As it turned out, we made it home in plenty of time.
Diego had put on a faded Eagles jersey. I had my well-worn Cardinals jersey. As we wrangled snacks in the kitchen and waited for our pizza, we eyed each other, but we both chuckled. I had no doubt there’d be some serious trash-talking by the end of the day, especially after the Cardinals stomped all over the Eagles.
While we were getting situated in the living room, Diego pulled some ibuprofen out of his pocket and washed it down with his beer.
“Knee?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It happens. Especially after four nights in a row at the bar and one at a dance club.”
I grimaced.
“I’m fine.” He put his hand on my thigh and kissed me lightly. “I mean, I am going to be sitting on my ass for a few hours.”
“Fair enough.” I tugged him closer by the front of his jersey. “After your boys lose, I’ll make sure you forget how much it hurts.”
Leaning in for a kiss, Diego murmured, “Why do I get the feeling you’d just rub it in?”
I laughed even as I lifted my chin for that kiss. Then we exchanged grins, clinked our beer bottles together, and settled in for kickoff.
The game turned out to be one of those that tested a man’s cardiovascular health. Halfway through the first quarter, we were both literally on the edge of our seats, cursing and shouting as our teams battled it out. Both sides were playing really well and really badly, with mind-blowing plays and jaw-dropping fuckups coming from all directions. By the end of the half, the score was tied and we were out of breath and sweating.
“Jesus.” I flopped back against the couch as the teams dispersed for halftime. “What the fuck?”
“You know,” Diego mused into his beer bottle, “if your boys hadn’t fucked up that fourth down, you’d be ahead.”
I shot him a glare. “Yeah? And what about that fumble right before the two-minute warning?”
He wrinkled his nose, muttered something, and took a deep swallow.
“That’s what I thought.”
He rolled his eyes and flipped me the bird.
Still laughing, I got up to get another bag of Doritos. On my way back to the couch, I paused to stare at Diego as he lounged, one leg propped on the coffee table and the other canted to the side. He caught me and furrowed his brow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged as I continued toward him. “Just thinking how perfect you’d look like that if it weren’t for . . .” I wrinkled my nose and gestured at his shirt with one of the beer bottles. “That.”
Diego rolled his eyes again and snatched the bag of chips from my hand.
Something must’ve happened in the locker room during halftime, because the Cardinals had their shit together now. By the start of the fourth quarter, my boys were up by ten.
Beside me, Diego swore into his beer bottle as the spectators roared their approval of a field goal. Shortly after that, they were well on their way to another touchdown.
“Come on! Come on!” I shouted at the screen. “Yeah, first down!”
Diego didn’t say a word. Instead, he took my beer from my hand, leaned forward, and set it on the coffee table. Then he came back and started kissing my neck.
I laughed, running my palm up his back. “You’re not going to distract me.” Still, I tilted my head to give him more access even as I kept an eye on the screen. I wasn’t made of stone, damn it.
“You sure I can’t distract you?” Oh fuck—his voice was a low purr, as he dragged his fingers up my inner thigh and added, “I’ll bet I can.”
“We’re—” I sucked in a sharp hiss as Diego’s fingertips traced my straining fly. “But we’re missing the game.” As protests went, it didn’t sound convincing at all.
“Don’t think we’re missing anything.”
“But we’re . . .” I closed my eyes as he squeezed my dick through my jeans. “Fuck . . .”
A hot breath of laughter warmed the side of my neck. “Hmm?”
“Damn it, just because your team is losing doesn’t mean—”
He bit that spot where my neck met my shoulder, and my resistance crumbled.
“You are such a bastard,” I moaned.
He laughed again, then flicked his tongue across the place he’d bitten. As he lifted his head, he grinned. “I’ll stop if you really want—”
I shut him up with a kiss. I didn’t care that I was letting him win and distract me from the game. We’d both learned real fast that it didn’t take much for Diego to make me want him. We were like teenagers together—ready for sex at a moment’s notice. The Cardinals would be fine without me.
Diego straddled me, and I curved my hands over his ass to pull him against me. He claimed my mouth, and we made out as he rubbed our cocks together and created the most dizzying friction.
