Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (5 page)

“Those schools accept students from all religions.”

“Yes, sort of. But they can and do discriminate in who they hire, based on religion.” John’s lips twitched. “One could argue that’s not terribly enlightened.”

Fergus looked away again. It was easier to defend his faith against hate than against reason.

“I will say one thing about the Orange Walks.” John leaned in and spoke in a loud mock-whisper. “I doubt they’d exist if the Battle of the Boyne had happened in January instead of July.”

Fergus smirked. “Aye, not too many men would fancy a march down an icy street.”

John shifted closer still, planting his hand on the cushion beside Fergus. “Imagine the band members, their saliva freezing up inside their flutes, leaving behind a trail of wee spit-sicles.”

“And sending the drummers falling arse over tit. Drumsticks and three-pointed hats everywhere.”

“Right? Pure chaos.”

John’s laughter brushed Fergus’s ear, sending a jolt of desire down his spine. Fergus knew if he shifted his left leg just a few inches he’d feel John’s fingers under his thigh. The thought made his cock thicken and throb. He glanced about the crowded bar, taking a mental snapshot, from which he promptly deleted the other patrons, along with his and John’s clothes. This snug would be the perfect height for—

“Here she comes.” John sat up straight at the waitress’s approach.

Their decision on dessert was a unanimous “No.” As the server gathered their plates, Fergus said to John, “I just realized we’ve not discussed any details of the charity match. That was the whole point of this dinner.”

“Was it?” He glanced up from his wallet. “I thought it was an excuse.”

So Fergus wasn’t imagining things. This
was
a date, one he longed to continue. He still didn’t entirely trust John (or anyone, at this point), but he
wanted
him. Desire for anything but oblivion had become such a foreign, forgotten feeling, Fergus knew he had to seize it while he could.

As soon as the waitress was gone, Fergus pressed his knee against John’s beneath the table. “We could discuss the match at my place.”

John’s long, dark lashes flickered. “Sorry, not interested.”

Fergus jerked his knee away, banging it on the table leg. “Ow!” His face flamed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I thought you—I thought we—”

“What I mean is this.” John reached into Fergus’s lap and took his hand. “Talking business is the last thing I’ll want to do at your place.”

“Y
OU
LIVE
IN
City Bakeries?” John’s neck ached as he gaped up at the stone-and-red-brick facade of the former factory. It towered over its neighbors by several stories. “This is a piece of Glasgow history.”

“Aye, one of the few original buildings left here in Woodside.” Fergus gave an affectionate pat to one of the columns flanking the entrance. “I’ve been coveting a flat here since second year. I’ve even a parking space, in case I ever own a car.”

John looked down at the pavement’s smooth, dark bricks. The street wasn’t posh by far, but it was in better condition than the cracked, pale tarmac of his own road.

Inside, they fell quiet as they waited for the lift, and remained so as it carried them to the top floor. Now that they were finally alone together, John felt too nervous for conversation. After all, Fergus had planned to share this flat with his ex. Did Evan’s metaphorical ghost haunt this home?

As Fergus unlocked the door to his flat, John saw him bite his lower lip, as if worried about making a good impression.

He needn’t have. The place was gorgeous. Hardwood floors shone in the living room in front of them, while stainless-steel appliances gleamed in the kitchen to their left. The furniture, decor, and houseplants perfectly complimented one another, arranged in neat, precise configurations. It was all thoroughly middle-class, thoroughly intimidating.

“Nice,” was all John could say.

Fergus stepped quickly to the opposite wall and pulled back a set of pale green curtains. “A balcony of sorts. Enough room for feet, at least.”

As he passed through the living room, John took in the black-leather corner sofa with matching chair. An eclectic array of artwork was displayed on a tall, thin corner shelf. “You live alone?”

“No, but my flatmate works the night shift now, in emergency surgery at Western Infirmary. She won’t be home until morning.”

“Too bad for her,” he said as he sidled up beside Fergus on the narrow balcony and leaned against the smooth black railing.

