Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (18 page)

Out of nowhere, Fergus’s moans pitched higher. “Yes! Oh God, yes. Just like that.”

“Like this?” John asked, partly to confirm he was doing it right, but mostly to hear Fergus say yes again.

“Yes. Yes! Harder. Ahhhh, fuck!” Fergus bunched the bedcovers in his fist, making his shoulder muscles bulge.

John gave himself over, going harder, faster, until he was pounding away at Fergus’s willing arse. He reveled in the sound of their bodies slapping, and in the sight of their kilts shifting. Clutching at the coarse material, he slammed Fergus back and forth to meet his jackhammering thrusts. Through it all, Fergus begged for more, more, more, until his arms gave way and he sagged forward, nearly sobbing with ecstasy.

John began to feel lightheaded, and he realized his face and chest were covered in sweat. He slowed to a stop. “Och, fucking in kilts is hot.”

“I know.” Fergus ground against him. “So fucking hot.”

“I mean literally. Also the other sort of hot, but—I’m taking these off now.” He undid his own buckles, unwrapped his kilt and let it drop to the floor, then did the same to Fergus’s.

“Probably best for the dry-cleaning bill as well.” Fergus glanced at John over his shoulder. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

As John laughed, he took a moment to gaze at Fergus’s face, flushed and eager. Suddenly it wasn’t enough to fuck him. He needed to hold him too. “Move up?”

Fergus shifted forward on the bed, then lay flat on his stomach, face against the pillow. John eased himself back inside—this time finding no resistance whatsoever—and carefully lay atop him.

He looped his arms under Fergus’s shoulders, then kissed his earlobe and whispered, “Hiya.”

“Hello.” Fergus laced the fingers of his left hand with John’s. “All right?”

“A wee bit short of breath.” John rested his cheek on Fergus’s shoulder, savoring this intimate press of flesh from head to toe, inside and out. He let his thumb drift through the sweat-damp waves of Fergus’s hair.

Fergus stirred beneath him. “I can feel your heart thumping through my back.”

“Aye?” John shimmied his hips. “Which organ are you feeling now?”

“Mmm, my favorite one.” He looked back with heavy-lidded eyes. “God, you’re amazing.”

John kissed him, still moving inside, still clutching Fergus’s hand. He wanted to be as amazing as Fergus made him feel. He wanted to erase the memories of Evan and kill the pain that bastard had left behind.

The only thing he wanted more was to never hurt Fergus himself.

John broke the kiss so he could breathe, and so Fergus could turn his face back to the pillow, which did little to muffle his moans. With every slow, gliding stroke, his hand tightened on John’s, fingers stretching and clenching. John pressed his forehead to Fergus’s shoulder blade, feeling their sweat mingle.

When the heat of skin on skin became more than he could bear, John returned to his hands and knees, lifting himself far enough to nearly withdraw. “Now you.” He bent forward and kissed Fergus’s nape. “Fuck my cock with your beautiful arse.”

Eagerly Fergus pumped his hips up and down, then round and round. John remained still, watching this gorgeous body undulate, the twin curves of Fergus’s bottom engulfing him again and again. Fergus’s thighs flexed and released, their movements sending ripples of pressure over John’s prick, combining with the swift, slick strokes until he thought he’d explode.

“Stop, stop,” John managed to say, not wanting this to end yet. As he gathered his breath, his fingers traced the valley of Fergus’s spine. “Tell me what you want.”

Fergus shifted his cheek on the pillow, blinking as he seemed to give the matter great thought. In this moment of contemplation, John thought he’d never looked more beautiful.

Finally Fergus said, “I want you to kiss me like you did that first night, when you took an hour to make me come. Do you remember?”

John remembered. He withdrew to let Fergus roll onto his back, then entered him again. They sighed in unison at their bodies’ reunion, even after such a brief interval. John lifted Fergus’s thighs, spreading them so he could push deeper inside. This was how he’d most often imagined them fucking, face to face, holding each other tight.

“Yes. That’s it.” Fergus wrapped his arms around John and gazed at him with a paralyzing intensity. “Now kiss me.”

John leaned forward, slipping his arms beneath Fergus’s shoulders. As their lips touched, ever so softly, he felt Fergus’s cock shift and stiffen between their bellies. It took every bit of control to move slowly, and to kiss with the same leisurely care he’d taken two weeks ago. But with each sweep of tongue and caress of breath, he could feel Fergus quivering beneath him, approaching orgasm.

