finish first, slipping into the cool darkness of Matt’s bedroom. The familiar scent of his laundry detergent and cedarwood wraps around me as I peel off my clothes, leaving just my boxers. Outside the door, their voices rumble low and clear, discussing physio appointments and the leftover roast – the alcohol’s fog clearly thinning. I slide beneath the cool sheets, the exhaustion of the day settling deep into my bones.
The door clicks open much later. Moonlight spills silver across the floorboards as Matt slips inside. He moves quietly, a dark shape against the deeper dark, shucking his clothes with weary efficiency. His discarded jeans hit the floor with a soft *thump*, followed by the rustle of his shirt. The pale light catches the powerful sweep of his shoulders, the deep groove of his spine leading down to the swell of his ass. He stands for a moment, a silhouette of hard muscle and smooth skin etched in silver, stretching with a groan that rumbles in the quiet room. Then he pads towards the bed, the mattress dipping heavily under his weight. His hand, warm and large, finds the curve of my hip beneath the sheet, sliding possessively over the swell of my ass. "Still awake, bubble butt?" His voice is a low, rich murmur, devoid of its earlier slur, thick with something else entirely.
"Barely," I mumble into the pillow, turning my head slightly. His fingers knead slowly, deliberately, sinking into the soft flesh. "You seemed wiped downstairs." His other hand trails up my spine, tracing the bumps, sending shivers through me despite the warmth of the sheets. "Wiped," he agrees, his breath hot against the nape of my neck. "But seeing you here... like this..." His hand cups my ass fully, squeezing gently. "All polite and devastating at dinner... then playing housewife in Dad's kitchen..." He leans closer, his chest pressing against my back, the heat radiating off him intense. "Fuck, Danny. You were perfect tonight. Handled Aunt Brenda like a pro. Looked incredible." His fingers dip beneath the waistband of my boxers, tracing the sensitive crease where hip meets ass. "This ass... driving me crazy all evening in those trousers." His voice is rough, low, thick with appreciation and lingering alcohol, but focused now. Solely on me.
He shifts, his knee nudging mine apart, fitting himself snugly against me. His big hands slide down, kneading my ass through the thin cotton of my boxers with possessive intensity. Every squeeze sends sparks through me, the friction delicious, the sheer size of his palms engulfing me. I can feel the rigid press of his cock against my hip, insistent and demanding. "You did enough charming tonight, Matt," I murmur, arching back into him. "But if you want a go... take it." His low groan vibrates through my spine, hungry and immediate.
His fingers hook into my waistband, yanking my boxers down a bit more rough than necessary, exposing the curve of my ass to the cool air. The rasp of cotton against skin is loud in the quiet room. He doesn't hesitate; both massive palms clamp onto my bare cheeks, kneading deeply, spreading them apart with possessive force. The heat and sheer size of his hands feel overwhelming, engulfing me. He groans low in his chest, a sound of pure appreciation as he explores every swell and dip, his calloused thumbs tracing the sensitive cleft. I squirm involuntarily, gasping as he deliberately brushes against my entrance.
He shifts lower on the bed, his breath hot against my skin. Without a word, his tongue replaces his thumb – flat, wet, demanding. He laps broad strokes, then delves deeper with shocking intimacy, spreading me wider with his thumbs. My back arches off the mattress, a choked whimper escaping my throat. He chuckles darkly against me, the vibration sending jolts through my core. He’s savoring it, tasting me, making me writhe, completely in control. The wet heat, the rough scrape of stubble higher up, the possessive grip on my hips pinning me in place – it’s too much and not enough all at once.
He lifts his head just enough for me to feel the loss, then I hear the slick sound of him spitting, thick and deliberate. One large hand spreads my cheeks wide while the other rubs the wetness firmly against my hole, circling with rough intent. His calloused thumb presses in briefly, stretching the tight ring before retreating. "So soft," he rasps, almost to himself, before leaning down and spitting again—directly onto my exposed pucker. The sudden coolness makes me gasp, then his thumb is back, working the spit into me, rubbing insistently until my body yields, relaxing under his command.
He shifts behind me, the mattress groaning as the sound of his pants hitting the floor follows. Then his hands are back instantly—massive, demanding palms slapping my bare cheeks hard enough to make me gasp before kneading deep into the flesh. He spits again, a thick wad landing squarely on my hole, his thumb circling it roughly, spreading the wetness, working the tight ring until it yields. "Fuck, Danny," he breathes, voice thick. "So soft... so ready."
He doesn't wait. One hand spreads my cheeks wide while the other grips his cock, thick and heavy. He drives into me with a single, slow, deliberate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. My back arches off the bed, air rushing from my lungs in a sharp gasp. He holds there for a beat, letting me feel his full, stretching presence—a sensation I’m achingly familiar with now, my body opening for him instinctively. "That’s it," he rasps, his breath hot on my neck. "Take it all."
Then he moves. Hard, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in with controlled power. His pace is relentless but measured, each thrust punching the air from my chest. His hands never leave my ass—one palm slaps the curve sharply, the sting mixing with the deep pleasure, while the other kneads the opposite cheek, spreading me wider, exposing everything to the cool air. My whimpers and ragged breaths are the only encouragement he needs; he groans approval, his hips pistoning steadily, filling the room with the slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
He leans over me, his powerful chest pressing against my back, his breath ragged in my ear. "Squeeze me, baby," he commands, punctuating the words with another deep, grinding thrust. "Show me how much you want this." I clench down tight around him, drawing a guttural groan from his throat. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with bruising force, claiming every inch, his rhythm unwavering—a deep, possessive fucking that leaves me trembling, lost in the heat and the stretch and the sheer dominance of his body.
His stamina is relentless, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol. Fifteen minutes blur into a haze of sweat-slicked skin and pounding rhythm, the sharp *slap* of his hips against my ass echoing in the quiet room. My own exhaustion builds; the delicious sting intensifies, my muscles trembling with the effort to take him, to arch back into each demanding thrust. Yet my body opens further, accommodating him with a familiar ache that borders on overwhelming. Matt, the consummate athlete, pours every ounce of his strength into it, sweat pouring down his temples, his back gleaming in the moonlight, his breathing harsh but controlled, pushing through the exertion with pure, physical grit.
Finally, a shudder runs through him, deeper and more violent than the thrusts. He buries himself impossibly deep with a choked cry, his body locking rigid against mine. I feel the hot, thick pulse of his release deep inside me, wave after wave, his hips jerking erratically. He collapses forward, a dead weight drenched in sweat, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades, his cock still buried to the hilt. His breathing is ragged, labored, against my skin. "Fuck, Danny," he slurs, utterly spent. We don't move, don't speak. The only sounds are our mingled, heavy breaths and the faint, wet sound of his cum already beginning to seep out around him.
He shifts only enough to slide out with a soft groan, a thick trickle following immediately. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he wraps one heavy arm possessively around my waist, dragging me back flush against his damp, cooling chest, his softening cock nestled against my sticky ass. Within moments, his breathing evens out into the deep, rhythmic cadence of sleep. I lie there, feeling the wet warmth leaking onto the sheets, the dull ache in my ass, the solid warmth of his body anchoring me. I close my eyes, sinking into the profound stillness, the scent of sex and sleep and Matt thick in the air.
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