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It’s on the tip of your tongue to tell him that you’re good.

Pants off feels too close to undressed for your liking, for the amount of self-control that’s going to be required for whatever ends up happening on this bed.

But you, too, want to be comfortable in this cozy, warm nest. So you undo your belt and unbutton your fly.

Sterling doesn’t hide the fact that he is watching.

It should make you uncomfortable, you think, but there’s heat in his gaze.

Your pants hit the ground, and you step out of them.

Shake them out and lay them down beside the robe on the lounge.

Sterling blinks languidly, feline-esque.

“You have really nice legs,” he says quietly.

“Uh-huh. Sportsball,” you respond. It was meant to be a joke, but your voice comes out all husky and fucked-up.

You join him on the bed. The silky sheets ripple under your weight, and you scoot cautiously in Sterling’s direction. But Sterling seems to have no similar compunctions. He rolls toward you eagerly, meeting you in the middle.

“Hey,” you said. He’s close enough for you to number his sooty lashes and see the constellation of muted freckles that covers his face. You tilt his chin up.

“Hey yourself,” he counters. Licking his lips.

You close the distance between you two, which isn’t much.

Kissing Sterling softly, just tasting his mouth.

Unbidden, you call to mind him singing, driving all those kids crazy with his songs.

But Sterling isn’t singing (or saying) anything, he’s groaning against your lips as his eyes slide closed.

You close your eyes too. It’s easier to get lost in the kiss this way, when you aren’t face-to-face—quite literally—with Sterling’s famous nose and eyes and lips.

Your hand moves up, brushes over the pelt of his long curls, which are still damp from the shower.

You don’t pull, or even apply any pressure, but Sterling butts his head into your hand like a house cat.

Interesting .

It’s early days (nights), so you just gather his hair in your hand and fist it.

Very little pressure. Sterling melts against you, gone boneless at the sensation.

His tongue is in your mouth, and his hand clenches the front of your shirt.

You feel like a god. You encircle his slender torso with your free arm and haul him onto your lap.

It’s not even an effort. Sterling’s not tiny, but you are a big guy and used to flinging around men a lot bigger.

He feels good this close to you. His pajamas are soft, his skin is soft, and he smells amazing.

You can’t quite place the scent of his shampoo, but you’d bet it’s expensive as hell.

Sterling is a quiet kisser. He loops his arms around your neck and pulls you in like he wants to breathe you.

You leave his hair alone for now, because you don’t want to start any trouble that you can’t finish.

His legs are wide over your thighs, and you are conspicuously keeping space between his crotch and yours.

Your dick is hard enough to pound nails with, but you are trying to hide that fact.

To be a gentleman. Not just because Sterling set a boundary, but because it seems critically important that you show him something—show him that you aren’t just trying to fuck a superstar for clout.

God, you like this guy. It’s novel and interesting that he’s basically more famous than Jesus, and his lifestyle is intriguing, but it’s more than that. Sterling has hidden depths that you want to reveal, layers that you long to pull aside like his loungewear.

As if he can read your mind, Sterling shoulders off the top of his outfit and gets his hands under your shirt.

You don’t make a move to pull yours off as well, because the thought of all that skin touching sets off blaring red alarm klaxons in your mind.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate what you have been given: the impossibly smooth expanse of Sterling’s back, of his chest and abs rippling over lean muscle, and tender skin that erupts in goosebumps under your touch.

Your fingers are greedy for his brown nipples and the shadows of his hipbones where they hide under his pants, but you resist. Refrain. Re-whatever.

Sterling is feeling you up shamelessly, crossing your shoulder blades and chest beneath your shirt like he’s taking measurements .

“You’re so big, ” he breathes against your lips.

You huff through your nose, and sigh, and shift your hips. Let’s be real, you are hiding nothing .

His hot little mouth latches itself behind your ear and down the column of your neck, his breath fanning your skin. Outside the window, the palm trees on the beach sway in the force of the wind. The moon bears down like it’s heavy. Sterling’s hands are clever.