At first John was surprised that after all the hard riding and slamming of bodies, it was this barest of touches sending Fergus toward the edge. But as he enclosed Fergus in his arms and felt his quivers turn to shudders, John was swamped with the moment’s trust and intimacy, and he suddenly understood—right now, Fergus wasn’t afraid.

“Oh John…yes. Don’t stop.” Fergus slipped a hand between them to grasp his cock. “Yes! John…oh.”

Keeping up his slow, deep rhythm, John watched Fergus’s face brighten with bliss. Though Fergus had been moaning and sighing nonstop for nearly an hour, he now released nothing but a soundless, rapturous howl, his eyes and mouth locked wide open.

Then, as his hot cum spilled between them, soaking their chests, Fergus let loose a half scream, half sob that climbed higher and higher. His body quaked from head to toe, and his arse clenched John’s cock with every pulse.

It was all John could take. He hooked his arms behind Fergus’s knees, gaining the deepest access yet. Planting his hands on the bed, he drove himself inside, faster and harder, as the final waves of Fergus’s orgasm crashed forward to meet his own.

It swept over him now, and John froze for a long moment, balls pressed tight against Fergus’s arse as they released the flood. A roar rose in his chest, then broke from his throat in a rippling crescendo.

Fergus reached up and clutched John’s shoulders, meeting his eyes and whispering his name one last time.

John let it all loose in rush after rush, keeping their gazes locked as long as he could. Then he surged forward and kissed Fergus hard to seal this, the most profound connection of his life. As John’s body jerked and spasmed, Fergus held him tight with arms and legs and mouth, taking every inch, every drop, every breath.

Taking all of him.

F
OR
THE
LONGEST
time, Fergus just stared through the ceiling, his vision shimmering around the edges.

In this haze, his brain could barely form syllables, much less sentences. When it finally managed to string four words together, it kicked them about like a footballer self-passing a ball in practice session. They formed a half-sensical phrase:

Like nothing ever before.

Silly, that. It was just sex, after all. Perhaps the most physically and emotionally intense sex of his life, but was it really so different to any prior experience?

Like nothing ever before.

Okay, maybe it was.

Probably it was.

Definitely, absolutely, positively, without a doubt…it was.

He closed his eyes, still unable to move or speak. But his thoughts came clearer now, and in their midst was the kernel of an idea, one he’d thought ridiculous only a few hours ago.

He felt a familiar weight return to the bed. “I brought you this.” John drifted a warm, wet washcloth across Fergus’s abdomen. “Unless you’d prefer a tongue bath.”

“In theory I’d love one, but I’m far too ticklish just now.” Fergus cleaned himself, then dried his chest and abs with the small towel John offered.

John sat cross-legged beside him, wearing nothing but a pensive look on his face.

“You okay?” Fergus asked.

“Aye. That was…I don’t know how to even…yeah.” He gave a weak laugh. “You know?”

“I do know, and I’m just as…wordless? Is that even a word?” Fergus folded the towel and set the washcloth atop it on the bedside table. “But if there’s something wrong—”

“I’m sorry about before.” John fidgeted with his bare toes. “You were right—I never told you about the venue because I thought you might fight it. I didn’t even think we’d get Firhill Stadium, so I thought, ‘Why start a row over what could be nothing?’ And thought if we did get it, maybe it’d be a happy surprise, or if not, I could convince you after the fact that it was a good thing.”

Perhaps he had. Or perhaps Fergus had convinced himself. Everything seemed…
possible
now. It was more than post-orgasmic euphoria. It was as if this last hour had shown Fergus that he could not only trust in John, but in himself again. That he’d nothing to fear.

John lay down with a sigh, resting his head on his own pillow. “I shouldn’t have forced you into the position of having to accept the venue. And I definitely shouldn’t have compared you and your players to strippers. That was a poor joke, and I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Fergus turned to face him but focused on the edge of John’s starched white pillowcase instead of his eyes. “You were right, though. Not about the strippers, but about why I’m wary of publicity stunts. Why I’m afraid to be laughed at and pitied.” He ran his palm over the sheet between them, flattening a wrinkle. “Evan left in April, right before the Scottish Amateur Cup quarterfinal.”

