Chapter 4: Desk & Bed Duo
The cheap hotel keycard slipped from Derek’s sweaty palm. He fumbled, cursing under his breath, the plastic clattering against the worn carpet of the third-floor hallway. He snatched it up, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The muffled thump of bass from a room down the hall pulsed in time with it. Room 312. His fingers trembled as he swiped the card. The tiny light blinked red. Fuck. He swiped again, slower. Green. The lock clicked.
He pushed the door open, the heavy weight of the decision hitting him as hard as a midfield check. The room was dim, lit only by the glaring blue standby light of the television and the weak yellow glow filtering through the thin curtains from the parking lot lights below. It smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke buried under cheap air freshener and the sharp tang of Coach Taylor’s cologne. Taylor stood by the window, silhouetted against the light, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He didn’t turn around.
“You shouldn’t be here, Hale.” Taylor’s voice was low, gravelly, the carefully modulated coach-tone stripped away. It sounded raw, worn thin.
Derek closed the door softly behind him, the latch clicking shut like a verdict. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence. He leaned back against the cool wood, needing its support. “Yeah? Then why’d you give me the room number?”
Taylor finally turned. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up his forearms. His tie was gone. The dim light etched the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollows beneath his cheekbones. His eyes, usually laser-focused, scanning the field, were dark pools reflecting the weak light, impossible to read. He took a slow sip from his glass. “Curiosity,” he said, the word hanging heavy. “Stupidity. Take your pick.”
“You looked,” Derek countered, pushing off the door. He took a step into the room. The worn carpet felt gritty under his bare feet; he’d kicked off his sneakers just inside. “In the showers. Every fucking time. You watched me.”
Taylor set the glass down on the flimsy desk with deliberate slowness. The ice cubes rattled. “Watching isn’t an invitation to break into my hotel room, Derek.” The use of his first name, stripped of the usual ‘Hale’, sent a jolt through Derek’s system. It felt intimate, dangerous.
“Didn’t break in. You invited me. With your eyes.” Derek took another step closer. He could smell the whiskey now, mingling with Taylor’s scent. Sweat prickled down his spine despite the room’s cool air. “You liked what you saw. Still do.”
A flicker of something primal crossed Taylor’s face, quickly suppressed. He turned back to the window, his shoulders rigid. “Go back to your room. Now. Before this goes any further than it already has.” The command was there, but the conviction felt brittle.
Derek didn’t move. The memory of the locker room shower, the hot water sluicing over him, the intense pressure of Taylor’s gaze, the shocking feel of him filling his mouth… it surged back, hot and urgent. The defiance mixed with a desperate need. “Further?” he challenged, his voice dropping, roughening. “You mean like you fucking my throat raw in the locker room where anyone could’ve walked in? That kind of further?”
Taylor whirled around, his composure finally cracking. Anger flared in his eyes, but beneath it, Derek saw the hunger, the same desperate fire that had consumed them both in the steam. “That was a mistake. A fucking colossal mistake!” He took a step towards Derek, looming in the confined space. “It can’t happen again.”
“Bullshit,” Derek breathed. He held his ground, tipping his chin up, meeting the taller man’s glare head-on. The air crackled. He saw the muscles flex in Taylor’s jaw, the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. Derek knew that look. The look of a predator coiled to strike. Or a man about to shatter. He reached out, slowly, deliberately, and placed his palm flat against Taylor’s chest, over the open collar. He felt the heat radiating through the thin cotton, the frantic thud of the coach’s heart beneath his hand. “You don’t want it to stop.”
It was the spark to dry tinder.
Taylor’s hand shot out, not to push him away, but to grasp the back of Derek’s neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of his messy black hair. The grip was punishing. “You stupid fucking kid,” Taylor growled, the words hot and whiskey-scented against Derek’s face. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
Derek gasped at the sudden pain, the dominance. It twisted the knot of heat in his gut tighter. “Show me,” he rasped, his own hand fisting in Taylor’s shirt. “Or are you scared?”
With a low, guttural sound that was more animal than man, Taylor yanked Derek forward, crushing their mouths together. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming, brutal and possessive. Derek moaned into it, opening his mouth, meeting the thrust of Taylor’s tongue with his own, tasting whiskey and desperation. Taylor’s other hand slid down Derek’s back, rough and demanding, gripping the firm muscle of his ass through his sweatpants and hauling him flush against his body. Derek could feel the hard ridge of Taylor’s erection pressing insistently against his hip.
