Part 3: Under the Stands
The final whistle cut through the late afternoon air like a gunshot.
Jack stood, chest heaving, body filthy. He didn’t know who’d won. Didn’t care. His eyes were locked on Reece—shirt clinging to him, mouth parted, mud on his cheek like war paint. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Reece gave a small nod. Almost nothing. Just a flick of the head.
Jack followed.
They slipped past the changing sheds and into the shadows under the stands—rickety beams, old concrete, the stench of damp earth and grass thick in the air. It was dim, hidden. Out of sight. Out of control.
The second Jack had Reece against the wall, it turned animal.
He grabbed him by the collar, slammed their mouths together. No build-up. No patience. Just a clash of teeth, sweat, and breath. Reece bit his lip, grabbed two handfuls of Jack’s shirt, yanked it up over his head, revealing thick muscle, glistening with sweat, mud streaking his abs like war paint.
“Fucking hell,” Reece breathed, eyes hungry.
Jack shoved him back against the wall again, mouth trailing down his throat, licking the salt from his skin, tasting the battle still on him. Their hands fumbled, clawing at waistbands, dragging down shorts, the wet fabric resisting, clinging to thighs slick with sweat and muck. But they didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.
Reece’s cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the tip slick. Jack gripped it with a growl, pumping once, twice, watching Reece’s eyes flutter, his hips buck forward.
“You’ve been teasing me all fucking match,” Jack hissed into his ear.
“You loved it,” Reece whispered, grinding against his palm.
Jack spat into his hand and stroked faster, dirt caking his knuckles, their bodies pressed tight. Reece’s fingers wrapped around Jack’s cock, thick and hot, and suddenly it was a standoff of moans and movement—grinding, panting, hips thrusting, filthy, raw, desperate.
Sweat dripped onto concrete. Their groans echoed in the hollow beneath the stands. Hands roamed—slipping into the cleft of Reece’s ass, pulling him closer, harder. Jack buried his face in Reece’s neck, biting down to muffle a growl as the friction built, urgent and rough.
Reece’s voice cracked, “Jack—gonna—”
“Do it,” Jack snarled, stroking harder, faster, mouths locked again.
Reece came with a gasp and a shudder, painting Jack’s stomach, legs buckling slightly. Jack followed a moment later, burying his face against Reece’s shoulder as he groaned into him, warm pulses spilling between them, both of them breathless and shaking.
Silence followed, thick and humid.
Then a laugh. Low. Spent. Reece grinned, head back against the wall.
“Well,” he said, voice hoarse. “Guess we call it a draw?”
Jack chuckled, lips still against his skin. “Rematch.”
Reece kissed his forehead, muddy fingers running through Jack’s damp hair.
“You better bring your A-game.” |
