The bedroom is dark except for harbor lights bleeding through the curtains, painting everything in shifting blue and gold. Nico shoves me through the doorway and kicks the door shut, and the sound feels like the last exit sealing.
I stumble backward, calves hitting the mattress, and before I can find my footing his hands are on my hips, spinning me, pushing me face-down with a force that drives the air from my lungs.
The sheets are cold against my bare chest when his weight settles over me. Hips pressing mine into the mattress, one hand between my shoulder blades holding me flat as his mouth finding the back of my neck with teeth that scrape and bite without apology.
"Nico…"
"Don't talk." His hand slides down my spine, hooks into my waistband, drags trousers and boxers all the way down in one efficient movement.
Cool air hits skin that's burning, and the exposure—the sheer vulnerability of being stripped by someone who knows exactly what they're doing when I have no idea—sends a shudder through me that has nothing to do with temperature.
I keep waiting for the revulsion. The moment my body catches up with the reality that this is a man's hands on me. A man's weight pinning me. A man's erection pressing hard against the back of my thigh.
Any second the disgust will arrive and I'll shove him off.
Except when Nico's palm curves over my ass with proprietary confidence, fingers digging into muscle, my hips push back into his grip like my body is running code I never wrote.
Herregud.
I bury my face in the sheets.
He pulls away briefly and then I hear a drawer open, the tear of foil, and the click of a cap. Clinical sounds that should break the spell, only they don't. They make everything sharper—proof that this is deliberate, premeditated, real.
His fingers find me slick and insistent, working me open with the familiar methodical precision. The intrusion is foreign and overwhelming and I grip the sheets so hard my knuckles ache—a strange, intimate pressure my body doesn't know how to categorize.
I'm panting into the mattress, caught between the instinct to pull away and the terrifying realization that I'm pushing back against his fingers, chasing the sensation deeper.
"Breathe." His voice is rough against my ear, commanding. Absolute—the voice of someone who will not be rushed. "Stop clenching so hard, relax and breathe."
I force air into my lungs just as his fingers curl, finding something inside me that detonates white heat behind my eyes. The moan that tears from my throat is so wrecked that I would pay any amount to take it back.
He replaces his fingers with something blunt and thick and undeniable, pressing forward in one slow, relentless push that fills me so completely I forget language.
My spine arches, a choked cry scraping through my teeth. The stretch is enormous—too much, not enough, my body splitting open around him while my brain short-circuits between fury and surrender.
Nico doesn't pause, bottoms out and holds there, hips flush against me. Both of us breathing hard, and the fullness is so total I can feel my own heartbeat pulsing around him.
Then he moves.
The first thrust is deep and deliberate, dragging out slow before driving back in hard enough to shove me up the bed. I grab the headboard while he sets a rhythm—controlled and unyielding, fucking me like he's settling a debt accumulated over eleven years.
Each stroke hits that devastating angle sending electric shocks from my core to my fingertips, and I am cataloguing every sensation with the horrified precision of a man building a case against himself.
Evidence: the way my back arches to meet each thrust.
Evidence: bitten-off moans that no amount of whiskey can excuse.
Evidence: my cock, untouched and aching against the sheets, so aroused by being fucked that I might come without a hand on me.
His pace increases and one hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise while the other fists in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat. His teeth find the junction of my neck and shoulder, biting down while his hips snap forward, and the pain-pleasure collision obliterates every remaining circuit.
I hear myself making noises that belong to someone else. Someone who wants this, who needs it, who has been starving for exactly this without knowing.
"Fucking harder, Nico."
The word comes out before I can stop it—guttural, demanding, a confession I'll spend weeks trying to unsay.
Nico obliges without hesitation as the headboard hits the wall with rhythmic violence, and I don't care. His cock drives into me at an angle that's punishing and perfect, pushing sounds from my chest I've never made with anyone.
The building pressure tells me I'm close—impossibly, terrifyingly close without anyone touching my cock. Just from the relentless fullness of him.
When he reaches around, wrapping his hand around my shaft, I last exactly four strokes.
The orgasm tears through me—violent, full-body, vision whiting out as I spill over his fist and the sheets. My entire body clenching around him hard enough that he groans against my shoulder, raw and wrecked.
Nico follows moments later—rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, a low curse in Portuguese muffled against my skin as he buries himself deep and holds.
Tystnad.
We lie in wrecked stillness, his heartbeat against my back gradually slowing. Neither speaks. The silence expands, pressing down with the accumulated weight of what just happened, and my mind is already constructing the narrative.
Drunk. A stupid dare taken too far.
Physical release—the kind of dumb shit that happens when two competitive men are trapped with too much whiskey and too much unresolved history.
Meant nothing. Changes nothing.
I extract myself without speaking. Find my trousers by touch, pull them on, walk to my own room on legs that shake in ways I refuse to attribute to anything except alcohol.
Every step registers the soreness—unfamiliar, deep, and impossible to ignore. The door clicks shut behind me—quiet, final.
My bathroom is aggressively bright and I grip the sink and stare at my reflection—flushed, wrecked, pupils blown, hair destroyed. Then my eyes catch it: the bite mark on my shoulder, red and livid, the imprint of Nico's teeth pressed into my skin like a brand.
Proof I can't spin into narrative. Evidence that resists every excuse.
I'm still staring when a sharp knock hits the suite's front door and I freeze. The knock comes again—insistent, purposeful. Through the gap under my bedroom door, light shifts in the living room and I go in just as Nico's door opens.
We stare at each other across the dark suite—both disheveled, both wrecked, both arriving at the same horrifying conclusion.
A teammate. Someone from the team. Someone who will see us like this and know.
Then a third knock, louder, with a muffled voice on the other side.