The view stole what few words he had left. The entire city lay in front of them—or at least the central, southern, and eastern parts. Past the roaring M8, he could make out the ornate City Chambers building in George Square, and beyond it, the spires of Glasgow Cathedral and its towering city-of-the-dead graveyard, the Necropolis. The Forth and Clyde Canal meandered to his left, and if he leaned out a bit and wrenched his neck to the right, he could see the Finnieston Crane and the silvery River Clyde. Beyond the river lay his home, which seemed at once so close and yet so far.

John hadn’t even noticed Fergus had left his side until he reappeared with a pair of bottled craft beers. He handed one to John and said in a reverent voice, “Sometimes I just stand out here for an hour, taking it all in. So much history. If these buildings could speak, you know?”

Fergus began to point out various landmarks, pontificating on their architectural significance. John let him blether, because it offered a chance to notice new things about him. Like the golden flecks in his hazel eyes, revealed only now in the light of the late evening sun. Or the way his voice deepened with confidence when he spoke about his passions. Or the freckle perched above his lip, so close it almost blended its red-brown with the red-pink of the mouth John could not take his eyes off.

To stop himself staring, John looked toward the horizon, where a jet soared into the clear sky above the rippling hills of East Renfrewshire.

He wondered what their first kiss would be like. Tender and tentative, or hard and hungry? Was Fergus still fragile after that devastating breakup, and if so, would he want to be treated gently? Or would he want John to take control, swamp his mind and body, obliterate all thoughts of Evan?

He let himself glance at Fergus, who was now holding the balcony railing and leaning back to stretch his shoulders as he spoke. It seemed a casual move, but it had the effect, intentional or not, of displaying the taut muscles of his arms and back. Not to mention his arse, jutting out invitingly.

John had a sudden image of Fergus in that exact posture and place, and himself behind him, their trousers bunched at their ankles. He would grip those hips as tightly as Fergus was gripping that banister, while taking him hot and hard in front of all Glasgow.

“What do you think?” Fergus said.

John jerked his gaze up to Fergus’s face. “Sorry?”

“About the Clyde Arc Bridge? Seeing as you’ve lived here all your life.”

“Oh.” John took a hasty sip of beer, trying to wrench his mind back to reality. “Well…it means a lot to us Southsiders. Easy access to City Centre and West End, so we feel less cut off. But there’s more traffic now and…” He wet his dry lips. “I’m sorry, I cannae do this. You are a fascinating person with intriguing opinions and bountiful knowledge, but right now I cannae pretend to think about anything but fucking you. I just…can’t.”

Fergus stared up at him, then straightened to his full height and stared
down
at him.

“Good,” he whispered, a moment before he gave John a kiss he would never forget.

= = =

Though they’d left the balcony door open when they moved to the living room, John couldn’t hear the sounds of the street outside over the rush of blood in his ears.

Never had the phrase “all over each other” seemed so apt. Curled together in the corner of the sofa, they groped and kissed, every breath a gasp of longing. There was no playing it cool, no fake-coy seduction, no angsty ambivalence. There was only this glorious, eager, happy
wanting
that would soon turn into
having
.

Fergus undid the second button of John’s shirt, then slid his hand inside. John pressed forward into his touch, feeling like his heart would leap out of his chest at Fergus’s command.

Another button, and Fergus lowered his head, kissing a path down John’s collarbone, murmuring his delight at each new inch. John threaded his fingers through Fergus’s auburn hair, something he’d been dying to do all evening.

Two more buttons, and soon Fergus’s tongue was twirling over John’s right nipple. John moaned—with pleasure
and
gratitude, as it seemed few men thought to do that to him.

As Fergus undid the last button, his littlest finger brushed the bulge in John’s trousers, as if by accident.

John groaned and tugged him up by his hair to kiss him again. He couldn’t get enough of this tongue. He wanted it everywhere, but most of all, he wanted it in his own mouth.

As they kissed, Fergus began to stroke him through the chinos’ thin cotton, and for a moment John thought he might come then and there. So he lifted Fergus’s shirt over his head and wound it around his wrists, binding him.

With a hum of approval, Fergus lay back on the couch, arms stretched above his head. “All yours, lad.”

John moved between his legs, then reached out to glide his fingertips down Fergus’s chest. His touch left flushed trails in the fair skin, and he noticed how the hair under Fergus’s arms was a brighter red than that on his head. John had never found gingers a turn-on—or a turn-off—and his handful (literally) of experiences with them had thus far been confined to dark places.

