Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (17 page)

Fergus fumed in silence as long as he could stand it—about fifteen seconds. Then he got up and stalked out of the ballroom.

He’d made it halfway across the lobby when John called his name behind him. He caught up to Fergus in front of the lifts.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Fergus shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t get it, do you? I agreed to do this match on one condition—that I’d take part in the planning. Yet you and Charlotte cut me out of the loop about the venue.”

“We didn’t want to bother you with every wee detail.”

“The place where we play is not a wee detail! Was it because you knew I’d object? Because you knew that to fill even a tenth of Firhill we’d have to do some ridiculous, campy promotional drive I would hate?”

John scratched the back of his neck. “Well, we didn’t use the word ‘ridiculous’.”

“Look, I know this is a good cause. That doesn’t make it easier to go out and pimp our queerness for the media. It still makes us prostitutes.”

“Not prostitutes. No one’s shagging you. You’re more like—like—” John fumbled for a moment. “Like strippers.”

For once, John’s humor stoked Fergus’s anger instead of quelling it. “You’re unbelievable.” He smacked the button for the lift, missing on the first try. The door opened with a ding.

John followed him into the lift. “Fergus, please stop seething for a second and imagine how—” He cut himself off as an elderly couple joined them. “Hiya,” he said to them with a wide smile. “Which floor?”

“Eight, please.” The lady looked up at Fergus, then down over his tuxedo kilt. “You lads look very handsome tonight.”

Fergus tried to return her smile, but his face felt gripped by rictus.

“Aww, you’re a star,” John said to her with an ease that amazed Fergus. “That frock is magnificent. Wherever did you get it?”

As John and the woman chatted, Fergus gripped the lift’s brass railing and stared at the gold-and-red carpet between the toes of his ghillie brogues. Tonight was meant to be romantic. Now he didn’t know how he could look at John after this betrayal of trust.
 

At the eighth floor, John wished the couple goodnight, then turned back to Fergus the moment the door closed, continuing as if they’d never been interrupted. “Imagine how fun this match could be for the Warriors. Do you think any of them are content playing for a poor, obscure club? Youse haven’t even got merchandise.”

“But we’ve got our dignity. No money or fifteen minutes of Internet fame is worth losing that.”

“That’s all you want out of life, to be spared indignity? A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

Fergus stared at him, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. “What?”

The door dinged again, opening at the ninth floor, where a pair of giggling young ten-year-old lasses charged inside and flattened themselves against the mirrored wall. “Fifteen!” one of them shout-whispered at John.

He raised an eyebrow at them. “Where are your parents?”

Fergus reached past him and slapped the button marked 15. When the door slid shut, the girls gave a loud cheer, then began singing the new Katy Perry song, bumping the sides of their hips together.

“Someone’s had too much sugar,” John told them.

Looking at John’s wry grin and animated eyes, Fergus thought back on the evening, how John had charmed the pants off complete strangers. Was he himself a target of that charisma? Was John using him to get this charity match done, to make himself look good, put another accomplishment on his resume? It’s what politicians did. Perhaps after the match, John would ditch him, declare it all nothing but a lark.

Then again, a meaningless good time might be exactly what Fergus needed. It would be insane to jump into another relationship so soon after Evan’s departure. If he couldn’t undo that heartbreak, at least he could learn from it—never get emotionally attached, never set himself up for lies and betrayal. He needed to take his fun where he could get it.

Finally the door opened upon their floor. Fergus stalked out, pivoting left into their hallway.

John hurried to keep up. “I’m sorry I said that, about sparing you indignity. I only meant that I understand how humiliated you must have felt when Evan left.”

A wave of hot rage swept over Fergus. “This is not about him!”

“Isn’t it? I see the fear in your eyes every time we bring up the match. Fear of being talked about, laughed at. Fear of being pitied!”

Fergus reached their door and jammed the room key into the slot. “I only want what’s right for the Warriors.” The lock light glowed red, so he stabbed the key in again. “How dare you accuse me of putting my own feelings before the good of the team?” Another red light. He shook the door handle, feeling the blood surge over his face and scalp. “What the fuck is wrong with this place?”