“I think we should take a breather,” you manage. It feels like your voice is dragged up from underwater, like it takes you a long time to get the words out. “I haven’t jizzed my pants since I was a kid, and I don’t want to start again.”

That makes Sterling laugh. He scoots back toward your knees—the front of his loose pants tenting around something that makes your mouth water as you try not to stare—and looks at the time on the bedside clock.

“Yeah, I should get some sleep,” he says. “I have some press to do before Night Two, and I’m barely going to get six hours of sleep as it is.”

You bracket his hips with your hands. You are loath to let go.

“What do you have on the schedule for Sunday morning?” he asks. He’s tracing the stubble of your buzz-cut in a way that would be maddening if it didn’t feel so good. Your skin is one live nerve, lighting up every time he touches you.

“I have no idea,” you say honestly. Your brain is an empty, horny void.

“Mmm. If you are free, we should get brunch before I have to fly out. I can send a car.”

You run your hands up his sides. It feels like you are drunk. God, you’ve just kissed a little. “I do know how to drive, you know. I even have a couple of cars.”

“A couple, huh?” Sterling is doing a bad job of getting up. He’s still far away, on your knees, but he leans in. Lets his lips linger on yours. “Gonna take me for a ride one of these days?”

“You name the time,” you reply, every instinct in you fighting your resolve to not flip him over on the mattress and get on top of him.

“Goodnight, Kai,” Sterling says. His mouth is still on yours.

It finally takes you to tear yourself away. “‘Night, Sterling.”

You leave him like that, shirtless, on the mussed expanse of the big, luxurious bed. His mouth is swollen, and his eyes are heavy-lidded. It’s a miracle that you can refasten your pants .

On the walk back to the door of the suite, you straighten your clothes and will your massive wood to die down. There’s a new guy guarding the door, and he looks up from his phone when you come through.

“Good evening, Mister Reinhart,” he says politely. “There’s a car downstairs in the garage. Would you like someone to escort you there?”

The thought of riding the freight elevator with one of Sterling’s hulking bodyguards that close to your raging hard-on is off-putting, so you politely decline.

It’s closer to dawn than midnight when the town car pulls back out onto the street. The paparazzi are still clustered around the sidewalk, but you are too tired to pay them much attention. There’s a message from one of your brothers in your inbox.

Quill: Dude. Check your news alerts.

***

MIAMI LOVE CONNECTION! STERLING GRAYSON SPOTTED HAND-IN-HAND WITH NFA STAR

This just in! America’s most eligible bachelor might be off the market.

Sterling Grayson, the 29-year-old record-breaking pop superstar, was photographed leaving the Hard Rock Stadium in Miami looking awfully cozy with Kaius “The Train” Reinhart, the 26-year-old starting defensive end for the Miami Cyclones.

A source close to the pair said, “It’s early days for Kai and Ster.

They are just getting to know each other, but there’s a real spark.

Sterling says that Kai is a perfect gentleman and is sweeping him off his feet.

It’s been a long time since he’s met a guy like Kai.

He can’t wait to spend more time with him. ”

Grayson is, of course, currently embarked on his “Goalposts” tour, celebrating the fifteenth year of his music career.

The Goalposts Tour is expected to last for 152 shows across five continents.

Grayson started his career as a teenager in Nashville and quickly catapulted to fame, earning twelve Grammy Awards over eight studio albums.

Reinhart is about to start his fifth season with the Cyclones, who drafted him in the first round of the 2019 NFA Draft.

He’s a key component of the Cyclones’ top-ranked defense, which led the Association in defensive scoring and were third in sacks last year.

Reinhart’s numbers speak to a future spot in the Hall of Fame for many experts.

Last season, he had twelve sacks and four fumble recoveries, and even scored a defensive touchdown.

He was third in line for DPOY two years in a row, and is expected to be in the running again this season.

One thing’s for sure: all eyes will be on the new couple.