They staggered backwards, tangled in each other, mouths fused, hands clawing and grabbing. Taylor’s knee bumped the edge of the bed. He shoved Derek hard. Derek stumbled back, falling onto the stiff hotel mattress with a soft thump, the cheap bedsprings groaning. Before he could catch his breath, Taylor was on him, straddling his hips, pinning him down. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity in the gloom, all pretense of control incinerated.
“Think you’re so fucking clever?” Taylor snarled, ripping at the drawstring of Derek’s sweatpants. “Think this is a game?”
“Fuck you,” Derek gasped, arching his hips off the mattress, helping Taylor tug the pants and his briefs down his thighs. His cock sprang free, already hard and leaking, flushed dark against his stomach.
Taylor’s hand closed around him, not gently. He stroked him roughly, his calloused palm dragging along Derek’s sensitive length. Derek cried out, a sharp, choked sound, his head falling back against the scratchy bedspread. “See?” Taylor hissed, leaning down, his breath hot on Derek’s ear. “See how easy you are? One look, one touch… you’re ready to ruin everything.”
Before Derek could retort, Taylor shifted. He shoved Derek’s legs roughly apart, pushing his sweatpants down to his ankles. Then, without preamble, without lube, Taylor spat thickly onto his palm. Derek had just enough time to register the crude act, the raw, visceral nature of it, before Taylor gripped his own thick cock, slicking it roughly with saliva, and pressed the broad, blunt head against Derek’s tight entrance.
“Taylor—!” Derek choked out, panic flaring alongside the blinding lust. It was too much, too fast. He tensed, instinctively resisting.
“Shut up,” Taylor commanded, his voice thick with strain. He leaned his weight forward, his free hand pinning Derek’s hip to the mattress. “You wanted this. You fucking asked for it.” He pushed, a brutal, relentless pressure that forced a ragged scream from Derek’s throat. The burning stretch was agonizing, a white-hot lance tearing him open. Taylor didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, inch by excruciating inch, his teeth gritted, sweat beading on his forehead. Derek clawed at the bedspread, his back arching, tears of pain and overwhelm stinging his eyes. He felt impossibly full, split apart by the thick intrusion.
Taylor bottomed out with a guttural groan, his hips flush against Derek’s ass. He paused for a fraction of a second, trembling with the effort of holding still. Derek gasped for air, the pain a sharp, bright agony radiating through his pelvis. “Fuck… Coach… it hurts…”
Taylor’s gaze locked onto his, dark and dangerous. He drew back slowly, almost completely, the drag exquisite torture. Then he slammed forward again, hard. Derek cried out, the sound swallowed by the stuffy room air.
“Yeah,” Taylor breathed, pulling out and thrusting in again with the same brutal force. “Hurts good, doesn’t it, Rocket?” The nickname, usually a badge of pride on the field, felt filthy, degrading. Each punishing thrust forced another gasp, another choked cry from Derek’s throat. Taylor set a relentless, punishing pace, his hips pistoning, driving into Derek with raw, animalistic need. The slap of skin on skin, Taylor’s harsh grunts, Derek’s ragged cries – they were the only sounds in the room, louder than the muffled bass from down the hall.
Derek surrendered to it. The pain blurred with a shocking bloom of intensity, a deep, internal friction that ignited his nerves. His cock, trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, throbbed painfully. He wrapped his legs around Taylor’s waist, locking his ankles, anchoring himself against the brutal force of each thrust. He met each slam with a desperate push of his own hips, chasing the fire spreading through his core. His fingers dug into the hard muscle of Taylor’s back, feeling the power coiled there, the sweat-slicked skin beneath his hands.
Taylor’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew more erratic, harder, desperate. He buried his face in the crook of Derek’s neck, biting down hard on the tendon there. Derek yelped, the sharp pain mingling with the overwhelming pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside him.
“Gonna come,” Taylor gasped against his skin, the words muffled, thick. “Fuck, Derek… gonna fill you up…”
The raw obscenity, the possessive claim, shattered the last of Derek’s control. He felt his own orgasm surge, unstoppable, triggered by the friction, the pain, the sheer illicit intensity of being taken so brutally by his Coach. “Do it!” he cried out, voice cracking. “Fucking… breed me, Coach!”
