Below Deck with the Miami Linebacker

The marina at Dinner Key had gone quiet, the sky over Biscayne Bay the color of a bruised peach. I was twenty-nine, still in my trainer's shorts, tank stuck to my back, when I saw Andre on the stern. Thirty-one, shirt off, shoulders as wide as when he'd played linebacker at Miami. A dark line of hair ran down his stomach. He looked up from a coil of rope and grinned like he'd been waiting since the gym.

- You gonna stand on that dock all night, Jake, or you coming up?
- Brought beer. Figured that bought me the ride.
- Beer gets you on the boat. Everything after is your call.

I stepped over the gunwale. The deck was hot through my shoes. He took the six-pack, dropped it in the cooler, and didn't give me room. Up close he smelled like coconut sunscreen and clean iron. His chest was thick, nipples dark, an old scar curved under one rib. Heat came off him before his hand found the back of my neck.

- Clients done?
- Last one at five. You close the shop?
- Told the guys I was fishing.
- You don't have a rod out.
- Wasn't planning to catch fish.

His laugh was low. The kiss came right after, salt and the scrape of stubble, his mouth sure. I got both hands on his waist, thumbs in the cuts above his hips, and he made a sound that went straight to my cock. His stomach flexed under my palms. He broke the kiss and tipped his chin at the companionway.

- Below. Marina's quiet. It isn't blind.

I followed him down. The cabin was narrow and warm, a berth with a navy sheet already turned back. He shut the hatch. Amber light came through the ports. For a second we just looked. Then his hands were under my tank, dragging it off, and the talk stopped.

His mouth went to my throat, then my chest. He bit one nipple until I arched, soothed it with his tongue, and did the other while his palms mapped my stomach. I train men all day. I know muscle. His was heavier against me, live, the kind that shoved. I shoved back. We hit the berth in a tangle of shorts and skin. I got his trunks down and his cock filled my hand, thick, hot, already wet at the head. I stroked him slow and felt him throb against my palm. He kicked the trunks off, yanked mine down my thighs, and wrapped a fist around me with a grip that knew exactly how much a man could take.

I went to my knees on the cabin floor between his spread legs. The berth creaked. I licked the salt off the underside of his cock, traced the vein, and took the head into my mouth until my lips met my fist. He tasted clean and male. His hand settled in my hair, not forcing, just heavy, hips rolling in small thrusts while I worked him. I hollowed my cheeks, mouthed his balls, and took him deeper until my eyes watered and my own cock dripped on my thigh. When I looked up, his stomach was tight and those linebacker shoulders were braced on his elbows.

He pulled me up and flipped us. My back hit the sheet. He kissed me filthy, tasting himself, then slid down with his tongue on my sternum, my navel, the crease of my hip. He took me into his mouth in one long wet slide. Heat knocked the air out of me. He sucked hard, then soft, then hard again, one big hand pinning my hip, the other rolling my balls. I fisted the sheet. He spit into his palm, slicked a finger, and pressed it to me while his mouth stayed on my cock. I bore down. He pushed in slow to the knuckle, then a second finger, curling until a bright shock ran up my spine. I spread wider. He worked me open, scissoring, stroking that spot until my thighs shook and I was fucking his mouth and his hand at once.

He reached into a drawer, came back with lube and a condom, and rolled the latex on with a steady hand. Cool slick met my hole. He lined up, the blunt head nudging, and waited until I nodded and pulled him in by the hips. The stretch burned sweet, then gave. Inch by inch he filled me, thick enough that I had to breathe through it, deep enough that when his hips met my ass I felt him in my gut. He held there, forehead against mine, both of us shaking, sweat gathering where our chests stuck.

Then he moved. Long strokes at first, almost out, then all the way in, the berth knocking the bulkhead. I locked my ankles behind him and met him. The burn eased into a heavy, perfect drag, his cock thick and hot inside me. He shifted and the next stroke hit where his fingers had been. I groaned into his shoulder. He picked up speed, sweat dripping from his jaw onto my throat, balls slapping my ass. I stroked myself, precome slicking my fist, until he pinned my wrist and took over, rough and sure, fucking me harder. Short, deep, relentless. His cock swelled. I came in a choked rush, striping our stomachs, hole clenching so tight he buried himself and pulsed, the condom filling as he ground through it with his face in my neck.

He eased out, dropped beside me, one heavy arm across my chest. The bay slapped the hull. I tasted salt on his shoulder. Neither of us spoke. His heart was still hammering under my ear.