“It’s not a mansion. It’s a small four-bedroom townhouse.” That’s worth about six million dollars. Yeah, don’t mention that. “And one of the rooms is so small you can barely fit a queen bed in it.”
“Oh, the hardship,” Matt says.
I grit my teeth. It’s not my fault I was born into a rich family. It’s not my fault that when my grandfather died, he left me the brownstone in Manhattan or that my family dynamic is pretty messed up. My father was practically disowned by my racist grandfather when he got my mom pregnant, but for some reason, he never took out that anger on me, his biracial grandson. He spoiled me. I often wonder if he would’ve left me Dad’s share of his estate had he known I was gay too. I inherited this place before I could even legally vote.
I get why Matt would look down on something like having your driver carry your bags, but it is literally part of their job, and it’s the life I’ve led since I was born. It’s reflex. I know not to say things like that to a guy who almost had to live in a trailer park growing up, though.
Seeing it through his eyes, I cringe when we reach the stoop to my place. I try not to be a dick to those on the family’s payroll, but I guess I don’t go out of my way to make them feel appreciated either.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Matt mumbles as he stares at the house.
“Okay, okay, I’m a rich snob. Fine. You can say it.”
Matt shakes his head. “Not what I was going to say at all. This place is amazing. An architect’s dream.” His hand reaches for the crown molding around the entryway.
“You do architecture as a hobby?” I quip.
“Nah. Always interested me though. My dad said I needed to go for something easier like a business degree and focus on football instead. I might’ve become an architect if I knew how to stand up to the guy.”
That’s pretty heavy. “But I thought you were born for football.”
“No, I was born gay. Football was my escape growing up, which is pretty ironic if you think about it. Without football, I could’ve come out in college and fucked my way through the entire queer population at Olmstead. Instead, all I had were protein shakes, training, and the occasional hookup where I did all the work because I was too chicken shit to ask Maddox to return the favor.”
“He didn’t even offer?” I ask incredulously. “What a dick.”
Matt laughs. “We were both pretending we were super straight. Hell, after I left, he still thought he was straight.”
“Until he met Damon.”
“Right.”
“Okay, question,” I say. “If you could do it all again, give up your football career and study architecture while fucking your way through college, would you?”
Matt purses his lips as he thinks it over. “No. I love football even if I was forced into it. It’s been my life, and I ain’t ready to let it go.”
“Then you have your answer. You don’t need to dwell on what could have been when you’re living the dream.”
“Am I, though? I’m currently unemployable, I was outed against my will, I’m hanging on by a thread—”
I grab his shoulder and squeeze. “We’ll get that contract. You’ll still play.”
While I have no idea whether it’s possible for that to happen, it does the job. Matt relaxes under my touch, and then he leans in and kisses me. I’m taken off guard because this isn’t a hookup type of kiss. It’s soft, and the hand cupping my face is gentle. It’s appreciative, like he actually believes the shit coming out of my mouth. I hope I’m telling the truth, but I don’t know a thing about football.
I step forward and press against him, and Matt moans when my tongue takes control of his.
“Inside,” he demands.
Why’s it so much harder to unlock a door when you’re about to get laid? Oh, right, because Matt squeezes my ass, and my dick volunteers to open the door for me by trying to push its way through my pants.
We manage to stumble inside, drop our bags in the foyer, and toe off our shoes before I can’t take it and pin Matt against the wall.
The grunt that escapes him when I line up our cocks and thrust my hips has me almost coming.
“Maybe you were right in the beginning.” I breathe hard and speak in low murmurs. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
Matt pulls away so fast his head bounces off the wall behind him. “Why?”
I cup his face. “Because once wasn’t enough. I don’t know my number with you.”
“Your number?”
“How many times it’ll take to get you out of my system.” And that scares the shit out of me. Except for Aron and my douche of a high-school-slash-college boyfriend, there’s always been a number, and I’ve always been able to predict how long.