Taylor roared, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. He drove deep, grinding his hips hard against Derek’s ass, and held there, shuddering violently. Derek felt the hot, pulsing jets flood his insides, a shocking warmth that seemed to sear him. His own release followed instantly, erupting in thick spurts between their bodies, painting their stomachs with sticky streaks as he clenched down hard around Taylor’s still-throbbing cock.
They collapsed together, slick with sweat and come, gasping for air. Taylor’s weight pressed Derek into the mattress, his face still buried in Derek’s neck. The frantic energy seeped away, leaving behind a trembling exhaustion and the raw, aching throb between Derek’s legs.
Taylor’s weight crushed the air from Derek’s lungs. Sweat glued their chests together, a slick, cooling paste mingling with the sticky mess Derek had spilled across his own stomach. The room stank of sex, cheap whiskey, and the sharp, metallic tang of exertion. Taylor's harsh panting, warm and damp against Derek's neck, gradually slowed. The brutal grip on Derek’s hips loosened, fingers leaving white marks that bloomed red. Derek winced as Taylor shifted his weight, the thick cock slipping out of him with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the sudden quiet, followed by a hot trickle down his inner thigh. Emptiness throbbed where he’d been filled. Agony laced his exhaustion.
"Christ, Hale," Taylor muttered, the words thick, muffled against Derek’s skin. He sounded wrecked, utterly spent. His hand slid limply off Derek’s flank, landing heavy on the rumpled bedspread.
Derek stared at the water-stained ceiling tile directly above the bed, trying to catch his breath. His throat felt raw from screaming, his ass felt like it had been split open with a fucking crowbar, and yet… a reckless, electric hum still buzzed beneath his skin. He felt used. Shattered. More alive than he ever had on the field. He shifted slightly, wincing again at the deep ache. "You finished, Coach?" he rasped, the challenge weak but present. His cock, half-hard again despite the pain, twitched against his sticky belly.
Taylor lifted his head. His eyes, dark and unfocused in the dim light, finally met Derek’s. There was no satisfaction there. Only a hollowed-out look, edged with something dangerous – a flicker of heat refusing to die. He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drifted down Derek’s torso, over the mess of drying come, lingering on Derek’s flushed, leaking cock, then lower, to the swollen, abused flesh between his legs. Taylor’s own cock, still thick and flushed dark, lay heavy on Derek’s thigh, pulsing faintly.
"Fuck," Taylor breathed, the word a low rasp. It wasn't regret. It was raw, undeniable hunger. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, hovering over Derek. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Derek saw the muscle jump in his jaw, the conflict warring with the need still burning in his eyes. "You're a goddamn wrecking ball, kid."
"Your wrecking ball," Derek countered, his voice gaining a fraction of strength. He reached down, ignoring the sting, and wrapped his fingers around his own aching cock. He gave it a slow, deliberate stroke, smearing pre-come and sweat. "Looks like… you’re not finished either." He kept his gaze locked on Taylor’s, defiant, pushing. He needed it again, the brutal obliteration, the proof that this fire consumed them both.
Taylor’s control snapped. The hollow look vanished, replaced by a feral intensity. "Turn over," he growled, the command cracking like a whip. "Hands and knees. Now." He shoved roughly at Derek’s shoulder, urgency overriding any gentleness.
Pain flared sharply as Derek scrambled to obey, rolling onto his stomach. The cheap sheets scraped against his tender skin. He pushed himself up onto trembling arms and knees, presenting himself, his ass impossibly sore yet already clenching with anticipation. The cold air hit his wet hole, making him gasp. He felt exposed, vulnerable, completely at Taylor’s mercy. He heard the slick sound of Taylor spitting into his palm again, then the rough, wet strokes as he slicked his own cock, still thick and hard, glistening with Derek’s own release mixed with fresh spit.
"Hold onto the headboard," Taylor ordered, his voice thick with lust. "Brace yourself." Derek grabbed the cheap wooden rail, knuckles white. Taylor positioned himself behind him, one hand gripping Derek’s hipbone like a vise, the other guiding the blunt head of his cock back to Derek’s stretched, throbbing entrance. There was no slow entry this time. Taylor knew it was open, used, but still impossibly tight. He shoved forward in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural roar.
