Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (13 page)

The sight of Fergus’s gaze, so full of trust, tore something apart inside John. He didn’t deserve that look, or the key to this flat, even for one night. This man was too good for him.

He slowed to a stop, but when he pulled out, Fergus grasped his thighs and said, “I want to swallow you, every drop.”

John stared down at him, transfixed and uncertain. Fergus took him firmly in hand and began to work his shaft with an expert touch, fitting the curve of his thumb against the sensitive ridge beneath John’s head. The pressure built within John again, until he finally relented. Fergus’s lips welcomed him back inside.

The rough edges of the headboard dug into John’s palms as the pleasure spiraled to heights so dizzying he nearly toppled over. He shoved aside all thoughts but
fuck his mouth till I come, fuck his mouth till I come, fuck his mouth till I—

At the moment of, John froze, feeling his own flood hit the back of Fergus’s throat and return to soak his cock, making each shot more intense than the last. His groans turned deeper, louder, until he had no more breath for sound.

Finally, knees weakened, he withdrew. But again, Fergus wouldn’t let him go more than an inch away. He held onto John’s hips, looked up at him, and stuck out his cum-drenched tongue. Then he drew John forward, plowing his cock through the creamy layer.

“God…” It was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen. He eased himself in and out of Fergus’s mouth, which was warmer and wetter than ever, until the last shadows of his orgasm faded away. Then he sat back on Fergus’s stomach, utterly drained.

Fergus finally swallowed, smiling. He drew a finger over his lips and chin, then sucked it clean. “Mmm. So you got the red curry too. It’s good, aye?”

“How did you—you can taste it in my cum?”

“Sure.” When John blinked at him in amazement, Fergus laughed and added, “No, I saw the receipt on the kitchen table. You’re a gullible one tonight.”

“You—och, ya wee tricksy bastard, I swear to God, I’ll—” John gave Fergus’s hair a playful tug. “I would tell you to suck my wally, but that’s already been sorted.”

“You’re welcome.” Fergus licked his lips. “Speaking of curry, I’m starving.”

= = =

Fergus’s nightmare of a workday felt like a year ago. His exhaustion and crankiness had been thoroughly banished by John’s mouth and hands and…everything.

They dressed (minimally) and settled on the sitting-room floor for a curry at the coffee table, as the occasion seemed too cozy and romantic for the kitchen. John had his second helping while Fergus ate his own first helping, washed down by a ginger Thai beer John had bought on impulse at the takeaway. The food and drink and the aftermath of orgasm made Fergus’s head buzz with ecstatic contentment.

“Your work is stunning.” John gestured with his bottle to the corner shelf’s display of salvage art.

Fergus’s face warmed under John’s admiring eyes, making him drop his own gaze into his tom yum soup. “I love turning old bits and bobs into something useful or attractive.” He stirred the soup around his favorite secondhand china bowl, the one with the chipped edge and the hidden dragon at the bottom. “It’s a great challenge, not to mention the ultimate in recycling.”

“What’s the story with that bell above the shelf? It’s not one of yours.”

Fergus glanced up at the ponderous, spiky-edged bronze wind-bell. “It’s from a place called Arcosanti in Arizona. There was this visionary architect who started a self-sustaining eco-city in the middle of the desert. Sort of a utopia, I guess. The design was ambitious, but it totally failed as a town. Now it’s just a wee artist’s commune and education center. I keep that bell hanging there as a reminder to be realistic.”

“Oh, that’s no fun. Let’s chuck it off the balcony.” John’s eyes popped wide. “It’ll make the most realistic sound when it hits the pavement.”

“Especially if it hits a pedestrian.”

“Yaldy!”

Fergus laughed as he wiped his mouth. “When I said ‘realistic,’ I didn’t mean as in ‘giving up.’ I meant staying in touch with the world. See, the problem with Arcosanti is that it sits by itself and expects people to come to it. What we need are sustainable communities built where people already live.” He risked a small confession of a big dream. “I’d love to build one here that working-class families could afford.”

“Have you dealt with the local housing authority? They’ve the collective IQ of a sewer rat but with fewer morals.”

“I know, it drives me mad. The people of Glasgow are so clever and energetic, but they’re hamstrung by city government eejits.”

“Aye, I’d like to fix that.”

