To the Max: Fucked by My Rival, Chapter 8: In the Meantime, Pt. 1
This chapter is told from the POV of Chris.
The last carabiner clicked shut in my gear bag, the sound echoing softly in the quiet of our entryway. I heaved a satisfied sigh, my shoulders and back humming with the deep, pleasant ache of a day well spent on the cliffs. Sun-warmed skin, the smell of granite and pine still clinging to me—it was the perfect kind of exhaustion.
Jason leaned his bag against the wall next to mine, a mirror image of tired contentment. He ran a hand through his dark, sweat-damp hair and shot me a grin that still, after all this time, made my stomach do a funny little flip. “You looked good up there today, Captain. That dyno on the overhang was pure arrogance.”
I laughed, the sound easy and light. “Arrogance? I prefer to call it calculated confidence. You’re just jealous because I stuck it on the first try.” I nudged his shoulder as I passed him, heading for the kitchen. My body moved with a familiar looseness, every muscle warm and pliant.
“Jealous? Of you flailing through the air like a startled cat? Never.” He followed me, his presence a comfortable weight at my back. I could feel the heat radiating from him as I pulled two glasses from the cupboard. “I’m just impressed you didn’t need a rope, the way you were leaping.”
“Says the man who tried to campus his way up a 5.10.” I filled the glasses with cold water from the dispenser in the fridge and handed him one. Our fingers brushed, a simple, electric point of contact that had become the foundation of my entire world.
He took a long drink, his throat working, a few drops of water escaping to trace a path down his tanned neck. I watched, mesmerized by the simple, animal grace of him. This. This was everything. The post-adventure haze, the shared silence that was never empty, just full of things we no longer needed to say.
“How’s the project going?” I asked, leaning back against the counter. “The one with the never-ending spreadsheets?”
Jason groaned, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t remind me. I think my brain has more knots than our rope did after you tried to coil it.” He set his empty glass down and moved closer, boxing me in against the counter. His hands came to rest on the laminate on either side of my hips. “I’d much rather be thinking about this.” He dipped his head and nuzzled into the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “Mmm. You still smell like outside.”
A shiver, deep and immediate, ran through me. I tilted my head to give him better access, my eyes fluttering shut. “It’s a mix of sunscreen and dirt. Very sexy, I know.”
“On you? Everything is sexy,” he murmured, his lips grazing my pulse point. It wasn’t a lead-in to anything more; it was just a fact, stated simply, and it settled in my chest like a sunbeam. His hands slid from the counter to my waist, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on my hip bones through the thin fabric of my climbing shorts.
We stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing each other in. The frantic energy from the rocks had melted into this… this profound stillness. My mind, usually a whirlwind of laps, strategies, and what-ifs, was quiet. There was only the solid feel of him, the steady thump of his heart against my chest, the faint, clean scent of his sweat.
“Remember that ridgeline in Colorado?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against my skin. “When that storm rolled in out of nowhere?”
A laugh bubbled out of me. “How could I forget? You insisted we could outrun it.”
“We did outrun it!”
“Barely! We were soaked to the bone and you were laughing like a maniac the whole time.” I opened my eyes and pulled back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes were sparkling with the memory, crinkling at the corners. God, I loved his laugh lines.
“It was a good day,” he said, his expression softening. His gaze traced over my features—my eyes, my mouth, the probably sunburned bridge of my nose—with a tenderness that left me breathless. This was the Jason only I got to see. The man beneath the competitive rugby captain, the fierce rival, the dominant top. This was my Jason. Mine.
“The best,” I agreed softly.
He leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t the hungry, desperate kiss that often followed our adventures. It was slow. Sweet. A languid exploration that tasted of water and warmth and us. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I met it with my own, a gentle, unhurried dance. My hands came up to cradle his jaw, my thumbs stroking the rough stubble along his cheeks.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing a little heavier. He rested his forehead against mine. “I love you, you know.”
The words, so simple and so profound, wrapped around me like a shield. “I know,” I whispered back, kissing him once, quickly. “I love you, too.”
He pushed off the counter and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the living room. “Come on. My muscles are staging a mutiny. We’ve earned the couch.”
We collapsed onto the soft, worn cushions in a tangle of limbs. He sank back into the corner of the sectional and I immediately curled into his side, my head finding its home on his chest. His arm came around me, heavy and sure, his hand splaying across my stomach. I could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart under my ear, a rhythm more familiar than my own.
He grabbed the remote with his free hand and flicked on the TV. The screen flickered as Jason settled on ESPN, and the familiar voice of the announcer filled the room.
__"Tonight, on Greatest Sports Rivalries of All Time—we dive into one of the most storied duels in NFL history: Tom Brady vs. Peyton Manning.
"Brady, the cool, calculating quarterback with a penchant for clutch moments. Manning, the cerebral gunslinger whose pre-snap mastery redefined the position. Two legends, five MVP awards between them, and a rivalry that spanned over a decade. From the AFC Championship battles to their iconic regular-season showdowns, this was more than just a clash of titans—it was a chess match played at the highest level.
"But it wasn’t just about the wins and losses. It was about the respect, the legacy, and the way they pushed each other to greatness. Brady’s six rings vs. Manning’s record-setting seasons—the debate rages on, even years after retirement. Tonight, we relive the moments that defined this rivalry. The passes, the interceptions, the screams of ‘Omaha!’ and the icy glares. This is Greatest Sports Rivalries of All Time—Brady vs. Manning. Don’t miss it.”
