Page 5 of All Bats are Off (Rose City Roasters)

Tucker

Roasters 80–40

A s it turned out, one night with Brock Heller wasn’t enough.

“Harder, Johnny. Please.”

“Fuck, I love it when you say my name.” We both groaned when I rocked into him again, plunging deep until my hips were flush with his ass. He shivered when I leaned forward, crowding him against the plush comforter. On my next thrust, I pulled out until just my tip speared his puckered entrance.

“But I like it better when you scream it.”

I jolted forward, driving every inch into him. Harder, faster—just the way he wanted, needed.

And trust, by now, I knew exactly what Brock needed.

Despite his initial hesitation, we had been going at it like rabbits for six weeks now—at his place, in my car, after hours in his podcast studio—and at this point, I knew his body better than my own.

I knew the way his cock—in all its pierced perfection—swelled under his khakis when I teased him. I knew how he smelled—the scent of his leave-in conditioner was permanently etched on my brain—and tasted—like the creamiest, dreamiest orange popsicle. Mmm, my favorite. Most importantly, I knew the telltale signs of when he was about to come and what it took to get him there.

And I always got him there.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “Right there.”

I was suddenly grateful that Brock had booked a room three floors down from the rest of the team. None of the guys knew about our situationship—and we both planned to keep it that way—which meant sneaky sex wherever and whenever we had the chance.

Except for my apartment. Roman couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, so my place had officially been dubbed a fuck-free zone. Hotel rooms, on the other hand, were the perfect middle ground. I spent half of the season on the road, and Brock typically went where the Roasters did, so it was just as easy—if not easier—for us to hook up during away series as it was during home games.

Plus, everybody knew hotel sex was unmatched.

“Harder , Johnny.” Brock shoved his ass back, meeting my pace with enthusiasm. “ Please. ”

“You’ll take what I give you.” My hand came down on his ass, and his muscles clenched around me in response. “Like that?”

“Yes.”

“Want more?”

“ Yes. ”

I spanked him two more times then smoothed a hand over his backside. Damn, who would have guessed that underneath that buttoned-up, vegan-ish exterior would be a sexual dynamo thirsty for my cock?

Best fucking surprise ever.

“Fill me up.”

Okay, second best surprise; number one had to be his cum fetish. We had had a lot of fun exploring that one—safely, of course.

Neither of us were sleeping with anybody else, but we also knew that there were additional risks that came with not using condoms. That hadn’t stopped me from spraying my cum on his chest before yesterday’s game and then feeding it to him by the spoonful like some kind of deviant Mary Poppins.

Three hits, two RBIs, and one doubleheader win later, and I was thinking we might have to make it a regular pregame routine.

“Greedy boy,” I teased. “Beg for it, Heller.”

“ Please, Johnny. Come in me.”

I pushed into him as deep as I could and held myself there. His hole was already red and puffy from taking it all morning—plus once more in the shower last night—and there was just enough slickness to keep him loose enough that he didn’t scream when I bottomed out.

It was like he was made for this, made for me .

And the sentiment went both ways. I didn’t bend over for just any guy. It actually took a lot for me to relax enough to let somebody inside me, but over the past few weeks, Brock had had me in every imaginable way . . . and even a few beyond my imagination.

“Fuck me back, baby. I want to see you come.”

Brock grunted in reply.

I ran a hand up his back, beyond the cloud-shaped birthmark on his spine, over his well-defined deltoids until I reached those luscious locks. My fingers speared through the mess of blond curls and yanked. Hard.

I hadn’t made a secret of how obsessed I was with his hair, and more specifically how it wrapped around my fists. He had even started to wear it down more often during games, that was until I’d told him that it was a distraction. Plus, there was something sexy—romantic even—about knowing that I was the only one who got to see him this way—unbuttoned, mussed, and greedy for my cum.

That was about as romantic as it got in my book.

I sat up, taking Brock with me until we were both upright, back to chest. He threw his head back and a broken moan ripped from his lips. Fuck, I wasn’t going to last at this rate. Not when he was clenching on me tighter than a velvet-lined vice. The moans, the begging, the lionlike mane dragging across my chest with each demanding thrust—it was like something out of a fucking wet dream.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” I whispered, nuzzling his neck. “I’m going to make you come, and then you’re going to suck me off. Good?”

“God, yes.”

I reached around his body and fisted his cock, swollen and leaking precum. I twisted my wrist, and his hips began to rock in time with mine.

“And swallow every drop.”

This time, it wasn’t a question.

“ Yes.”

I continued jerking him off, my movements fast and rough. The sound of his breathing changed, his grunts more urgent. I kept my pace, knowing how close he was. His moans and the tightness of his body sent me hurtling toward the finish line, too. Holding off until he came was going to be torture.

Exquisite torture.

