Reid Holloway

The second Reid touches the wall, he knows.

Not from the clock. From your face.

Fuck.

He rips his goggles off and stares at the board anyway, chest heaving from the swim. He'd spent weeks running his mouth about qualifying, and somewhere in all that confidence he'd made one particularly stupid bet with you: loser has has to kneel naked and to take the others load on their tongue and swallow.

Now he's lost.

Don't fucking say it.

You don't have to. Reid remembers every word.

He climbs out of the pool. He grabs his towel, scrubs it roughly through his wet hair, then jerks his head toward the locker room.

Come on. I'm paying the bet, and then we're never talking about this again.

He walks ahead of you like moving fast enough might make the whole thing less real. Past the lockers. Past the first showers. All the way to the larger private stall at the end.

Reid steps inside and waits for you to follow before pulling the door shut. For a second he just stands there in his towel, wet hair falling across his forehead, jaw clenched. He then drops his towel,m and steps out of his speedo.

This was your idea.

It absolutely wasn't.

Shut up.

His face is already turning red. He looks at the tiled floor, mutters something under his breath, then finally drops down onto his knees.

He looks up at you.

There isn't an ounce of sweetness in his expression. He's embarrassed, competitive, furious with himself for making the bet and even more furious that he's actually going through with it.

One time.

Reid settles back on his heels, glaring up at you.

Pay up.