Jason and I exchanged a glance, the announcer’s words still hanging in the air. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“You think they’ll ever do an episode on you and Max?” I asked, tilting my head toward the TV. “Greatest Sports Rivalries of All Time: Jason versus Max. The battle for dominance.”
The smirk on Jason’s face deepened, and there was a sudden shift in his energy, a heat that radiated from him as he leaned closer to me. “Greatest Sports Rivalries, huh?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “I don’t know if ESPN is ready for that content. After last weekend, our rivalry is definitely NC-17.”
"More like XXX!" I laughed.
"The rating? or the size of Max's cock?," Jason asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
We sat quietly for a moment, our bemusement quickly turning into something else. I was thinking about our mind-blowing night with Max, and I could tell Jason was, too. I could practically feel he searing, possessive grip of Max’s hands on my hips. The brutal, commanding thrust of his hips. The raw, animalistic sounds he’d drawn from my throat. A flush spread across my chest, and I was acutely, painfully aware of the way my sweatpants were beginning to strain against the sudden, insistent pressure of my own erection.
Jason’s fingers, which had been tracing lazy circles on my stomach, stilled. I felt the subtle shift in his breathing, the slight tensing of the muscles under my cheek. He knew my body better than I did. He could read the slightest change in my temperature, the faintest hitch in my breath.
“Max,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble. His hand slid from my stomach, his palm pressing flat against the growing bulge in my grey sweats. A jolt of pure electricity shot through me. His touch was gentle, questioning, but it felt like a brand. God, yes. I arched into his hand, a soft, involuntary groan escaping my lips.
His smile was audible in his voice. “That eager, huh?” He gave me a gentle, squeezing stroke through the fabric, and my hips bucked against his hand. The friction was delicious, but it was also a catalyst. The image of Max, huge and dominant above me, flooded my mind. The memory of his cock stretching me open, the way he’d looked at Jason with such smug superiority. My own dick twitched violently in Jason’s grasp, hardening to an almost painful degree.
Jason’s hand stilled again. The teasing quality vanished from his touch, replaced by a still, focused intensity. He was reading me, sensing the conflict that was tearing through me. The comfortable silence of the room became charged, thick with something unspoken.
He shifted, moving so he could look down at me. His dark eyes were searching, seeing right through me. “Chris.” His voice was quiet, stripped of all its earlier playfulness. It was just a single, solid word in the space between us.
I looked up at him, my breath catching in my throat. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of curiosity and something darker, something that made my heart hammer against my ribs.
His fingers curled, not in a caress, but in a firm, almost clinical grip around my erection through the sweatpants. He held me there, a prisoner to my own traitorous body. “This,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that vibrated through my entire being. “Is this for me?” He gave me another slow, deliberate squeeze. “Or is it because you are thinking of him?”
The question hung in the air, brutal and direct. My mouth went dry. I wanted to lie, to reassure him, to tell him that of course it was for him, it was always for him. But the words wouldn’t come. The memory was too vivid, too potent. I could only stare up at him, my eyes wide, my body thrumming with a guilty, shameful arousal.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Jason’s face. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of a predator who had just cornered its prey. It was the same smile I’d seen him wear on the rugby pitch right before he took down an opponent. “I see,” he breathed, his voice thick with a dark, thrilling understanding.
He moved with a sudden, decisive speed. In one fluid motion, he shifted his weight and rolled on top of me, pinning me to the couch with his solid, muscular frame. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. He was everywhere, his heat, his strength, his intensity surrounding me, consuming me. He looked down at me, his face inches from mine.
“You’re thinking of him right now, aren’t you?” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “You’re thinking of that bastard’s cock pounding into you while I watched.” His hips ground down against mine, and the friction, combined with his words, sent a shockwave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. A broken, desperate sound tore from my throat.
“Answer me,” he commanded, his hands coming up to frame my face, holding me still. His thumbs stroked my temples, a bizarrely gentle contrast to the fire in his eyes. “When you get hard for me now, is it for me? Or is it for the memory of him?”
I was trembling, completely at his mercy. The truth was a fire in my veins. “Jason, I…” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper.
“The truth, Chris,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a seductive, wicked whisper. His lips brushed against mine as he spoke. “I want to hear you say it. I want to know what makes my hot boyfriend so hard he’s aching for it.”
The admission spilled out of me, raw and unfiltered. “Both,” I gasped, my eyes squeezing shut, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. “It’s… it’s for you. God, always for you. But… the thought of him… of that night… with you watching… I can’t stop… I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to do it again.” The confession was a relief and a humiliation all at once. I was laid bare before him.
Instead of anger, a low, guttural sound of pure arousal rumbled in Jason’s chest. He crushed his mouth to mine in a searing, possessive kiss. It was nothing like the sweet kiss from before. This was all teeth and tongue and raw, claiming hunger. He kissed me like he was trying to devour the memory of Max from my very soul.
He broke the kiss, both of us panting heavily. His eyes were black with desire. “Good,” he snarled, his voice rough with need. “Now tell me what you’re thinking. Exactly what you’re thinking. I want every detail.” His hand slid between us, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my sweatpants and briefs. “Tell me what you want him to do, or I stop.”