“What do you mean?”

John shrugged, keeping his eyes on his plate. “I’ve got this daft dream of running for public office one day.”

“Like City Council?”

“Or Parliament.”

“Wow.” Fergus wasn’t sure how to react.

“I know.” John plowed his chopsticks through a mound of saffron rice. “Confessing political ambition is a poor way to impress a guy on a second date. You probably think I’m a manipulative, power-hungry bawbag.”

Not anymore.
“No, I think you want to make a difference. So do I. Maybe one day you can order the housing authority to let me build my eco-village.”

“It would take an emperor to order that.” John rotated his plate, brows furrowed in thought. “But you know what? Some of New Shores’ asylum seekers are housed in this godawful block of flats in north Glasgow. They’d be a good test population for your idea. They’re new here, so they’re not yet attached to a certain part of the city or way of life.”

“That would be brilliant.”

“Oh! And then?” John smacked his hand on the table. “When other social-housing Glaswegians see your sustainable community thing, they’ll want it too. They’ll be like, ‘Why do immigrants get special treatment?’ Harness their envy, and you’ve got yourself a movement.”

Fergus felt a rush of hope, though possibly it was just endorphins from the curry spices. “How would I convince city government to let me do this?”

“You need the people behind you. And for that, you need to be famous.”

“I’m not famous.”

“You will be after this charity match. Gorgeous young gay football captain with a vision for a better Glasgow, a better Scotland, a better world.” He pointed his chopsticks at Fergus. “You’re the face of tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to be the face of anything.” Fergus put a hand to his churning stomach. “Besides, I told you I don’t want this match to be a spectacle. I don’t want to portray us as a struggling gay football club.”

“But you
are
a struggling gay football club. A ragtag band of plucky lads and lasses who’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“Sounds like a Hollywood script.” Fergus didn’t mean that as a compliment.

“It could be one day. They made a movie of
The Damned United
.”

“
The Damned United
was a book first, about a team the world already knew.”

“And the world will know you.” John’s foot nudged his under the coffee table. “If you let them.”

Fergus dearly wanted to change the subject but didn’t want John to stop looking at him like that.

“Forgive me for bringing this up while we’re eating,” he said, “but…did you fancy what you did to me earlier? In bed, I mean.”

“Of course, else I wouldn’t do it.” John tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, not everyone does. Fancy it, that is.”

“Evan didn’t?”

Fergus’s throat threatened to close at the sound of his ex’s name from John’s mouth. Over the last sixty-something days, Evan had become He Who Must Not Be Named among Fergus’s mates.

But he realized now that avoiding the name only gave Evan more power. He wasn’t an evil wizard, he was just a man—a foolish man living in Belgium, which had been enjoying unseasonably warm weather this summer (not that Fergus had added Brussels to his phone’s weather app or anything).

“No, he—Evan didn’t like it,” Fergus said. “He made a gallant effort once or twice, but said it wasn’t something he was comfortable with. Giving or receiving.”

“Even after a thorough shower?”

“Even then.”

“What a fanny.” John poked through his takeaway carton until he found a prawn. “When I think of the way he left you, I want to jab these chopsticks into his eyeballs. But I also want to buy him a thank-you gift for making you available. I’m a selfish wee cunt, so I am.”

“Selfish but sweet.”

A grin broke over John’s face. “Okay, here’s what you do, see. One day, a month or a year from now when Evan comes crawling back, begging forgiveness—and you know he will—tell him you’ll take him back on one condition.”

“He gives me a rim job?”

“Exactly. And then before you meet him for this heroic arse-licking extravaganza, you eat a giant fucking bean burrito. So just as he’s down there, ready to give it a go to win you back, you let rip the biggest, most lethal fart of your entire life. Then you chuck him out the door naked, weeping from the fumes.”

Fergus was nearly in tears himself, he was laughing so hard at the thought. “And what’ll you do while I’m carrying out this sweet payback?”

“Hide in the wardrobe and take video. There must be some vengeance-porn site I could submit it to.”

“You wouldn’t care if I had a fake hookup with my ex?”

“Not if it were for the sake of justice.”

Fergus tried to sound casual as he asked, “Are you, erm, currently, you know, seeing anyone else? It’s okay if you are,” he hurried to add, even though it wasn’t okay.

