His buddies were in the living room screaming at a third-and-long, five guys on the sectional with empty IPA cans crowding the coffee table.
I walked into the kitchen wearing nothing except his heavy pine-green fleece hoodie and bare legs. The hem hung mid-thigh, keeping me decent as long as I didn’t reach for anything high, but when I bent down to the bottom fridge drawer for another six-pack, the cotton rode all the way up my ass.
Footsteps behind me. Fast.
The fridge door blocked the sightline to the hallway, but it didn’t block him. He stepped right into my back, his chest pressing my shoulders down against the open door shelves, and his palm went straight under the fleece.
“Brett—” I gasped into a carton of almond milk.
“Shut up,” he muttered against my neck, his thumb sliding straight into my crease. “They can hear you over the crowd noise.”
He was already hard through his sweatpants, grinding his thick ridge against my bare cheek while his calloused fingers rubbed the slick rim of my hole. One of his friends yelled from the couch: Yo, Brett, where’s the lager?
“Grabbing it now!” he shouted back, completely level, without taking his hand off me.
He dipped two fingers in, hard, right when someone on the TV got intercepted. The room exploded in groans, and Brett used the roar to hitch the hoodie to my waist and push two inches of his cock into me, hot and dry and demanding, holding me pinned against the cold glass shelves while the beer bottles clinked in the door.
He didn’t finish—couldn’t risk the time—but he pumped into me three brutal, breathless times, leaving me dripping down my inner thighs before he pulled back, smoothed the fleece down over my ass, and grabbed the six-pack by the cardboard handle.
“Hurry up with the napkins, babe,” he called out, walking back to the living room with a wicked grin.
I stood there in the cold light of the open fridge, shivering, soaking wet, with his handprint burning red on my hip.