"FUCK!" Derek screamed, the sound tearing from his raw throat. The pain was blinding, white-hot agony ripping through him as Taylor stretched him wide again. He convulsed, his fingers slipping on the slick wood. Taylor didn’t pause. He set a punishing pace immediately, driving into Derek with short, savage strokes, each one a hammer blow deep inside. "Yeah! Fuck! Just like that, Coach! Fucking ruin me!" Derek babbled, the pain transmuting into a jagged, overwhelming pleasure that stole his breath. He pushed back hard against each thrust, impaling himself, feeling Taylor’s balls slap wetly against his taint.
Taylor’s rhythm was brutal, efficient, focused solely on his own building release. His fingers dug bruises into Derek’s hip, his other hand braced hard on Derek’s shoulder blade, pinning him down. The sounds were obscene – the wet slap of flesh, Taylor’s choked grunts, Derek’s high, keening whimpers. "Take it, you filthy little cocksucker," Taylor snarled, his voice ragged. "Take every fucking inch. You wanted this." He pistoned harder, faster, the bed frame slamming rhythmically against the cheap hotel wall.
Derek felt the coil inside him winding impossibly tight again, even as his body screamed protest. The unrelenting friction against his prostate sent shockwaves through his core. His cock, trapped beneath him, ached fiercely, leaking profusely onto the tangled sheets. "Gonna come!" he gasped, his voice shattered. "Fuck, Coach, please…!"
Taylor’s thrusts became frenzied, desperate. His rhythm broke, becoming erratic, brutal shoves. "Inside…" he choked out, a command, a plea. "Gonna fill this tight ass again… mark you inside…" With a final, shuddering roar, he slammed home and held deep, grinding his hips hard against Derek’s ass. Derek felt the hot, urgent pulses deep within him, another flood of seed joining the mess already leaking out of him. The sensation, the raw claim of it, ripped Derek’s own orgasm from him. He clamped down hard around Taylor’s cock as his own dick jerked violently, spilling thick ribbons of come onto the sheets beneath him with strangled, helpless cries. The intensity bordered on pain, wracking his exhausted body.
Taylor collapsed forward, his sweaty chest pressing against Derek’s back, his weight driving Derek’s face into the mattress. He stayed buried inside, panting harshly against Derek’s shoulder blade, his body trembling violently. Derek could feel the frantic thud of Taylor’s heart against his spine, the sticky heat trapped between them. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Aftershocks jolted through him, making his muscles twitch uncontrollably. Taylor’s softening cock finally slipped out with a wet slide, followed by a fresh, warm gush of fluid down Derek’s trembling thighs.
Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant, mocking thump of bass from another room. Taylor didn’t move. Derek lay crushed beneath him, the reality of what they’d done, the sheer physical wreckage of it, settling like lead in his gut. His ass burned like fire. He felt raw inside and out, utterly violated, yet strangely… claimed. The smell of sex was overwhelming, cloying.
Finally, Taylor heaved himself off. The sudden absence of his weight left Derek feeling cold, exposed. He heard Taylor move, the soft pad of bare feet on carpet, then the sound of running water from the tiny bathroom sink. Derek didn’t turn his head. He just lay there, face pressed into the damp, sour-smelling pillow, listening to the water run. The cold reality of the cheap, impersonal hotel room pressed in. What the hell had he done? What were they doing? The frantic energy of moments before was gone, leaving only a hollow, aching dread and the insistent, brutal throb between his legs. The water stopped. Taylor stood in the bathroom doorway, a dark silhouette outlined by the light, holding a wet washcloth. He didn't speak. He just stared at the wreckage on the bed. Derek closed his eyes. The momentum was gone, replaced by a chilling stillness.
The wet washcloth landed beside Derek’s head with a damp slap. Cold droplets hit his cheek. He flinched but didn’t open his eyes, keeping his face buried in the sour pillow. Taylor’s shadow loomed over him, blocking the weak bathroom light. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by Derek’s shallow, pained breaths and the distant thudding bass.
“Clean yourself up.” Taylor’s voice was flat, stripped of the earlier fury, the desperate hunger. Hollow. It scraped against the raw edges inside Derek. The coach turned away, his bare feet padding softly back towards the bathroom.
