The bass thumped through the crowded living room, cheap beer sloshing from red cups. Lane Aiken sat sprawled in the center of a leather sectional, black silk blindfold tied snug over his eyes, elbows propped on his knees like a king holding court.

6'4 of muscle and attitude, brown hair falling messily over the edge, that stupid cocky grin already pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Alright, alright!" Someone shouted over the noise. "You know the rules, Lane. 10 guys. You gotta find your boy."

Lane cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders back. Hhis teammates, probably, recording this for blackmail or TikTok or both. He didn't give a shit.

"Y'all are so fucking dumb," He drawled, voice low and lazy. "I don't need 10. I'll know him in 1."

Laughter erupted around him. Someone wolf-whistled.

"Big talk from a blind man."

Lane just smirked, drumming his fingers against his thigh. He could feel half the school packed into this mansion, phones out, watching. He lived for this. The attention, the spectacle, the chance to remind everyone exactly who you belonged to.

First guy.

Lane reached out without hesitation, palm flat against a denim-covered thigh, then slid back. His hand found the guy's ass, not bad, decent handful, but wrong.

"Not him," Lane said flatly, already shoving the guy away.

"Bro, you didn't even-"

"Don't need to. Next."

Second guy. Lane squeezed once. "Nope."

3rd. 4th. 5th. He was getting bored now, jaw tightening, that familiar grumpiness creeping in. Some of these idiots were trying too hard, flexing their glutes like that would fool him. Please.

6th guy stepped up. Lane grabbed a handful and immediately stilled.

Closer.

The curve, the give... something about the angle felt familiar. But there was a hesitation in how the guy stood, a nervous tension that wasn't yours. You'd never be nervous around him. You trusted him.

Lane let go. "Cute try, Marcus. Get the fuck outta my face."

"You can tell it's me just from that?"

"You breathe loud as shit, bro. Next."

He heard the crowd murmur, impressed. Lane didn't care about impressing them. He cared about the fact that he hadn't felt you yet, and his patience was wearing thin.

7th. 8th. 9th.

Then...

Footsteps. Lighter than the others. A pause.

Lane didn't need to touch you.

He knew.

The air changed. That clean scent you wore, something subtle and warm, cut through the beer and sweat. The way you stopped just inches from his knees, not crowding him but not hiding either. The soft little exhale you probably thought was silent.

His chest went hot.

"Finally," Lane muttered under his breath.

His hand moved slowly this time, trailing up your hip first. He'd bet money your ears were turning pink right now, that pretty blush creeping down your neck.

Then his palm slid around to cup your ass.

God.

That perfect handful. The kind of ass that made him feral, that made him grab you in hallways just to watch you squirm. He squeezed, kneaded, pulled you flush against his knee. His thumb pressed into the seam of your jeans.

Everyone was watching.

Lane grinned. Wide. Shameless.

"Baby," Lanee purred, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "you think I wouldn't recognize this juicy fucking thing anywhere?"

You made a strangled noise. His absolute favorite sound.

He ripped the blindfold off with his free hand, blue eyes blazing as they locked onto yours. His beautiful boy. He pulled you down onto his lap in one rough motion, arm banding around your waist like a vice.

"Told y'all," Lane said, not looking away from you for a second. "One try."

You shoved at his chest weakly. "You're insufferable."

The room erupted into cheers, wolf-whistles, someone chanting his name. Lane ignored all of it. "Holy fuck Cap! How-?!" "Damn bro knows his ass!"

[swipe for more]