“You made the quarters? That’s fantastic.”

“Aye, and we were on track to be promoted to the top division. It would’ve been landmark for an LGBT club.” He shut his eyes as the memory slammed him. “We were on the pitch doing pre-match warm-ups when a delivery guy came with an overnight envelope for Charlotte.”

“What was in it?”

“Evan’s captain’s armband. A note for Charlotte.” Fergus opened his eyes. “A note for me.”

John’s jaw snapped open. “He broke up with you via FedEx? What a—”

“Please. It’s hard enough to relive without commentary.”

“Sorry.” John curled his lips beneath his teeth and waited.

Fergus thumbed the edge of the green-and-gold hotel bedspread, working up the strength to tell the rest. “The entire club was devastated, not just me. Less than an hour before the match and we’d lost our playmaker and our captain. Charlotte tried to give me the armband, but I refused. No one wanted it. Finally our keeper Heather volunteered to be match captain so there’d be someone to take the coin toss. Rules, you know.”

“Aye,” John whispered. “What happened?”

“Charlotte shifted me to Evan’s position as attacking midfielder, which was fine, as I’d played that position off and on most of my life. I scored our only goal.”

John brightened. “Well done, lad!”

“The other side scored six.”

“Oh.”

“Moving me forward left a weakness in front of our defense. My substitute couldn’t compensate. Charlotte adjusted formations at halftime, but by then our opponents were playing pure defense. They’d formed a wall around their box even Pelé couldn’t have penetrated. We got frustrated, made mistakes, gave them so many breaks.” Fergus’s chest tightened as he recalled the worst part. “In the seventy-first minute, I swore I saw Evan from the corner of my eye. So I made a square pass to what turned out to be his ghost.”

“Oh no.”

“Intercepted, of course. It was their easiest goal yet. Poor Heather. She did her best.”

John shifted his head on the pillow, blinking a swoop of dark hair away from his eye. “So that’s how the match went. But what about you?”

“When I read Evan’s note, I—” Fergus clamped his teeth over his top lip, preparing for the tears. “Everyone was looking at me, and then pretending not to look at me.”

John slid his warm, strong hand over Fergus’s. “It must have been an awful shock.”

“It wasn’t a shock. If it were, I could’ve gone into autopilot mode, enough to function ninety minutes on the pitch.” The words tumbled out faster. “But I’d seen it coming for weeks. It was like being tied to railroad tracks in the middle of the night, seeing the train’s headlight in the distance, hearing the whistle, knowing you can’t move.” He stopped to take a quick breath. “So I just collapsed. Literally. In front of my team, in front of our opponents, in front of the crowd. I cried like—like the ultimate clichéd hysterical pansy.”

John said nothing, just squeezed his hand.

Fergus continued. “During the entire match, the other side’s players would taunt me when the referee couldn’t hear them. They’d make crying-baby noises, or call me ‘wee lass’ and ‘nancy-boy’ and ‘fanny flaps.’”

“Fucking pricks,” John growled.

“All I could think later was, ‘Thank God I’m not famous. Thank God only a hundred or so people know of my humiliation.’”

“Now I see why you don’t want the spotlight.” John tugged the sheets up to cover them, then settled against Fergus, arm slung over his chest. “I’m sorry I’ve shoved you into it.”

“Maybe I needed to be.” He stroked John’s arm, smoothing the dark hair that lay upon it. “I can’t hide forever. I have to step back out there eventually, so it might as well be for a good cause.” He hesitated, hoping he wouldn’t regret what he was about to say. “I think Warriors should do a cheesy promo campaign.”

John lifted his head and gaped at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Gillian suggested we lip synch something like those ‘Call Me Maybe’ videos, but our fullback Jamie sings and plays guitar. We could take an existing song and rewrite the lyrics, make them about the team.”

“
That
is fucking genius.” John kissed him. “I’d get up and dance for joy, but my legs have lost all strength, thanks to you.” He laid his head down again. “We’ll start writing it tomorrow over breakfast. It’ll be massive.”

“The team will love it.” Fergus twitched his toes nervously at the thought of the match itself. “I just hope…”

“What?” John asked, his breath soft against Fergus’s neck. “What is it you’re worried about?”

Fergus semi-deflected the question. “It’s not easy being a gay athlete, especially in this sport. In all Europe, not a single male pro footballer is out.”