by Amy Daws
His throat moves with a slow swallow as he nods. “Okay.”
“Good,” I husk and blow cool air against his chest.
A deep noise rumbles from his throat as goosebumps flare up over his pecs, his nipples becoming impossibly firmer.
“Take your jeans off.”
He does as he’s told. When he stands to his full height again—shoulders wide, legs thick, muscles tense and waiting—it feels like I’m standing at the helm of a ship during a perfect storm. A storm where anything could happen. Death, life, crash, or the most exhilarating ride of my life.
Without hesitation, I move to press my bare flesh against his. Smooth against scratchy. Soft against firm.
“Fuck me,” he murmurs when his bare cock rubs against my lower belly.
I press my lips to the mound of his pec. “I intend to,” I reply, dipping my head and swirling my tongue around his nipple.
“Christ,” Gareth falters. His hands wrap around my body in response, one in my hair and the other cupping my ass cheek.
I bite down on the nubby flesh and he hisses loudly. “You’re not supposed to be touching, Gareth.”
His hands drop, and I glance down to see them fisted at his sides in frustration. If I could see his eyes, I am sure they’d be shooting daggers.
“This is making me crazy, Sloan.”
“Good.”
“I want to feel you.”
“I’m letting you.”
“With my hands.”
“Well, where’s the fun in that?” I slide my hand down his forearm and twine my fingers with his, pulling them up so they are between us. “Besides, this is about my control. Not yours. Stop trying to rock the boat.”
The tense muscle in his jaw relaxes. “That’s your second boat pun. I’m going to start to confuse you with my brother Camden if you’re not careful.”
“Does this remind you of your brother?” I ask, placing his hands on my breasts.
His smartass remark is completely forgotten when he realises what he’s touching.
If there’s one part of my body I can say that I’m proud of, it’s my breasts. Motherhood didn’t ruin them like it does for so many women. Mine remain the same teardrop, handful they were before. No more. No less.
Gareth’s rough palms massage the two masses of flesh like a caveman testing the strength of a rock. I stare down at his hands on me, grateful for the blindfold because it allows me the freedom to watch unabashedly. His skin is so tan and virile compared to the pale complexion of my chest.
I stifle a moan as he gently rolls my nipples between his fingers. The pressure causes a warmth to shoot through the core of my body, and I have to grip his elbows for balance.
“It’s like I’m reading Braille,” Gareth says, his jaw slack as he continues blindly assessing every inch. “You know I’ve yet to see these in the flesh, right?”
“I’m aware,” I croak, my need becoming too much for me to handle. “I need you to sit down.”
His low chuckle is like fresh oxygen as he reaches backwards for the sofa and lowers his naked body onto it. Without a word, I walk over to his nightstand where I recall him grabbing a condom from the last time. I am pleased to see he still has several left. When I grab one, my eyes catch sight of a tiny piece of familiar black fabric. I grasp the bundle and spread it out to see it’s the ripped panties from our first night together. He kept them all this time? I don’t know if I should be touched or creeped out.
“Sloan, where are you?”
“I’m right here,” I reply, shaking off my thoughts and returning to where he waits for me.
I rest one knee on the sofa beside him and press my front against his side, allowing some delicious skin-on-skin action as I comb my hands through his thick hair. He practically purrs when I tug his head back and run my tongue along his throat.
“Do you like that?” I ask, nibbling on his earlobe and tightening my grip in his hair.
“Yes,” he pants.
“Do you want more?”
“God, yes.”
I bring my other knee up so I’m kneeling next to him, my ass arched up as I splay one hand on his thigh and one on his shoulder. I kiss my way down his chest, his abs, careful to avoid his dick when I press open-mouthed kisses on each of his muscled thighs.
Removing my hand from his thigh, I grip his length in a sudden, strong embrace.
“Oh fuck.” He bites his lip and shifts uncomfortably in the seat as I test the firmness of his length, blowing cool air on the thick vein that runs along the underside of his cock.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Gareth?”
“Treacle, I’ve wanted you to fuck me for the past year.”
“Say that word again.”
“Which one?”
“You know which one.”
He swallows slowly, steeling himself to sound stable. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” I husk.
“Fuck,” he repeats.
“Yes,” I husk again and my tongue swipes the vein on his shaft.
He nearly jolts off the sofa. “Fuck!”
I wrap my lips around him and suck him back as far as I can handle.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Sloan,” he groans, his hands sliding into my hair.
“Pull my hair,” I pant, then drop back down on him.
