I laugh, “You want some Pimm’s? I can get you some Pimm’s.” I call over the bartender, who’s probably relieved that my attention is on someone else. “Pitcher of Pimm’s. And bring it over to the table over there.”
She nods.
Hayley stands up and follows me.
“You know, you really shouldn’t ever be sitting alone at a bar in London,” I say to her, leaning close. She smells really good. Like grapefruit.
“And why is that?” She’s finally relaxing a little. I’m guessing it’s because of the tequila shot. Or maybe it’s just my wicked charm.
“Because you’re just begging for some crazy to come over and bother the piss out of you.”
She laughs. “The only person who’s approached me tonight is you. Does that make you a crazy person?”
I shrug. “You could say that. But I’m a sexy crazy person, which makes it better.”
Hayley blushes again. The bartender comes over with a pitcher of Pimm’s and two glasses. I pour out a tall glass and hand it to Hayley, who sips it before I’ve even poured mine.
“I thought we could salute each other,” I say. “But you’ve beaten me to it.”
She gulps down another two inches before clinking the glass with mine.
“Thirsty?”
“Nervous,” she says. “I don’t get out much.”
I laugh at that. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Hayley looks around the club. It seems like the businessman from the bathroom has recovered from being violently ill and is about to head home with a hooker.
“You think he knows he’s going to have to pay for sex with her?” I ask Hayley.
Hayley’s eyes go wide. “Really? She’s a…really?”
I lean close to her and lower my voice. “You really don’t get out much, do you?”
Hayley’s eyes have softened and she leans closer to me. “I like your accent.” She puts her chin in her hand. I realize she’s tipsy.
“I like yours.”
She giggles. “No, I could hear you talk all day long. I’ve got a boring accent.”
I lean in, our faces inches from each other. She’s adorable. “I’ll do your accent and you do mine.” I clear my throat. “Please hand me a bottle of water.” I draw out the vowels.
Hayley laughs. “My turn.” She repeats the same sentence in the worst British accent I’ve ever heard in my life. It only makes me want to fuck her more. “Was that good?”
I nod seriously. “Perfect. You should go audition at the Globe theater, honestly.”
Hayley sips at the Pimm’s some more. I’m already halfway done with my glass and I can feel the heady buzz.
“This is really, really good.” She giggles some more as she says it.
“Really? I can hardly tell that you’re enjoying it at all.”
She rolls her eyes and uncrosses her legs. She nearly falls off the end of the booth and I have to grab her arm. I pull her glass away from her. “Let me keep an eye on this for you.”
She pouts. “You’re no fun.”
“Oh, trust me. I’m fun. The best fun you’ll ever have in your life.” I give her a significant look. “But I want you to enjoy that fun; I’d like you to be sober.”
“Why is that?”
I lean into her ear, breathing against her pale skin that’s covered in delectable peach fuzz. “Because when I fuck you, I want you to remember every second of me all over your body.”
“I need…to pee,” she says unceremoniously, standing up. “But don’t go. Don’t leave. Not yet.”
I drum my fingers on the tabletop and watch her walk away from me. I weigh my odds. I think they’re pretty damn good. I slam down the rest of my glass of Pimm’s and just wait. I can hold my liquor.
I wave over a server to bring two huge glasses of water.
I have a feeling I’ll need some extra hydration tonight.
CHAPTER THREE
HAYLEY
I’m really drunk.
Well, really drunk for me, which is most people’s tipsy, I would guess. I pull my phone out of my purse in the bathroom and dial. It slips out of my fingers and lands on the grubby floor. Ew. I try to bend down but my head starts spinning.
“Let me get that for you, dear,” says a kindly old woman. Her hair is in a grey bouffant and her orangey coral lipstick is bleeding into the wrinkled lines around her lips.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m a little dizzy.”
“Hello? Hayley? Are you dead?” Alison’s voice rings out across the bathroom. I hold the phone to my ear.
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry,” I slur.
“You’re drunk! Hooray!” My sister whoops and hollers again and I narrowly miss the deafening sound as I pull my phone away to a safe distance.
“I have a question,” I say. I’m not sure how loudly I’m talking but I can tell the old woman is listening while she reapplies her lipstick. “There’s a guy here and-“
“Do it! Have sex with him! Wild, rowdy, London sex!” Alison yells.
“Would you stop yelling?” I hiss. “I’m right here.”
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just that I’m having a hard time really, truly believing that my baby sister is actually drunk and about to fuck a hot Englishman.”
“I didn’t say he was English,” I point out. “But yeah, he is.” My voice gets a little giggly again.
“Ooh, he must be smoking hot if you’re giggling. You always giggle when they’re hot.”
“So that’s a yes, then? I should do it?”
I can hear Alison’s eye roll through the phone. “Like that’s even a question, Hayley. Of course you should fuck him. You’re basically panting right now.” She pauses. “Sober up first, though. Though you’re probably just tipsy anyway. Drink water for ten minutes and it’ll pass, you lightweight.”
“Alright,” I say, feeling a surge of happiness. “I’m nervous.”
“Put the damn phone down and go get some ass,” she says. “And take a photo of him. Preferably from the waist down.”
