My Boyfriend’s Handsome Teammate - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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I agonized over my outfit for what felt like hours—finally landing on a corset top and a mini skirt that stopped traffic wherever I went.
Let's be real: I lived for the way men's eyes followed me down the street, their stunned stares fueling my confidence.
But I swear, I didn't plan on seducing my boyfriend's teammates.
Then I walked into their shared apartment and saw them—towering, sculpted basketball players, muscles flexing as they lounged around the living room. My resolve? Gone in an instant.
Turns out, I'd severely overestimated my self-control around men.
My boyfriend, blissfully unaware of my internal meltdown, started introductions.
"This is Dominic Roland, our forward." Dominic stood at least 6'3", all dark skin and hard muscle, his frame barely contained by his tight athletic shorts.
No surprise there—basketball players were built different.
Tilting my head back to take him in, my mind immediately wandered to other ways he might be built.
"Marcus Evans, our center. Best shooter on the team." Marcus had thighs thick enough to crush a watermelon—and the kind of smirk that suggested he was just as deadly off the court.
Best shooter. My brain latched onto that detail like a lifeline, conjuring up images I had no business entertaining.
Why? Why did I have to be surrounded by walking Greek gods the second my thoughts took a filthy turn?
I barely processed the rest of the introductions. My body was buzzing, my thoughts spiraling, my knees practically weak with want.
Then the bathroom door swung open.
Steam rolled out first, followed by an even taller, broader man—shirtless, water still glistening on his skin.
"That's Nathan Lowell, our captain. Oh, and he owns that new gourmet hot dog stand near campus."
My brain short-circuited. "Really? I tried it yesterday! His hot dog was so… big—I mean, his stand's hot dogs are amazing!"
My boyfriend, still clueless, kept talking while five pairs of eyes raked over me—lingering on my chest, my thighs, the very obvious fact that I wasn't wearing anything under my skirt.
But I was too far gone to care. A month of pent-up desire, and now five elite athletes stood before me, radiating pure testosterone. The fact that I hadn't jumped one of them yet was a miracle.
My boyfriend set down beer crates. "You're sweating. Want to shower first? Then we can all have drinks."
I nodded way too fast, bolting for the bathroom like my life depended on it.
Once inside, I collapsed onto the toilet and glanced down.
Yep. Almost a catastrophe.
Was I really this much of a lost cause?
After a rushed shower, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to snap out of it—until I spotted a pair of athletic shorts (and the briefs beside them) hanging on a hook.
Nathan's.
The sheer size of them sent my imagination into overdrive. Water sluicing over his chest, his abs, his—
Before I could stop myself, I pressed my face into the fabric and inhaled.
SMACK!
A sharp sting exploded across my backside.
I whirled around—and came face-to-face with Nathan.
Let's be real: I lived for the way men's eyes followed me down the street, their stunned stares fueling my confidence.
But I swear, I didn't plan on seducing my boyfriend's teammates.
Then I walked into their shared apartment and saw them—towering, sculpted basketball players, muscles flexing as they lounged around the living room. My resolve? Gone in an instant.
Turns out, I'd severely overestimated my self-control around men.
My boyfriend, blissfully unaware of my internal meltdown, started introductions.
"This is Dominic Roland, our forward." Dominic stood at least 6'3", all dark skin and hard muscle, his frame barely contained by his tight athletic shorts.
No surprise there—basketball players were built different.
Tilting my head back to take him in, my mind immediately wandered to other ways he might be built.
"Marcus Evans, our center. Best shooter on the team." Marcus had thighs thick enough to crush a watermelon—and the kind of smirk that suggested he was just as deadly off the court.
Best shooter. My brain latched onto that detail like a lifeline, conjuring up images I had no business entertaining.
Why? Why did I have to be surrounded by walking Greek gods the second my thoughts took a filthy turn?
I barely processed the rest of the introductions. My body was buzzing, my thoughts spiraling, my knees practically weak with want.
Then the bathroom door swung open.
Steam rolled out first, followed by an even taller, broader man—shirtless, water still glistening on his skin.
"That's Nathan Lowell, our captain. Oh, and he owns that new gourmet hot dog stand near campus."
My brain short-circuited. "Really? I tried it yesterday! His hot dog was so… big—I mean, his stand's hot dogs are amazing!"
My boyfriend, still clueless, kept talking while five pairs of eyes raked over me—lingering on my chest, my thighs, the very obvious fact that I wasn't wearing anything under my skirt.
But I was too far gone to care. A month of pent-up desire, and now five elite athletes stood before me, radiating pure testosterone. The fact that I hadn't jumped one of them yet was a miracle.
My boyfriend set down beer crates. "You're sweating. Want to shower first? Then we can all have drinks."
I nodded way too fast, bolting for the bathroom like my life depended on it.
Once inside, I collapsed onto the toilet and glanced down.
Yep. Almost a catastrophe.
Was I really this much of a lost cause?
After a rushed shower, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to snap out of it—until I spotted a pair of athletic shorts (and the briefs beside them) hanging on a hook.
Nathan's.
The sheer size of them sent my imagination into overdrive. Water sluicing over his chest, his abs, his—
Before I could stop myself, I pressed my face into the fabric and inhaled.
SMACK!
A sharp sting exploded across my backside.
I whirled around—and came face-to-face with Nathan.
End of My Boyfriend’s Handsome Teammate Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to My Boyfriend’s Handsome Teammate book page.