Pretty Cock

Christian

The back of my ears burn a bright shade of red I thankfully can't see when he finishes his absurd list.

He thinks I don't like him? He doesn't even know the half of it.

I can't fucking stand his prissy ass.

The dark consuming feeling returns in full force once he finishes his round off, and I suddenly want to punch his stupid face.

Why is he even talking to me? Why won't the fucking guy just walk away from me?

It's not bad enough that everything around me suddenly smells like him, because he's standing barely two feet from me.

Basically encroaching my space if you ask me, since no one thought the guy the concept of personal space.

Every time I take a deep breath, I can smell his soft but rich cologne, corroding my senses and leaving a lingering feel, practically begging me to suck on his neck and taste it

Now he's spitting out things he thinks he knows about me, and feeling smug about himself.

Maybe I should just give him what he wants—shut him up with my cock down his throat.

He'll definitely like that.

Hell, he's practically begging for it. What with him hanging on to me, refusing to go back to his actual date.

"I don't dislike you, and even if I did, I don't owe you an explanation." I don't, and it's as simple as that.

It isn't like I can tell him that I hate him because I'm jealous of him, because he's everything I'm not, and it's already too late for me.

That I can't stand him because no matter how hot he is—hot enough that I want to bend him over, and have my way with him, I can't.

I can't because he reminds me too much of my failures.

Of everything I could have done different, but didn't. For that reason alone, I can never have anything to do with this man.

He laughs again. "What do you mean you don't owe me an explanation? Hello? The toilet stall remember? I could sue you for defamation, you know that right?

His hand stroke his chin softly like he's contemplating it.

I scoff. "And tell them what? That someone didn't suck up to you, so you're mad?"

Thinking about the fact that he'd heard me badmouthing him to my friend is too embarrassing.

If Nate was here, he'd probably smack my head for getting caught badmouthing another player.

I'm not some kind of sore loser. I just lost my cool. Everyone does that.

You called him a show baby, a voice taunts in my head.

The rational part of me realizes that saying something like that could put me in bad press. Plus, I said it out of jealousy.

Not because he's actually a bad player.

In that, I was very wrong.

Ashford gives me a pinched look. "I'm not some airhead who wants everyone to worship the ground I walk on. Don't make it sound like I am." I'm surprised by the hardness in his tone, and I give him an amused look.

Ever since the younger player approached me, he's been stumbling around sexual innuendos, and poor attempts at flirting—something he clearly doesn't do a lot.

It's refreshing to actually see him sound genuinely upset.

I fold my hands over my chest. "So why do you care that I don't like you? I'm sure not everyone likes you."

He seems taken aback by my words, and actually remains tight lipped for a while.

Wait, does he actually believe everyone likes him?

I scoff.

He blushes a pretty shade, before replying. "That's not what I said. You're so infuriating, you know that, right? Ugh, you're so—ugh."

I laugh at the sounds he's making.

He really does look like a boy when he says things like this. His glare intensifies, and I find my eyes trailing to his lips—the small pout that lines them.

Even his annoyed expression is cute.

"Don't laugh. I'm serious. I really want to know why you hate me so much." He pouts again, and I feel like putting those lips to good use.

Stretching them around something else.

I cringe at my own thoughts, and raise my hands in surrender. "For all it's worth, I'm sorry you heard what I said in the toilet stall."

His brow furrows in an adorable manner. "So you're not sorry you said that, you're just sorry I caught you."

I wince at the implications of his words. It does sound like that, but it's not like he's wrong.

He is a show baby. I told no lies.

Before I can reply, he shrugs. "I don't mind anyway. I'm not upset about what you said. I do put on a good show. My manager says that works well for me."

Of course his manager does.

Mine would be fucking envious of his manager.

"Great then. We have an understanding. Now will return to your date?" I ask, feigning disinterest in his presence.

It's not like I'm hyper aware of every breath he takes, or anything.

He pouts. "Aren't you going to ask me what I was doing in the toilet stall that day, and why I didn't come bother to confront you?"

The seductive look in his eyes betray the meaning of his words. Normally, overhearing someone badmouthing you in a toilet stall is pretty standard.

But the way he phrases that question makes it obvious he means something else entirely.

He takes a step closer to me, nearly brushing against me.

"When you spoke about me, I was pressed against the wall—my pretty cock deep in my teammates’ mouth."

My eyes flash to his, and I swallow a choked breath.

Not to mind that the twat thinks his own cock his pretty. Is he actually telling me about his—his rendezvous with another guy?

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

I can't help the desire in my eyes even if I tried, and I know he can see it.