It's all you can do to stay upright. Jack's hands remain firmly on your hips, pulling you down against him with each movement, while whines and whimpers tumble from your lips.
Your fingers dig into the meat of his back, a desperate grounding point as he fucks up into you. It's an entirely different sensation to Robby. Fuller, thicker, not quite as long. More assured.
Robby fucks like he wants to prove he's the best. Jack fucks like he knows he is.
"J-Jack, oh-" You manage, eyes rolling to the back of your head, catching sight of the other man, who remains seated in the chair across the room, giving nothing away.
It makes you pout a little, at his lack of reaction. Your entire career, for the past eighteen months, has been built on Robby's praise.
A 'good girl' tossed in your direction after each match. A more thorough congratulations in the hotel room afterwards. A whole world of rumours about which tennis player on the tour gave you that hickey on your neck.
Given that this had been his idea, you'd been expecting slightly more fanfare. Instead, his expression is neutral, aside from the occasional adjustment of his jeans, the only sign that he's in any way affected by the sight before him.
Jack notices the exchange. Because of course he does. Pace slowing, he pauses just long enough to suck a deep bruise onto your collarbone, eyes fixed on Robby the entire time. "I think our girl wants some attention from you, Michael. Feels like such a shame to not give the winner what she wants, no? Isn't that how you two do things around here?"