Something happened on the screen. The commentators were talking fast and loud like they always did when things were getting exciting, and the spectators roared in the background, but I couldn’t even spare a look at the TV.
“Turn it off,” Diego growled. I bit back a grin and a comment about him not being able to focus while his Eagles got their asses kicked in the background. Instead, I fumbled for the remote and found the power button. One click, and the spectators and commentators were silenced. Now there was nothing to muffle the sounds of our slick jerseys brushing against each other or the wet, needy kisses in between low moans. The game was a distant memory, but my pulse raced even faster than it had during that fraught first half.
He adjusted his position a little, and I realized he was shifting his weight off his bad knee.
“This okay?” I asked between kisses. “For your leg?”
“Uh-huh. Long as I don’t . . . as I don’t . . .” He shivered, cursing softly. “I’m good. Trust me.”
“Just say so if you want to move.”
“’Kay.” He kissed me again, deeper this time, and if he was even a little bit uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.
What had started as a playful diversion from the game quickly turned into the main attraction. I didn’t protest. We kissed and groped and fumbled with belts and zippers. By the time we had each other’s cocks in hand, I was pinned to the couch, and Diego was rocking his hips, and his hand moved in perfect time with them, and it was almost like he was riding my dick instead of pumping it. I kept a hand on his thigh to steady myself and stroked him too. He always seemed to like it when I used his foreskin to stroke him rather than creating friction with my hand, so I did it that way, and he groaned.
“That good?” I asked, seriously out of breath.
“So good.” He wasn’t just rocking now—he was thrusting, forcing his cock through my fist with every motion. “Ungh . . .” He shuddered, letting his head fall back. “I’m gonna . . . God, Mark . . .” Whatever he said after that was either in Spanish or too mumbled for me to understand, but the breathless, desperate tone said it all. So did the way his body was steadily getting more and more tense with every thrust, until the cords were standing out on his neck and his muscles quivered under the hand I was using to grip his thigh.
I slung an arm around him and held him to me as we kissed and stroked each other. The position was frustrating the hell out of me because my body desperately wanted to move, to force myself through his tight fist, but it was also hot and perfect because Diego’s hand was pumping me within an inch of my life and his body was hot and solid against mine and his kiss was . . . his mouth was . . . oh God . . .
I stroked him faster, letting his foreskin slide up and down his shaft, and he groaned as he pushed himself into my hand. I loved how he rocked his hips while I was jerking him off. I loved anything he did, especially when he was kissing me at the same time and breathing hard and trembling, and fuck—I couldn’t hold back anymore and shot my load on both of us.
Then he shuddered, and cum streaked across my stomach and chest. In that instant, I regretted not taking off my jersey when I’d had the chance. Not because I wanted to keep it clean, but because I loved the way it felt when he came on my skin. Who was I kidding? I loved the way it felt when he came. Full stop.
Panting and unsteady, we separated, Diego flopping onto the cushion beside me, and we sprawled for a moment while we caught our breath. Then I took some napkins from beside the pizza box, and we cleaned off our hands and shirts.
“Wonder what the final score was,” he slurred.
“Hmm.” I picked up the remote and clicked the TV back on. The game wasn’t quite over yet. The timer showed two and a half minutes remaining in the fourth, and—
I sat up, jaw falling open. “What the fuck?”
Diego howled with laughter. “Oh! Oh, look at that!” He pointed at the screen. “Who’s got their shit together now?”
I blinked in disbelief. Sometime between Diego groping me into distraction and now, the Eagles had pulled it together enough for a four-point lead. They also had the ball and were well within range for a touchdown.
“What . . . the . . .” I gaped at the screen. “You can’t be serious.”
Diego had tears streaming down his face and could barely speak. “Oh my God. That’s . . . fucking epic.”
I tossed a pillow at him, which only made him laugh harder.
“Look on the bright side.” His expression was earnest, but I could practically feel the smirk trying to come through. “Instead of witnessing your team falling apart, you were getting off.”
I glared at him.
His earnestness crumbled, and he started giggling again.
I couldn’t help it, and I laughed as I gathered him into my arms. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?” I asked against his lips.
“Not what you were saying ten minutes ago.”
I kissed him again to shut him up. He grinned into it at first, but then his lips softened, and before long . . .
Football game? What football game?