Out in the Offense (Out in College 3)

“I know what you mean,” I said softly. “Everyone has us figured out before we do. Then they get insulted when you aren’t who they expected.”

Rory held my chin and stared into my eyes intently. “Don’t let anyone else tell you who you are. That’s up to you to decide.”

“You’re right.” I kissed his fingers and smiled.

“So who are you exactly?” he joked.

“A closeted gay quarterback who’s scared of what comes next.”

“You’ll work it out. And if you need anything, I’m here for you.” He kept his tone light, but I was touched by his sincerity.

I thanked him, then kissed his nose and his eyelids in a silly attempt to lighten the mood.

“Are you going to teach me everything you know?” I purred, reaching for his half-hard cock.

He pulled me against him and then rolled on top of me. He yanked my arms over my head and rocked his pelvis suggestively, thrusting his cock alongside mine. “Yeah. You’re in good hands, baby.”

I arched my back and hooked my legs over his ass, humming in approval. “Fuck me again. Please.”

Minutes later, when I gripped the sheets with white knuckles as he entered me slowly from behind, I wondered what had taken me so long to give in to this.

Maybe I’d feel a pang of regret later, because surely begging my sexy tutor to fuck me wasn’t my best life choice. However, at that moment it seemed pretty fucking inspired. And he seemed like the best thing that had ever come my way.

5

At first, Rory and I stuck to our usual routine. He’d wait for me at our table and greet me with an iced coffee and a roguish smile, but within five minutes we’d be itching for contact. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Knees under the table, fingers brushing over a homework assignment. It was never enough. I was tempted to give in to his suggestion that we just fuck in the bathroom, but we tended to get vocal during sex and the last thing either of us needed was to guest star on someone’s Instagram feed. “Horny QB and tattooed hunk’s walk of shame at a local Starbucks.” No thanks.

After two study sessions, it became apparent that we were torturing ourselves, and I wasn’t learning anything new. Rory suggested we meet at his apartment after practice instead. He’d make me dinner and we’d have a private place to study. And have sex. Within a couple of weeks, I was pretty sure we’d fucked on every available surface in his tiny pad. On the sofa, the floor, the coffee table, over the kitchen counter, in the shower, and of course, in bed. I was semi-erect on the drive to his place, and the second he opened the door, it was over. We careened against the walls in a tangle of limbs, clawing at each other’s clothes in a quest to get to skin while we licked and sucked on lips and tongues.

There was something special about getting to know a new lover. Rory was the perfect combination of rough and tender. The kind of partner who made sure to cradle your head so it didn’t hit the wall when a passionate grinding session heated up faster than expected. He was a big fan of raunchy dirty talk. The naughtier, the better. He loved it when I licked his tits and played with his nipple rings. And he always wanted to know what turned me on. Of course, he had his own style of inquiry. He didn’t hold me gently after an intense orgasm and ask if I enjoyed what we’d done. No. Rory was more likely to growl in my ear and demand to know how hard I wanted it. “You want it harder, baby? Say it. Tell me to fuck you harder.” I always complied and he more than delivered.

After we cleaned up and redressed, he’d fluff an extra pillow and instruct me to sit before he began our tutoring session. Maybe our methods were unorthodox, but they seemed to be working. I didn’t start acing my quizzes right away, but I was definitely getting better. If I kept improving, I’d certainly earn the passing grade I needed. The athletic department would be appeased, and my parents would never know there was ever a doubt. At least, not until my transcript was released to Chilton’s law school. But I’d deal with that later.

For now, I was making progress. I hoped.

I shot a wan smile at the professor’s assistant when he handed over my most recent quiz at the end of class. I didn’t dare look at it yet. Every test was getting progressively harder and though I thought I understood the formulas, I couldn’t be sure. I folded the paper, shoved it into my backpack, and walked clear across campus before stopping at a bench under a pepper tree. I took a seat and pulled my cell from my pocket, then mindlessly scrolled through social media until I convinced myself that the scrap of paper burning a hole through my bag was relatively unimportant.