“Fergus, love.” John’s voice and hand were steady as he took the key, flipped it over, and inserted it into the slot. The light glowed green and the lock clicked free. “Gonnae let’s sit down and talk about it?”

“No.” Fergus pushed open the door, then reached back to seize John by the front of his waistcoat. He yanked him inside the room and shoved him against the wall. “No more talking.”

W
RISTS
PINNED
TO
the wall beside his head, mouth crushed by Fergus’s merciless kiss, John felt mostly relief. They’d survived their first fight. Fergus wasn’t walking out—not yet, at least.

John had been stunned by the intensity of Fergus’s dismay over Charlotte’s text. Firhill Stadium was meant to be a happy surprise, a way to jump-start the Warriors’ excitement for the charity match. Instead, it seemed to have triggered a meltdown.

“Don’t move,” Fergus growled as he let go to undo John’s tie. “Don’t even look at me.”

John kept his hands up and his gaze down as Fergus undid his tie, waistcoat, and shirt, every movement fast and rough. Fine. If this was how Fergus wanted it, if this was how he took back the power he felt he’d lost, then John would play along. He’d enjoy every fucking moment.

When all the buttons were undone, Fergus seemed to realize he couldn’t remove John’s clothes while his hands were still up. “Turn around.”

“But you said not to m—”

“Turn. Around. Now.” Fergus loomed over him, eyes blazing.

“All right, then.” Fighting back a grin, he faced the wall. Fergus pulled John’s arms behind his back, then peeled away his jacket and waistcoat. As his shirt started to come off, John said, “Mind the cufflinks.”

“Fuck, I forgot. I mean, shut up! Don’t talk to me.”

John bit his lip to hold in his laughter as Fergus knelt and fumbled with the silver cufflinks, then removed John’s shoes and socks. If there was ever an outfit
not
designed to be stripped off in haste, it was a tuxedo kilt.

But when Fergus rid John of his shirt, then moved close behind him to grasp his bare waist and bite his neck, John stopped laughing. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to the wall, savoring every hot breath on his nape, every strong finger on his skin. He’d never seen this side of Fergus before, the side that took what he wanted, the side that no doubt came to life on the pitch fighting for the ball, shoving aside anyone who dared think him weak.

John fancied this side.

Breathing hard, Fergus stepped back to tear off his own clothes—all but the kilt, John hoped. He stayed where he was against the wall, arms up and legs spread. Waiting.

A harsh tug at his belt made him gasp. Fergus removed John’s sporran and tossed it aside. Beneath his kilt, John’s cock sprang up in relief at the sudden freedom.

Dragging his mouth down John’s spine, Fergus reached beneath the scarlet-tartan kilt. One hand cupped John’s balls from behind while the other wrapped around his cock from the front. The rush of sensations was nearly painful, as if John’s nerves and blood vessels had constricted around their swelling contents. He scrabbled at the wall as he was stroked, until he feared his nails would tear a hole in the wallpaper.

Finally Fergus let go, then spun John to face him again. He pressed close, and John’s pulse raced faster at the heat between their bare chests and the pressure between their kilted thighs. With his mouth at John’s ear he said, “Tell me you want to fuck me.”

God, yes.
“I want to fuck you, Fergus. I’m gonnae fuck you.”

“Aye, you will.” Fergus seized John’s shoulders and pressed down hard. “But first you’ll get on your knees and suck me.”

John dropped to the floor with an eager grunt of assent, only to discover Fergus was too tall for his mouth to reach. “Slight problem…” he said, trying not to laugh.

“Stay.” Fergus went to sit on the end of the bed, where he toed off his unlaced shoes. He kept his eyes on John as he peeled his stockings from his muscular calves, tossing aside the wee knife, which clattered against the wall beside the bed. Raising the front of his dark kilt to reveal his rigid red cock, he said, “Now crawl to me.”

John’s mouth watered at the sight, and at the commanding tone in Fergus’s voice. He looked down at the hem of his own kilt, crushed beneath his knees.

What the hell, it’s only a rental.
John crawled over to Fergus, who was now at the perfect height. Rising up onto his knees, John wrapped both hands, one atop the other, around the warm, stiff shaft.