Derek finally moved. Agony lanced through his hips, his spine, radiating from his brutally used ass. He pushed himself up onto shaking elbows, the movement sending fresh trickles of come and spit-slick mess down his inner thighs. The sight of the damp washcloth, offered without touch, felt like a dismissal. Worse than anger. He snatched it up, the rough texture scraping his skin, and began wiping clumsily at the cooling mess on his stomach, his thighs. Every swipe reignited the deep, throbbing ache inside him. He avoided touching there directly. The sheer vulnerability, the raw openness, made his stomach churn even as his half-hard cock twitched traitorously against his leg.
He heard the clink of the whiskey bottle against glass again from the tiny bathroom. Taylor wasn’t cleaning himself. He was pouring another drink. Derek finished wiping, the cloth now disgusting, and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. He gingerly swung his legs over the side, grimacing as the movement pulled at tender, stretched muscles. He sat there, naked, bruised, trembling slightly, staring at the patch of worn carpet between his feet. The sterile room felt like a cage. The smell of sex, sweat, and cheap booze hung heavy. What now? Go back to his room, pretending nothing happened? Like the locker room? This felt different. Deeper. More ruinous.
Taylor reappeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’d splashed water on his face, slicking back his dark hair, but his eyes were still shadowed, haunted. He held the half-full glass of whiskey, knuckles white on the tumbler. He looked at Derek, sitting broken on the edge of the bed, then his gaze flickered away, scanning the rumpled sheets, the stains. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“You need to go.” The words were quiet, final. An order. But lacking its usual steel.
Derek looked up, meeting those piercing eyes that always seemed to see too much. He saw the conflict warring there: shame, anger, fear, and beneath it, the undeniable ember of the hunger that had consumed them minutes ago. “Is that what you want?” Derek asked, his voice rough, scraped raw from screaming. He didn’t move. Daring him.
Taylor’s grip tightened on the glass. “It doesn’t matter what I fucking want. This… it ends. Now.” He took a long swallow of whiskey, the liquid catching the weak light. “Get dressed. Leave.” He turned his back, walking towards the window, staring out at the parking lot lights.
The dismissal stung worse than the physical pain. A reckless, desperate fury surged through Derek, burning away the shame. He stood up abruptly, ignoring the flare of agony that shot through him. He walked towards Taylor, his bare feet silent on the carpet. He stopped inches behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the coach’s tense back, to smell the whiskey and his own scent still clinging to Taylor’s skin.
“Look at me,” Derek demanded, his voice low, vibrating with a challenge he didn’t fully understand.
Taylor didn’t turn. His shoulders were rigid. “Get. Dressed.”
Derek reached out. Not gently. His hand closed hard on Taylor’s bicep, fingers digging into the dense muscle beneath damp cotton. He felt Taylor flinch, a current of electricity jumping between them. “Look. At. Me.” He yanked, spinning the taller man around to face him.
Taylor’s eyes blazed, the carefully constructed control shattering again. Anger, yes, but underneath it, a wild, helpless desperation Derek recognized in himself. “What the fuck do you want from me, Hale?” Taylor snarled, whiskey-laced breath hitting Derek’s face. “You got what you came for. Twice. Now get the hell out!”
“Shut up,” Derek breathed. He shoved Taylor hard, catching him off balance, sending him stumbling back against the cool, smooth surface of the hotel room wall. Before Taylor could recover, Derek was on him. He slammed his body against Taylor’s, pinning him, grinding his own aching, now fully hard cock against the thick ridge he felt pressing against Taylor’s trousers. “You don’t get to fucking dismiss me like one of your fucking drills,” Derek growled, fumbling frantically with Taylor’s belt buckle, his fly. “You wanted this. You still do.” He yanked the trousers and briefs down Taylor’s hips in one rough motion, freeing the thick cock that sprang back, already swelling again despite the coach’s protests. Precum glistened on the flushed head.
Taylor gasped, a ragged inhale. His hands came up, not to push Derek away, but to grip his shoulders, fingers biting in. “You stupid… reckless…” His words dissolved into a choked groan as Derek dropped to his knees right there on the scratchy carpet. Derek didn’t hesitate. He took the thick head into his mouth, sucking hard, swirling his tongue roughly over the sensitive slit, tasting salt and musk and the faint tang of his own ass. He looked up, meeting Taylor’s stunned, furious, lust-darkened gaze as he sucked him down, taking him deep into his throat, gagging slightly but pushing through, hollowing his cheeks.