“Alison!”
“What? I’m sort of in a dry spell right now.”
I ring off and roll my eyes. A dry spell for Alison is like twenty-four hours with no sex. She’s being overly dramatic. I walk to the sink and see that the old woman keeps looking over at me.
“So he’s hot?” the old woman asks.
I accidentally spray myself with water I’m so shocked. I actually laugh. “I guess you heard my entire phone call?”
She dries her hands on a paper towel and hands me a clean one. “Let me see him.”
I walk out of the bathroom with her and we stand in the archway. I crane my neck and point at Ryan, who is sitting with his arms behind his head, totally relaxed. His tattoos are rippling and he’s even hotter when his face is relaxed. I have no idea who this guy is, but I can tell already that he seems to have one type of expression for when people are looking at him and one for when he’s all alone. It’s like a mask he takes on and off.
“He’s quite fit. I’d have a go at him and risk the hip replacement,” the old lady says enthusiastically.
I guffaw. “You think he’s hot?”
“Love, you better get over there before he changes his mind and I take him for a ride.”
And with that, she walks away from me. I take a few deep breaths and walk back over to Ryan, who’s pulling cash out of his pocket and throwing it on the table.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he says with a cocky smile.
“Sorry I took so long,” I say apologetically.
“You apologize a lot for things you don’t need to apologize for,” he says, staring at me.
“Sorr-“ I stop myself and laugh.
“See? I’m right.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I ordered you a water.”
“Thanks,” I say. We sit in silence and I drink the whole glass the second it comes to the table. I can feel my head clearing already.
“You ready to go do this?” he
asks me after about ten minutes.
I nod, still feeling nervous. But I’m warm in all the right places just from him looking at me with those green eyes of his.
He puts his hand on my lower back and steers me out of the bar and into the hotel lobby.
My heart is thudding as we wait for the elevator. The doors ding open and an old couple steps out, brushing past me. Ryan walks into the elevator first and I follow. He presses the button for the same floor I’m staying on.
What a grand coincidence that is.
The doors are no sooner shut than Ryan has me pinned to the wall with a cocky grin on his face. He misses my lips and heads for my neck, his hands feeling their way underneath my shirt, searching and finding what he’s looking for almost immediately. His muscular hands are heavy with experience as they slip up to the satin cups of my bra.
I inhale sharply as he kisses my neck.
“Ever have sex in an elevator?” he breathes into my skin.
I push him away. “What? No!”
He laughs and pulls me back toward him. “Don’t worry. Tonight’s not your night. You seem a little too inexperienced for that.”
I swallow hard. “Is that a problem?”
“See, there you go apologizing again,” he says, drawing circles with his thumbs over my nipples.
“I didn’t say sorry!”
He laughs. “You sounded apologetic. Now stop talking. You’re distracting me from my work.”
He says he’s distracted, but he hasn’t stopped once this entire time, feeling my skin like he’s looking for something. The doors ding open just as I feel like I’m going to soak through my jeans, and Ryan lets go of me and marches down the hallway.
He stops at a door and pulls out his keycard.
“You’re right next to me,” I say, shocked.
He gives me a sexy look that makes me want to tear his clothes off. “Good thing at least one of the neighbors won’t be bothered by us, then.”
I follow him into the bedroom, gulping nervously. I don’t have much time to take in the completely disheveled room before Ryan has me off my feet and on my back on the unmade bed.
“I didn’t expect to have company tonight,” he says, sliding my shirt up my stomach and pulling it off my head. “Or I would have tidied up a bit.”
“It’s okay,” I reply. My voice is so harsh and raspy because I’m breathing so heavily. I barely recognize the sound of it.
A second later, he has my bra unclasped and his lips are at my nipples, teasing the little pink buds there lightly. He nibbles at them and stands up once he has me gasping for breath. He pulls off his t-shirt and throws it onto the clothing-littered floor.
I gasp again. This guy is built like Adonis. He has an eight pack, and the lean, muscular look of a soccer player. His tattoos cover his entire body. I’ve never slept with a guy who had tattoos before, and the thought of that thrills me.
I take a deep breath and the musky scent of Ryan’s body fills my nose. He unbuttons his jeans and pulls off his boxers.
“Oh my God,” I actually whisper out loud. I clap my hand over my mouth and squint my eyes, feeling embarrassed over my juvenile outburst. But I couldn’t help it.
Are English treasures bigger than American ones? Or is this just a one-off thing?
I don’t have time to ponder this any further, because Ryan has found my bellybutton and is kissing all the way to the top of my jeans hungrily. He opens my jeans and I wiggle my legs as he pulls off the tight fabric. He finds the top line of my underwear and teases kisses all around it.
Then I realize – he’s about to lick me.
Down there.
I’ve never, not once, had a guy offer to go down on me. And now this guy – this impossibly sexy, well-hung, ripped, tattooed guy is about to do this for me.
Ryan’s hands find my bare breasts again and I arch my back, bringing my mound up to his lips. He kisses me through the cotton fabric, his breath hot and urgent.
He lets go of my breast and sticks his fingers underneath the cotton, pulling it to the side. His tongue finds places I didn’t even know existed down there. The pleasure of it is almost too much for me to bear, and he’s only just begun.
