Page 114 of Playing Dirty

A dark chuckle mixes with his panting. “Can’t have your coach benching you from a sex injury, can we?”

He relaxes his hold, not pulling as tight as he was but still fucking me relentlessly. The only thought on either of our minds is finding release, and I know I’m close to finding it. Everything about this encounter is nothing short of a fantasy—submitting wholly to him, feeling the furious passion in each thrust—sending continuous ripples of pleasure through me. Over and over again, building inside me like a tidal wave that cracks the dam every time he buries himself inside me.

Until eventually, it breaks. Shatters into a thousand pieces, taking me along with it.

“Fuck,Theo.”

His name spills from my lips with a fervent growl when the crown of his cock pegs that perfect spot, lighting me up like the stadium at night. Release barrels down my spine, stealing my ability to think, to speak, to do anything but feel the pleasure coursing through every inch of my body.

My ass constricts around him, clamping down as cum spills from my cock and coats the cement between my feet…hands-free.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he hisses.

His hands leave my wrists, favoring my hips again as he slams into me. Picking up speed, his thrusts are erratic and frenzied now, focused on nothing other than pure, carnal need for release.

My own hands find the dugout rail, gripping the padding to keep myself steady while he pounds me into another dimension, drawing out my orgasm as he continues milking my prostate.

I feel his cock thicken and pulse inside me before he finally finds his climax too, filling me with warm, thick cum. His teeth clamp down on my shoulder, drowning his moans and pants in the fabric of my jersey while he buries himself inside me to the hilt and holds there.

We’re both heaving with effort, and I slump forward, my chest colliding with the padded rail in front of me. Theo moves with me, his arms sliding around my waist in something of a hug while we both come down from the high.

“That was…” He pauses and blows out a breath.

“Reckless?” I supply with a gentle laugh.

“I was gonna go for amazing, but that works too.”

He slowly pulls from my body, and it only takes a few seconds for meto feel his release slowly start seeping out of me.

“That’s so fucking hot,” he whispers. “I hope you can still feel me inside you every time you squat behind the plate today.”

Shit.

Sometimes I think he’s even filthier than me. A theory further proven when his fingers dip between us, gather the cum leaking down my crease, and slowly push it back inside.

I swallow a moan, every nerve ending down there hyper-sensitive now, but I don’t stop him. I can’t.

There’s something about him that makes me completely powerless.

“Guess that means I’m not allowed to clean up before the game, hmm?” I muse once he’s finished his task.

“No chance in hell.”

I turn, meeting his gaze to find a grin pulling at his lips. One I return while quickly pulling my underwear and pants back into place. He does the same, tucking himself away while glancing around the parts of the stadium in clear view of us.

“Worried someone saw?”

His attention shifts to me, and he shakes his head. “Just wondering if we’re the first ones to have christened the dugout.”

A breathless laugh leaves me. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

I can guarantee one thing, though: It certainly hasn’t been christened by players from opposing teams. Especially the two of ours. It goes against every unspoken rule—disobeys the natural order of things—when it comes to the rivalry between Leighton and Blackmore.

But whatever’s happening between us is clearly the exception.

Twenty-Nine

Madden