Beauty & The Jock - Part 14 – Bonus

Toronto - 4 years later

Everyone in this story is 18+

The new salon smelled like fresh paint and possibility, the soft hum of my still trusted diffuser pushing eucalyptus into every corner. I adjusted the ring light over the treatment table, checking the angle one last time—perfect for the before-and-afters I’d post later. At twenty-two, I moved a little differently now: shoulders back, voice steady, the kid who once overthought every mirror glance replaced by someone who knew his worth. Glow & Grind was mine (well, half mine; Mei Lin handled the books and did her own thing), a narrow storefront on Queen West with exposed brick, velvet chairs, and a neon sign that buzzed “Skin First, Drama Later.” Clients booked weeks out—athletes, drag queens, tired office workers—all trusting me to fix what life had roughed up.

The bell above the door chimed.

“Your BF is here,” Mei Lin called from the front, not even looking up from her ledger, her voice dry as ever.

I rolled my eyes, but the grin betrayed me. “He’s not my BF… just some jock.”

Kyle strolled in like he owned the place, Argos duffel slung over one shoulder, grey sweats riding low, hair still damp from morning practice. His chest even broader in, a faint playoff beard shadowing his jaw. He flashed that same crooked smile that had wrecked me at eighteen, dropped the bag by the door, and leaned against the counter.

“Some jock, huh?” he echoed, voice low and teasing. “Thought I’d get the full VIP treatment before I fly out for camp.”

Mei Lin snorted, waving him off. “Room two’s free. Don’t stain the linens again.”

I led him back, the hallway narrow enough that our shoulders brushed. The apartment we shared—two blocks away, tiny but ours—was still packed in boxes, string lights half-hung, his playbook on the kitchen counter next to my pigment charts. Four years of long-distance turned into this: Toronto, the Argos, a salon with my name on the lease. We’d saved every penny from college gigs—him slinging protein at the campus gym, me doing pop-up facials in dorm bathrooms—until the down payment felt real.

“Strip,” I said, flicking on the warmer light. “Face down. You’re knotted up like a rookie’s shoelaces.”

He obeyed, peeling off the hoodie in one fluid motion, fabric catching on his shoulders before dropping to the floor. The rest followed—shirt, shorts, briefs—until he lay bare on the table, that familiar golden stretch of skin glowing under the low lamp, every muscle etched from practice, faint tan lines framing his hips. My pulse hammered, heat pooling low as I drank him in, the curve of his back dipping to the firm swell of his ass, thighs parted just enough to tease.

I poured oil—cedar and bergamot, his favorite—warm rivulets cascading over my palms, the scent sharp and woody, filling the room like a promise. Starting at his shoulders, thumbs dug deep into the traps he'd overworked, knots yielding under pressure, his skin silky and fever-warm. He melted, body sinking heavier into the cradle, breath escaping in a low rumble that vibrated through his spine.

“Still magic hands,” he rasped into the face rest, voice muffled but thick with need.

My touch softened, palms gliding lower, tracing the valley of his spine, fingers splaying over the dimples above his ass. The room hushed except for the diffuser's faint hiss and the wet glide of oil on skin, each press pulling subtle shifts from him—hips tilting, thighs tensing. I kneaded his glutes firm, thumbs circling deep into the muscle, feeling him part wider on instinct, the cleft opening to reveal the tight ring, flushed and inviting.

He laughed, breathy and knowing. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

I flipped him over, the sheet tenting high, his shaft jutting proud against his abs, foreskin half-retracted to bare the swollen crown, a bead of clear fluid welling at the slit, trailing down the underside in a slow, teasing path. My hand wrapped him, oil making the grip seamless, stroking from root to tip with a twist that had his hips bucking, abs contracting sharp. “Client satisfaction is part of the brand.”

“Happy ending salon special?” he teased, eyes locked on mine, dark and hungry, as I quickened the pace, palm gliding smooth, fingers squeezing just under the head to draw out more of that endless flow, coating my knuckles in warm strands.

He thrust into my fist, breath fracturing, thighs quivering. “Only for you.”

I leaned in, mouth claiming his in a devouring kiss, tongues tangling lazy and wet, tasting bergamot and salt. My free hand roamed his chest, thumb flicking a nipple until it pebbled hard, his back arching off the table. The strokes turned relentless, oil squelching soft between us, his crown flaring wider with each pass, veins standing proud under my grip. Tension coiled visible in his core, balls drawing tight against my wrist, and then it erupted—thick ropes jetting high, splattering his chest in heavy arcs, dripping over my fingers in that absurd, endless flood that painted his skin glossy and ruined. Another surge followed, then another, pooling in the hollow of his navel, the sheer volume leaving me staring, half-shocked, half-entranced.

“Jesus, Kyle. You’re still a god damn fire hose.”

He laughed breathless, pulling me down into the warm mess, lips crashing mine, tongue diving to share the chaos. “Only for you,” he echoed, nipping my lip, hands framing my face as the city hummed outside, snow whispering against the window. Inside, the diffuser clicked off, the room thick with cedar, bergamot, and us—happy ending, in every delicious, filthy sense.

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