Fergus’s legs tensed around John. “Yes…”

My thoughts exactly.
John eased Fergus’s foreskin up and down, admiring the disappearance and reappearance of the slick pink head.

Fergus threaded his fingers through John’s hair and pulled him forward. “Give me your mouth.”

John eagerly obliged, devouring Fergus with tight lips and greedy tongue, provoking sounds of urgent pleasure. He slid a hand down to cup Fergus’s balls, pressing them up against the base of his shaft, one thumb working its way over every coarse inch. As he took Fergus deeper, John felt his own cock lift the material of his kilt. Still, he felt he could do this forever.

“Stop,” Fergus soon said, breathing hard. “Stand up.”

John did as he was told, since that seemed to be working out well for them thus far. “Shall I get the—”

“Yes. Now.”

John went to his bag for the lube and condoms. When he returned to the end of the bed, Fergus was already there on his hands and knees, his kilt flipped up to reveal his impossibly perfect, impossibly patient arse.

My God.
As John prepared himself, he noticed his own hands trembling, just as they had on that first night at Fergus’s flat. But this time there was no fear.

He began to stroke inside Fergus with one finger, then two. This was finally happening, and nothing could stop them. This hotel could burn to the ground right now, and they would burn with it.

He coaxed the tip of his cock against Fergus’s hole. For a moment he simply massaged it, relishing the feel of its outer contours.

Fergus squirmed. “For God’s sake, stop teasing and fuck me.”

“All right, all right.” John nudged his head inside, slow and smooth. Then he paused to let the sensations rocket to all corners of his being. So warm. So wet. So…tight.

Fergus’s toes curled behind John’s thighs, urging him forward. “More! C’mon, fuck my brains out.”

John wanted to listen to Fergus’s words, to sink himself fast and hard. But Fergus’s body was saying something different. The way it clenched him said it had been weeks, perhaps months, since it had last granted passage. More than that, his body said that deep inside, Fergus was still afraid of getting hurt.

John would not hurt him. Not again tonight, and never like this.

He draped his kilt forward to free both his hands, which then slid up to find Fergus’s waistband. His fingers tucked under it to get a solid grip on either side. Now he was in complete control.

Fergus tried to buck against him and found he couldn’t move. He gave a frustrated sigh. “What are you waiting for? I told you to fuck me.” His legs tensed, fighting the restraint. “I told you I want it all.”

“Stop,” John said through gritted teeth. He knew if he pointed out that Fergus needed to go slow, it would sound like pity. So he kept his voice strong and stern. “Gonnae no tell me what to do. You’re mine now, and I’ll have you the way I want you.”

Fergus went still, though his muscles were taut as ever.

Keeping a firm hold on the kilt’s waistband, John eased Fergus forward just a touch. “I’ve got you,” he said softly. Then he pulled Fergus back again, going no deeper than before. “See? I’ve got you.”

Fergus responded with a faint moan, but no words.

“Just let me,” John whispered. “Let me have you.” He moved Fergus forward and back again as slowly as possible. “That’s it. God, you feel so good.”

This was the utter truth. If the first inch of Fergus’s arse was any indication of the whole, it was just as well they were going slow. John would need time to adjust to this new paradise or risk coming far too soon.

It was more than the
feel
of it. The sight of their overlapping kilts, the bright red plaid upon the deep green, was filling the base of John’s shaft with the telltale heaviness that warned he was getting too close. So he shut his eyes and held still, to keep from ending this before it had barely begun.

John felt the precise moment when Fergus’s fear gave way to trust. He went heavy under John’s hands as his limbs loosened and his breath deepened.

And inside, he opened up, not just
letting
John in, but
drawing
him in. Together they sighed at the suddenly effortless union.

“Yes.” Fergus relaxed against him. “I’m yours.”

John stayed careful, lengthening each stroke by an indiscernible amount, until at last he was buried to the hilt, his shaft enveloped by this warm sheath that now clasped him with eagerness instead of dread. He stayed there for a long moment, panting, until he was sure of his self-control.

Then John began, with a slow, steady roll of his hips, moving this way and that, exploring every inch from every angle. Using his grip on the kilt’s waistband, he shifted Fergus’s arse as he sought the depth and rhythm that would bring this man all the pleasure he deserved.