It only took a few more strokes before he came with a loud cry, spilling onto the blanket beneath him. Before I could finish making a mental note to tip the housekeeping staff an extra hundred bucks, he was on his knees again, this time eye level with my throbbing cock.

I nearly leapt off the bed when he wrapped a hand around me and stroked, base to tip.

“Fuck, Heller. Buy a guy breakfast first.”

“You just fucked my ass for an hour.” He carefully removed the condom and lathed his tongue around the swollen head. “I think we’re past casual pleasantries.”

And with that, he swallowed me whole. As it turned out, the only thing on the breakfast menu this morning was my dick.

Later, after we’d both cleaned up and I’d spent an embarrassingly long amount of time smelling his hair, we slipped back into our clothes.

“Remind me,” Brock said, pausing to button his beige shirt. The man had two modes—button-down or shirtless, nothing in between. “Who do you room with during road series?”

“Matty. Sometimes Bennett, but Sinclair usually snatches him up first.” All the guys—especially the single ones—fought over “custody” of Bennett. Our teammate was deaf, which meant he wouldn’t be disturbed by his roommates’ bedroom activities. “Anybody but Pink.”

Brock’s smile told me he knew exactly what I was talking about. The rookie pitcher might have been a star—so much so that Brock was currently writing an in-depth article about him—but he was also a fucking loudmouth. Not that I was judging; it took one to know one.

“Not Roman?”

“We already share an apartment,” I told him, slipping back into the T-shirt I had worn the night before. “The last thing we need is to spend more time in a room together.”

“Sounds like me and my sisters.”

My ears perked up. It wasn’t the first time that Brock had mentioned his family, but it was the first time he had brought them up without me prodding. Getting any kind of personal information out of the guy—you know, beyond what he wanted me to do to him and how hard he wanted me to do it—was harder than prying open a crab shell with my bare hands. And that was coming from a Maryland boy.

“Wait, you had to share a room with your sisters growing up?”

He nodded. “Until I was thirteen.”

“Brutal.”

“Honestly, though, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

My brain turned to mashed potatoes when he started to tie up his loose, wet curls into his signature bun. Especially when I noticed the way his shirt lifted from the movement, exposing the strip of fine blond hair leading from his belly to his cock.

“—and the three of us couldn’t be more different from each other, but somehow we’re closer than ever now as adults.”

Oops.

“And your folks?”

His smile faltered. “What about them?”

I hooked a finger through his belt loop, tugging him closer. “You probably come from one of those families who go on cruises together and sing or some shit.”

“Like the Von Trapps?”

“Or . . . Joe Bros.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Trust me, there’s a reason you haven’t heard me sing.” He stepped away from my grasp before adding, “And my dad would sooner choose death by grizzly bear over forming a family band.”

He might have meant it as a sarcastic comment, but there was a flash of pain behind his eyes that had me wanting to hug him to my chest and never let go. I wanted to ask him more, but something told me that pushing Brock Heller for too much information would only scare him off.

Then again, maybe if I offered him something in return . . .

“I get it, man,” I said. “It feels like my parents and I speak two different languages ninety-nine percent of the time. I can’t even remember the last time we talked about anything other than baseball. Or John Lennon’s greatest songs.”

Brock’s gaze softened. He took my hand and intertwined our fingers. The gesture felt intimate and foreign, but also made my stomach do a fucking somersault.

“To be fair,” he said. “There are a lot of John Lennon songs.”

I snorted. “True.”

“Which leaves plenty of things for you to talk about.” He swallowed, adding, “You’re lucky.”

I rolled his hand over in mine then lifted it. “Yeah.” I pressed my lips to his knuckles. “I am.”

He blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. As I had learned, this was a classic Brock-ism. It meant he had something important to say but was either afraid to or was having trouble finding the right words.

So, I waited.

Our flight back to Portland didn’t leave for another two hours, so I had time. We both knew my endurance—and stubbornness—knew no bounds.

“You never told me the answer.”

I arched a brow, startled by the sudden change of subject. “Told you what?”

“The best John Lennon song.”

There was no stopping the smile that crept up my face. I should have known he would home in on that. Brock might have been “the enemy,” so to speak, but he was a damn good journalist. He was even better at effortlessly shifting the conversation—any conversation—away from himself.

I would let him have the win. This time.

Besides, a Holiday Inn Express outside of Tucson was hardly the place for discussing family trauma.

What came next would either shock or impress him, but it was a risk I was willing to take.

Unleash the nerd.

“That’s easy. ‘Imagine,’ April 1975. John’s final live performance.”

“Wow.”

That’s right, Heller. Your boy knows his Beatles.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

I reeled back. “What?”

“Clearly, the only correct answer is ‘Strawberry Fields Forever.’”

Holy Ringo, I’m in love.

Before I even had a chance to react—or formulate some kind of clever rebuttal—Brock leaned back and laughed, his shoulders shaking. I had no choice but to laugh along with him.

If I thought arguing with him was fun, laughing with him was even better.