“Fuck!” Taylor hissed, his head slamming back against the wall with a dull thud. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, driving deeper down Derek’s throat. Derek took it, relaxing his jaw, letting Taylor’s cock push past the resistance, feeling it bulge in his neck. He worked him with rough, urgent sucks, saliva dripping down his chin, his own neglected cock throbbing painfully between his legs. He pulled off with a wet pop, gasping for air, his lips swollen. “Want more, Coach?” he taunted, voice wrecked. “Want to fuck this wrecked hole again? Split me open against the wall?”
Taylor’s control vaporized. With a guttural snarl, he hauled Derek up by the armpits, spinning him around violently. Derek cried out as his bruised back hit the cold, unyielding wall. Taylor shoved his leg hard between Derek’s thighs, forcing them apart, his hand already slicking his cock with spit and Derek’s saliva. He spat again, a thick glob landing directly on Derek’s abused entrance. Derek tensed, the memory of the brutal stretch screaming through his nerves, but he shoved his hips back, presenting himself.
“Do it, you bastard! Fucking ruin me!” Derek gasped, bracing his hands flat against the wall, fingers splayed.
Taylor lined up, the blunt head pressing insistently against Derek’s swollen, tender rim. It felt impossibly large again after the brief respite. “You asked for it, you little shit,” Taylor growled, his voice raw with lust and self-loathing. He leaned his weight into it, shoving forward. Derek screamed as the thick shaft ripped through the tight ring of muscle, a searing, white-hot agony that stole his breath. Taylor didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He drove deep in one brutal thrust, sheathing himself completely with a guttural groan, pinning Derek hard against the wall. The cold tile burned Derek’s back; the thick cock burned his insides. It was excruciating. Exhilarating.
Taylor pulled out almost entirely, the drag agonizing, then slammed back in, hard enough to make Derek’s teeth rattle. He set a relentless, brutal rhythm, fucking Derek against the wall with savage, driving strokes. Each deep plunge forced choked cries from Derek’s throat, each withdrawal felt like a crude violation. Taylor’s hands gripped Derek’s hips like vices, fingers digging into the bruises already forming, using him as nothing more than a tight, hot hole to pound. The wet slap of flesh, Taylor’s harsh grunts, Derek’s ragged whimpers – the sounds were raw, animalistic. “That’s it, take it! Take all of it, you filthy fuckhole!” Taylor snarled, pistoning harder, faster. “Feel that? Feel how deep I own you now?”
Derek couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Pain and a terrifying, overwhelming pleasure collided deep within him, radiating from the spot Taylor’s cock hammered relentlessly with each punishing thrust. His own cock, trapped between his stomach and the cold wall, leaked profusely, untouched. He was being fucked apart, used brutally, and his body sang with it. He pushed back with all his remaining strength, meeting each savage drive, taking it deeper, harder. “Yes! Fuck! Breed me! Fill me up!” he sobbed, the words torn from him.
Taylor’s rhythm shattered. His thrusts became frenzied, desperate lunges. He buried his face in Derek’s neck, biting down as he held deep, grinding his hips hard. “Gonna come… gonna pump this fucking ass full…” he gasped, voice thick, broken. His body locked, shuddering violently against Derek’s back. Derek felt the hot, urgent pulses deep inside him, another scalding flood marking him. The sensation, coupled with the relentless pressure on his prostate, triggered his own violent climax. He came untouched, thick ropes spurting against the cold tile wall, his body clamping down convulsively around Taylor’s still-spurting cock as strangled cries ripped from his throat.
Taylor slumped against him, crushing him against the wall, his weight almost unbearable on Derek’s ravaged body. His harsh breathing was ragged in Derek’s ear. He stayed buried, softening slowly inside Derek’s clenching heat. Derek felt utterly spent, shattered, pinned like a specimen. The cold tile leached the warmth from his back. Taylor’s arms, suddenly loose, slid around his waist from behind, not in affection, but as if the coach’s legs wouldn’t hold him. The embrace felt desperate, clinging. Exhaustion radiated from Taylor’s trembling frame.
Taylor’s voice was a raw, broken whisper against the sweat-damp skin of Derek’s shoulder, a plea stripped bare of all authority, all pretense. "STAY WITH ME."