“I’ve had university, an internship, and my dad. When would I find time to see anyone?”

“You find time to see me.”

“Then you must be special.” He bobbed his eyebrows at Fergus as he twisted the cap off another bottle of beer. Then he took a long gulp, wiped his mouth with the side of his hand, and tucked into his meal with more enthusiasm than ever.

Fergus tried to eat too, but a knot had formed in his stomach.
Just let it go
, he told himself.
He implied he’s not seeing anyone else.

But John hadn’t
said
it. Perhaps he’d chosen his words to avoid an outright lie, like a politician would.

Fergus opened his mouth to ask again, then realized how pathetic and possessive he’d seem. Perhaps he could reboot the conversation with, “I’m not seeing anyone else either. Isn’t that lovely?” But that fact was awkwardly obvious.

John set down his beer. “Did I tell you, one of my dad’s mates got caught out smuggling a can of Tennent’s into the hospital?”

Fergus shook his head, knowing the moment for answers had passed. As John embarked on the amusing story, Fergus decided to take a holiday from his own paranoia. He would simply enjoy the time they had together, rather than try to engineer some mythical safe, perfect relationship.

For now.

F
ERGUS
WAS
LOST
.

Not only lost in infatuation—though the last eighteen hours at the beach, in bed, and everywhere in between had made his brain hazy at the mere thought of John—but also, currently, lost in conversation.

He’d brought John to his favorite Saturday-night dance club to meet Colin and Liam, and the three Glaswegians had hit it off so well, Fergus could no longer follow what they were saying. Between the techno music pumping from the speakers and their rapid, tag-word-riddled speech, it was like hearing a melted vinyl record played backward at 45 rpm.

“This yin’s my favorite, see.” Colin handed over his phone to show them a porn Tumblr called Black, White and Gay All Over. “The lad who does it—”
something-something-something
“—similar aesthetic—”
something-something
“—facials and threesomes.”

“Quality, mate!” John shouted as he scrolled through the pics and animated gifs. “Ooh, tasteful.” He lifted the phone to show Fergus an animated gif. It featured two naked men having sex, but the camera was zoomed in to show them only from the chest up. As their bodies shifted, their gazes remained locked in passion. He met John’s eyes, which glinted with promise.

The fact they’d not yet fucked seemed both a miracle and a tragedy. Fergus didn’t want to rush things, not after the mishap that took place their first night together, and not when “taking things slow” provided so many erotic adventures.

“But there’s nae videos on this,” Liam said, pointing a thick, freckled finger at the phone. “After a certain point in one’s life, mere photos—”
something-something-something
“—insufficient—”
something.

John passed Colin’s phone back to him. “The problem with Tumblr videos is, the sound quality’s pure inconsistent.” John’s booming voice, along with a slight softening of the techno music, allowed Fergus to hear this part. “You watch an amateur video, and it’s pure faint, so you turn up the volume to hear the moanin’ and all.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “Aye! And then you go and click on a professional video—”

“AND IT’S THIS FUCKIN’ LOUD!” the three of them shouted together. Cackling and hooting, they raised their pint glasses.

Fergus joined their toast to pornographic eardrum bombardment. “You know, you could simply mute the videos.”

John stared up at him, scandalized. “Oh lad, if you don’t know by now how I fancy sex noises, you’ve not been paying attention.”

The others whooped and laughed. Colin jabbed Fergus in the side. “Our Captain Taylor’s a loud yin, then, John?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Liam said, “that make the biggest racket in bed.”

As Colin and Liam emitted exultations of ecstasy, Fergus leaned down to speak in John’s ear. “I’ll get you for that.”

John put his arm around Fergus’s waist, his thumb slipping up under his shirt. “I cannae wait to get got.”

Fergus gazed down at John, wanting to drag him back out onto the dance floor, feel their bodies sway and grind together, melded by rhythm and sweat.

“So this charity match,” Colin said to Fergus. “Who’re we playing?”

“Got a message from Charlotte today.” As the music pumped louder again, Fergus raised his voice and leaned closer to the others. “She’s having trouble finding an opponent. They claim schedule conflicts, but Charlotte says, and I quote, ‘No one likes to beat a bunch of fairies and lasses—or worse, get beaten
by
them.’”