Beauty & The Jock - Part 6

Everyone in this story is 18+

The week after the party, my phone buzzed with a notification I didn’t expect: Kyle Reynolds added me on Snapchat. I stared at the screen, thumb hovering, half-convinced it was a glitch. But there it was, his username, bold and real, like he’d decided I wasn’t invisible anymore. I added him back, and by the next day, we were messaging. Every day.

It started small. I sent him a link to a gentle cleanser for his post-practice sweat. He replied with a cheeky sweaty gym selfie and a caption about my “fancy face stuff.” I shared tips on exfoliation, and he sent tips on lunges for the baby workout routine I’d started in my room, mostly push-ups and squats that left me sore and cursing. We talked about music, he liked old-school hip-hop, I leaned toward sad indie, gay, and pop. We talked about movies too; he was all about Marvel, I was more into horror. Even dumb stuff like our favorite pizza toppings came up; he was pineapple, I was strictly pepperoni. The more we talked, the more I realized we weren’t as different as I had thought. Sure, there were many differences, but they were superficial really. We still had great chemistry, and just like that, the gap between jock and salon kid wasn’t a chasm after all.

Still, when he snapped me on Friday, asking if I wanted to come over Saturday night since his dad was out of town, I froze. “Just to hang,” he wrote, followed by a pizza emoji and a winking face. My stomach flipped, not just from nerves but from the quiet thrill of it, the idea that he wanted me in his space, not just the salon’s. I typed back a quick “Sure,” then spent the next day overthinking my outfit again, settling on a soft gray hoodie and jeans, casual but not trying too hard.

When I got to his house, a tidy split-level with a basketball hoop in the driveway, he answered the door in a loose tank top and gray sweats, hair messy like he’d just rolled out of bed. He grinned, wide and easy, and waved me in. “Pizza’s on the way. You cool with watching some Marvel mayhem?”

“Only if it’s got Thor,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “I need that hammer energy.”

He laughed, already flipping through Disney+ on the living room TV. “Thor it is. Ragnarok’s the vibe.”

We sprawled on his couch, the room lit by the glow of the screen and a single lamp in the corner. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the cedar candle he’d lit, probably to impress me. When the pizza arrived, half pineapple, half pepperoni, we ate straight from the box, laughing over Loki’s snark and arguing about whether Hulk could take Thor in a real fight. It felt easy, like we’d been doing this forever, not like I was the guy who’d been invisible to him a short while ago.

After the movie, he pulled out a bag from the drugstore, grinning sheepishly. “Got some of that skincare stuff you mentioned. Masks, eye patches, the works. Figured you could show me how it’s done.”

I raised a brow, amused. “You’re serious about this glow-up, huh?”

“Gotta keep up with you,” he said, tossing me a clay mask packet.

We stood in his bathroom, smearing green goo on each other’s faces, his fingers clumsy but earnest as he tried to avoid my eyes. I laughed when he got some in his hair, and he flicked a glob at me, smudging my cheek. The eye patches were next, cool and slick under our eyes, and we looked ridiculous, like aliens in a low-budget sci-fi flick. He snapped a selfie of us, masks and all, and sent it to me with a caption: “We look like swamp monsters.” I saved it, my chest warm with something I didn’t want to name.

“Alright, workout time,” he said after we rinsed off, our faces soft and faintly pink. He dragged me to the garage, where he had a small setup, a bench, some dumbbells, a pull-up bar. He coached me through a set of squats, his hands steadying my hips when I wobbled, his touch lingering just a second too long. I teased him about his form, he teased me about my noodle arms, and we ended up sprawled on the rubber mats, breathless and laughing, the air between us charged with something unspoken.

Back in his room, he flopped onto the bed, hands behind his head. “You got those magic hands ready? I’m sore as hell from practice.”

I smirked, grabbing the massage oil I’d brought in my bag, just in case. “You’re gonna owe me big for this.”

“Worth it,” he said, peeling off his tank top and sweats, leaving just his black briefs. He lay face-down on the bed, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting shadows over the broad planes of his shoulders, the lean dip of his lower back. I warmed the oil in my palms, the familiar scent of eucalyptus filling the room, and started on his shoulders, kneading slow and deep. His skin was warm, muscles tense but yielding under my fingers, and he let out a low hum, his body sinking into the mattress.

