It starts at the gym.
Marc doesn't go there to hunt--not really--but he knows how he looks in a tank top. Sweat clinging to his pecs, veins bulging across his forearms, that thick cut of ass in snug compression shorts. He's not subtle. He doesn't have to be.
That's when he spots him:
Tall, tan, early 20s. Lacrosse build. Big hands. Big dick energy.
New face. New meat.
Marc watches the boy curl a barbell, lip between his teeth, those biceps thickening with each rep. There's a little redness in his cheeks--he's noticed Marc watching. And now he keeps glancing over.
---
Ryan's struggling to keep his composure as he does his reps. He's increasingly sure the hunky DILF is checking him out - not-so-subtly. Eyeing him with a gaze that's calm. Self-assured. Presdatory.
Is he really looking at me?
Shit, he is. And he's not even trying to hide it.
Ryan's pulse kicks up. He curls another rep, suddenly hyper-aware of every bead of sweat, every flex.
God, don't trip over your own dick, Ryan.
---
Marc waits until he catches his eye again. Smirks. Rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, slow and deliberate, like he's tasting him already.
The boy stumbles on a rep, spasming just slightly.
Perfect.
Marc strolls over, towel slung around his neck, casual as anything. That cocky little half-laugh already playing on his lips.
"You're new here," he says, voice low, gruff, *friendly*. "You play something?"
"Uh--lacrosse," the boy says, flushing. "At State."
Marc lets his eyes roam. Up. Down. Not even pretending to be shy. He *likes* the way the boy fidgets under the attention.
"Figures," he mutters. "You've got that... *recruiting catalog* look."
He lets that hang. Watches the boy squirm.
And then--*like a switch*--he leans in just a bit closer. Drops his voice.
"Tell me, hotshot. You get hard when older men check you out in the gym, or am I just the exception?"
The boy's face *blazes*. He opens his mouth--some kind of protest maybe--but Marc's already brushing a hand down his arm, letting the calloused pads of his fingers trail slow over young, eager muscle.
"I've got a shower at my place," Marc adds, casual, cocky, already turning like it's not a question. "If you're smart, you'll follow me."
And of course, he *does*.
---
Ryan follows Marc out of the gym like he's in a trance.
The air outside is cool, but sweat clings to Ryan's shirt. His cheeks are still flushed from the workout--and maybe something more. He keeps his eyes low as they walk, trailing half a step behind Marc like he can't decide if he wants to stare at the man's broad back or bolt the other direction.
Marc doesn't say much. He doesn't *need* to. That same cocky smirk rides his lips as he unlocks the truck, as he slides in with a grunt and a stretch that makes his abs flex under his tank. He watches Ryan fumble into the passenger seat like some flustered freshman.
They drive in silence for a minute.
Then Marc hums.
"You always follow strange men home after practice?"
Ryan shifts in his seat, clearly flustered. "You're not a stranger. I mean. Not *really*."
"Oh?" Marc grins lazily, eyes on the road, but shooting Ryan a snide side-eye. "Do tell."
Ryan fidgets. "I've seen you before. Around. You always--uh--you wear those really tight... like..."
Marc barks a laugh. "Say it."
Ryan swallows. "You've got a fat ass, man."
Marc flashes a wink. "Good boy."
Ryan's breath hitches.
Marc notices.
"You like being teased, huh?" he murmurs. "You gonna fall apart the second I take my shirt off?"
Ryan doesn't answer, but the bulge in his gym shorts does.
Marc just laughs again, low and knowing.
"You're gonna be fun."
---
The drive is only ten minutes, but Marc stretches it out.
He lounges in the driver's seat like he owns the world--one hand draped loose over the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. Just close enough to the thick ridge of cock pressed up against the inside of his gym shorts. The fabric is tight. Deliberate. His bulge shifts every time he shifts gears, flexes his thigh, spreads his legs wider.
Ryan tries not to look. He fails.
Marc smirks when he catches him glancing down for the fourth time.
"You nervous, pup?"
Ryan clears his throat. "I--no. Just... it's a small car."
Marc chuckles. "Uh huh."
He adjusts his grip on the wheel. Which just so happens to make his chest flex under his thin tank top, the deep ridge between his pecs catching the light from the dashboard. Sweat still clings in the creases. The scent of him--clean, musky, male--fills the cabin.
"You always this twitchy around hot guys, or is it just me?"
Ryan stifles a squeak, dropping his head back against the seat. His shorts are tenting obscenely now. There's no hiding it.
Play it cool, come on, play it--fuck, is he flexing on purpose?
You're already hard. You're basically wagging your tail like a golden retriever.
He stares out the window, trying to will his dick into behaving. No luck.
Marc grins.
"Relax, kid. It's a compliment. I *like* making boys squirm."
His hand shifts again. Fingers brushing slowly along the thick length in his lap. Not touching. Just teasing. Making sure Ryan *sees* it.
"You wanna taste it before we get inside?" he asks, casual as anything.
Ryan makes a soft, helpless sound.
Marc chuckles, low and wicked.
"That's what I thought."
---
Marc doesn't rush when they get to his place.
He parks slow. Stretches long. Makes a show of climbing out of the truck, arms raised overhead, tank riding up to flash a slice of lower abs. His ass, already obscene in those tight shorts, *bounces* as he lands.
Ryan practically stumbles out of the passenger side.
He's flushed, sweating, painfully hard. Every part of him screams *ready*. But Marc just strolls up the walk, glancing back once with a smirk.
"You coming, or you gonna hump the driveway?"
Ryan jogs to catch up.
Marc unlocks the front door with deliberate slowness. Pushes it open, steps inside, then pauses--just for a second--to give his hips a little roll. Just enough for his ass to wiggle.
Ryan makes a strangled sound behind him.
Marc grins.
"Shoes off," he says, kicking his own to the side. "Don't want you slipping when you're drooling all over the floor."
Ryan swallows hard, eyes locked on Marc's back as he leads the way in--every step a slow, teasing sway. Marc's house smells like leather and sweat and something warm and clean beneath. The lights are low. The air is thick.
"You hot, pup?" Marc calls over his shoulder, voice rich and amused.
Ryan nods, then remembers Marc can't see him. "Yeah. Fuck. I--yeah."
Marc stops in the hallway, finally turning to face him.
"Good," he says, voice dropping. "I like 'em hot."