“I love the way you taste,” he whispers against me.
A thrill of pleasure at these words rocks my body and Ryan takes full advantage of the moment. He’s tasting me like I’m the best dessert in the entire world. He licks and rubs every part of my slit. I’m so wet I’m pretty sure he could slip inside of me and I wouldn’t even feel it.
Well. That’s a lie. I know that I’d feel it.
How could I not feel that?
I don’t have time to think about it any longer. My pleasure is building and building and –
“Aaaaah!” I scream out, my back arching, my toes curling. Ryan puts his hands under my ass and lifts me up as I wrap my legs around the back of his head. It’s too much. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I finish, panting, but Ryan is ready to go again already.
He might actually kill me with pleasure.
I wonder vaguely if anyone’s ever died from sex before. I just might be the first.
CHAPTER FOUR
RYAN
If I don’t get inside this delicious piece of American ass soon, I’m going to blow my load all over the duvet.
I have no idea what it is about Hayley, but my balls are as blue as they’ve ever been. I pride myself on being able to last for a long, long time. But she might be the first exception to that rule.
I pull my mouth away from her sweet nectar and reach into the nightstand for a condom. I nearly drop it I’m in such a hurry. As I lean over Hayley, she runs her hands over my abs.
Women always love my abs. The fact they’re covered in tattoos is just the icing on a very, very muscular cake.
Or so I’ve been told. I’d hate to brag.
Just kidding.
I fucking love to brag.
I unwrap the condom and slip it onto my cock.
Then I slip inside of Hayley. I go slowly at first, but she starts bucking against me to get me inside of her faster.
Who am I to argue with that?
Soon, we’re fucking like animals. Hayley’s nails are digging into my back and from the sharp pain, I’m pretty sure she’s drawing some blood. She yells and screams in pleasure and my theory about shy girls is confirmed for the hundredth time.
She’s wild. She’s completely unhinged.
I ride her until she’s begging me to stop and lick her again. That’s the part where I release my load and then I follow her instructions.
Back to her delicious pussy it is for round two.
I don’t even know what time we fall asleep, but I know I basically passed out after the third time we needed to use a condom. Between the alcohol, rabid fucking and the stress of the last few weeks, I’m exhausted.
I wake up when sunlight falls through a gap in the curtains. I realize I fell asleep with my arm around Hayley and I can’t get it extracted fast enough.
She’s so exhausted from the jet lag she just rolls over and goes back to sleep. I hop in the shower as fast as I can. I don’t want us to wake up together.
Besides that, today’s the first day of practice and I need to be at the football pitch early.
As much as I pretended to agree with Devon last night; this – peace and calm - is what I need for my career. I knew that I was careening out of control, and joining Hounslow is exactly what I need.
I slip into the bedroom and grab a clean uniform and tracksuit bottoms from my unzipped duffel bag, shove a clean pair of cleats into my practice bag, and head out of the room.
I sigh with relief as the door shuts behind me.
I successfully avoid the dreaded morning after chat. Usually I kick women out of my place in the middle of the night. This one got lucky. She got to spend the entire night next to me.
It’s an uncharacteristically sunny day in London and the streets are filled with shoppers and business people
. London has changed so much in recent years; especially in the city center where I’m staying, people are dressed in suits that cost as much as a house in the country did when I was a kid. It’s such a stark contrast between the haves and the have nots.
I pass a woman not much older than me in slightly tattered clothes.
“Big Issue!” she yells.
I reach into my tracksuit bottoms and pull out a fiver to hand to her. She thanks me and I take the paper, shoving it into my bag. Of course I won’t read it. But she reminds me of my own mother, selling papers on the corner so she could buy me milk for my breakfast cereal.
I jog down into the Tube station, slipping my Oyster card into the ticket machine. It whirs and spits it out. I grab it and jog down the steep, narrow central staircase instead of taking the packed escalator. It’s a good workout, though not as good as running up the stairs.
I wait on the Tube platform for the screeching arrival of my train. A rush of commuters pushes out, grumpy looks on their faces. I stand up near the door and check the map. I feel like a little boy, my mother holding my hand on a rare day into the city.
Part of the reason I spent the last few nights in the City of London proper is because I wanted to relive some of those days. And I wanted a long Tube journey just to see if I could feel her presence.
It’s sort of working.
I go over my route in my head. The District Line at Embankment to South Kensington. Transfer to the Piccadilly line all the way to Hounslow Central. My mother used to make me repeat the stops on our journey until she was sure I had memorized them. She always wanted to make sure that if we got separated, I could find my way to our meetup point.
I close my eyes as the train stirs into motion, bracing my feet and balancing as best as I can. I feel like Tube surfing should be its own national sport.
Forty-three minutes later, I’m stepping back out into sunshine and walking to the club. It’s not far from the station, and I’m enjoying the weather. I walk up the rickety wooden steps to the clubhouse and open the door. It smells like beer, old carpet, and cigar smoke.
I see a balding, round-bellied man sitting at a small table with a fresh batch of fish and chips near his left hand. In his right hand is a pen and a playbook.
Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 2