I worked down his spine, tracing the curve of his lats, the faint tan line just above his waistband. His breathing slowed, each exhale soft and heavy, and when I moved to his chest, he flipped over, eyes half-lidded, watching me. My hands glided over his pecs, the firm ridges of his abs, the oil leaving a faint sheen on his skin. His stomach tensed slightly as I brushed lower, skimming the trail of dark hair below his navel.

“Keep going,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

I moved to his thighs, strong and solid, my fingers digging into the muscle as he shifted, hips lifting slightly. His briefs strained now, the outline clear, and I slid them down, carefully, giving him time to objects as I revealed to him fully. His dick was still thick, uncircumcised, the foreskin soft and slightly parted, the head flushed and already glistening with a bead of precum. His balls resting heavy, resting loose against his thighs, the skin smooth and warm.

I poured more oil, my hands slick as I wrapped them around him, gliding the foreskin back to expose the thickening head, pink and wet, swelling under my touch. He sucked in a breath, hips bucking, and I moved faster, the slickness building as precum dripped in steady, warm streams, coating my fingers, making each stroke smoother, more urgent. The room felt smaller, the air thick with his scent mingling with the eucalyptus.

His hand reached for me, pulling me closer, and I leaned in, my lips brushing his jaw before finding his mouth. The kiss was soft at first, then deeper, his tongue warm and insistent, tasting of pineapple and salt. I shifted, lowering myself, my lips trailing down his chest, his stomach, until I reached him. I took him into my mouth, the heat and weight of him overwhelming, the foreskin sliding back further as I moved, slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of my hand. His precum was relentless, slick and warm, filling my mouth as I worked, his hips rocking gently, chasing the sensation.

His fingers tangled in my hair, not pushing, just holding, his breathing rough and uneven, each exhale a soft, desperate sound. I felt him tense, his balls tightening against my hand, and I knew what was coming, remembering the flood from last time. The first spurt hit, thick and forceful, filling my mouth with a warmth I tried to swallow, the volume overwhelming but thrilling. I kept going, lips and tongue working as more poured out, coating my mouth, dripping down my chin.

He laughed, a low, breathless sound, his hand still in my hair. “You don’t have to swallow it all.”

I pulled back slightly, grinning, still licking at the slick head, the taste lingering. “Too late,” I said, voice thick, my tongue catching another bead as it spilled over. The bed creaked as he shifted, and then he pulled me up, his lips crashing into mine, sudden and fierce, catching me off guard. His tongue dove deep, tasting himself on me, the kiss messy and hungry, his hand gripping my neck like he didn’t want to let go.

“It doesn’t taste that bad,” he said against my lips, his voice rough with amusement, and I laughed, the sound muffled by his mouth. His dick was still in my hand, twitching, another surge spilling out, streaking the bed, the floor, pooling in a glossy, absurd puddle that caught the lamplight.

I looked down, eyes wide. “Wow.”

He laughed again, chest heaving, pulling me down beside him, our shoulders brushing as we caught our breath. The floor was a disaster, and we grabbed towels, scrubbing at the puddle like kids hiding a spilled drink, giggling over the sheer ridiculousness of it.

We collapsed back onto the bed, the air still thick with the scent of him and the faint eucalyptus clinging to my hands. He reached for the remote, switching the TV to Disney+, and pulled up Lilo & Stitch. “This one’s a classic,” he said, settling back against the pillows.

“No arguments here,” I said, leaning back beside him, our arms touching. We’d bonded over Disney movies in our snaps, both of us admitting to a soft spot for the weird, heartfelt ones.

As the opening credits rolled, the room felt softer, quieter, the glow of the screen painting his face in blues and greens. I glanced at him, his eyes fixed on the TV, and felt that familiar ache creep in. Los Angeles. Alabama. The words were a wall, solid and unyielding, and his indifference at the party still stung, the way he’d slipped back into his golden jock armor like I didn’t exist. Things were complicated before, his rash, his trust, that damn towel. Now, with his taste on my lips, his warmth pressed against my side, I’d made it ten times worse.

“We should hang out more,” he said, his voice low, his hand brushing mine, warm and tentative. “Before you go.”

“Yeah,” I said, meeting his eyes, my annoyance softening under the weight of his gaze. “We should.”

He shifted closer, his head resting against mine, and we watched in silence, the movie’s soft music filling the room, but as my eyes grew heavy, his breathing slow and steady beside me, we drifted off together, tangled in his bed, the fragile thing we’d built holding us for just a little longer.