Suddenly he understood what all the fuss was about.

John planted a kiss below Fergus’s navel, threading his tongue through the trail of fine, fiery hairs leading beneath his waistband. He planned to work his way up, exploring every inch. But the warmth down here multiplied Fergus’s scent ten times over, swamping John’s senses. He wanted him naked. Now.

“Not here,” Fergus said when John tugged at his belt buckle. “My room.”

“Thought your flatmate was away all night.”

“She is, but technically, this is her sofa.”

John got to his feet, nearly tripping on the edge of the black area rug. He helped Fergus the rest of the way out of his shirt, then shut the balcony door before following him down the hall to his room.

Fergus gave a cry of dismay as he hurried to the bed, which was strewn with trousers, shirts, and belts. “Sorry, I’d a bit of a difficulty deciding what to wear tonight. Just a moment.” He yanked open his wardrobe door and started tossing the clothes inside. “So embarrassing.”

“No, it’s adorable. And hot. By the way, you chose well in the end with this.” He held up Fergus’s shirt in front of himself, then froze.

Spread across the bed, revealed now that Fergus had removed the piles of clothes, was an enormous fleece blanket featuring a Celtic Football Club logo.

“Thanks.” Fergus crossed the room and took back his shirt. “Glad you fancied it.”

John couldn’t meet his eyes or look at anything but the fleece’s bright green shamrock. It was like seeing his own bed’s evil twin. “You’re a—but I thought—” His mind spun, scrabbling for words that wouldn’t give himself away. “That is, after what you said about sectarianism, I assumed you hated Old Firm football.”

“I hate the violence and the sectarian chants and all that rubbish.” Fergus sat atop the blanket with the shirt in his lap. “But I’ve loved this club since I can remember. First Communion, first Celtic match: part of the whole Scots-Irish Catholic package, I suppose. I know I should be enlightened and abandon Celtic for some politically neutral team, but this is who I am.” He ran a loving hand over the fleece.

So that’s why Fergus had been so angry at the sight of the Orange Walkers. John had hoped it was mere anti-sectarian sentiment, like most Scots. Disdain, not animosity. Not righteous rage.

“I didn’t know you were Irish.”
Wait, that sounds bad.
“I mean, your last name’s Taylor.”

“Dad’s family was English way back. Mum’s is Irish. Both Catholic, though.” Fergus jerked up his head, then shot to his feet. “Oh, you—you’re from Ibrox. So you must—that is, are you…” He left off the obvious end of the sentence:
a Rangers fan?

Staring at the blanket, all John could see was the green-and-white scarf of the Celtic fan his brother had assaulted. Green and white—and crimson with blood.

In his head, Keith shouted,
This man is your enemy. Fucking flatten him!
while their father whispered,
An honest mistake. Just turn around and leave, and no one need ever know.

But in front of him, Fergus said, “It’s okay if you are. I hate Rangers with every fiber of my being, but it’s just a game. Some of my best mates are Rangers supporters. We leave the rivalry behind in the park.”

Swallowing hard, John shifted his gaze to the window, whose sheer curtains glowed orange with the sun’s final rays. “I’ve a confession to make. I…I’m…” He couldn’t say it.
Forgive me,
he prayed to the Rangers altar in his mind. “Honestly, I’m not much of a football fan.”

Fergus let out a deep breath. “Okay, I lied when I said some of my best friends were Rangers supporters. They’re more like friendly acquaintances.” He stepped forward. “Also, I think it’s adorable—and yes, hot—that you pretended to like football to impress me.”

“It’s not that I don’t—”

Fergus cut John off with the most passionate kiss yet, pushing him against the wall and tearing off his unbuttoned shirt. John’s hands slid down Fergus’s back, and once they found his tight, toned arse, nothing else in the world mattered. Not religion. Not war. Not even football.

He bent his knees and lifted Fergus off his feet. Fergus wrapped his legs around John’s waist as they came crashing down onto the bed. Onto the Celtic fleece.

John shut his eyes tight and focused on the feel of Fergus’s hands on his skin and in his hair, on the taste of his lips and tongue, on the sound of their intermingled sighs of longing and groans of anticipation. If he opened his eyes, he would see nothing but green.