He takes care to shape my hair into a ponytail so he’s pulling all the locks with the same pressure. Matching my motions on his dick, he pulls back and releases with every bob of my head, riding me instead of steering me. Dampness seeps out between my legs and my desire to have more takes over.
Unceremoniously, I release him from my mouth and feel around the sofa for the condom I abandoned earlier. I’m grateful Gareth can’t see my trembling fingers as I rip open the condom and slide it over his throbbing, soaked erection.
“Fuck, Treacle.” Gareth’s voice is rough with desire as I position myself astride him and press his tip between my folds.
I pause there, taking in the full sight of him. Hands out to his sides, palms up, body tense and waiting. Waiting for whatever I’m willing to give him. He’s so incredibly sexy. Most men wouldn’t accept this kind of role reversal. They’d feel emasculated. Callum certainly would have.
But Gareth isn’t like most men. He’s hard and soft. Strong and flexible. He’s huge and muscled but willing to be completely at my mercy.
“Take off the blindfold,” I demand.
He hesitates for a moment before pulling the fabric down so it hangs around his neck.
Now’s the time Gareth could look at my body. My breasts, my pussy. The apex where his condom-covered dick sits, waiting for enclosure. There is mountains of flesh he could gawk at, but his eyes are locked on mine. His hazel eyes—framed by long, dark lashes and a serious brow—are trained on my face, witnessing everything I’m feeling.
Without a word, I sink down onto him, shifting my legs out as wide as possible to take him as deep as he can go. Both of our jaws drop in silent cries and our foreheads press together as our bodies adjust to the pressure. I haven’t had sex with anyone since Gareth over a year ago, and my body is reminding me of that painful fact.
But there’s always a beauty with this kind of pain and burning ache that’s like scratching an itch to the point of orgasm. It doesn’t take long for my hips to begin grinding against the tightness of him inside of me, digging into that delicious pain.
“Touch me, Gareth.” My lips drag up his forehead as I throw my head back and shift even deeper on top of him. “I want to feel your hands all over me.”
“With pleasure,” he growls and begins a smooth coast up my legs and over my ass. Then his hands continue a strong slide up my spine, pausing to grip my hair in a tight squeeze.
“Yes,” I moan. “Pull it.”
He obeys and takes the opportunity to press his lips to my neck, inhaling deeply as he does. “You smell so fucking good,” he husks, suckling at the pulse thundering in my throat. “And you taste even better.”
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p; “More,” I croon and swirl my hips on his lap. “I need to hear your voice, Gareth. Tell me everything you’re thinking.”
“I can’t wait to feel you come on my cock,” he replies instantly, his other hand digging into the meat of my ass cheek, riding the rocking motion of my pelvis. “When I felt you come on my fingers last night, it took everything I had not to come all over myself.”
“I would have been so mad.”
“Why?” he asks, clearly teeing me up to talk dirty back to him.
“Because I want to feel you come,” I reply, grabbing his hair firmly and yanking his face from my neck so he looks into my eyes. I stare him down as I use his shoulder for leverage to begin bouncing on his lap. “I told you this cock is mine and I meant it.”
His eyes hood at the increased friction. “Fucking hell,” he moans, his own hips thrusting up to meet every drop of pressure I’m giving him.
“Faster, Gareth. Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
A frenzy takes hold of both of us. Next thing I know, I’m screaming for him to flip us over. He lays me across the length of the sofa, and I prop one foot on the arched back as he positions himself between my legs. He grabs my other leg and begins thrusting into me so hard, I have to hold my breath to stop myself from erupting instantly. No man I’ve ever slept with could keep a pace like this, but Gareth seems to be doing it without breaking a sweat.
So this is why women lust after athletes. The strength. The muscles. The stamina.
I score my nails up his back, relishing the feeling of his muscles flexing with every pump of his hips, and he grunts from the pain of my hold. What began as a warm, controlled fire in the hearth has exploded into a raging house fire that will desecrate every cognizant thought in my mind.
I can’t speak. Noises are coming out of me, but I’m not willing them to do so. And despite how much I crave Gareth’s dirty mouth, I don’t have the energy or the mindset to utter a single demand.
I don’t know who’s in control anymore. All I know is when we finally fall over that cliff together—when that fire hose smothers the raging inferno—all that’s left is smoke, sweat, and heavy breathing. A cloud of delirious ecstasy.
Gareth pulls out and lifts his heavy weight off of me, sitting up between my legs and pulling off the condom right in front of me. I watch the veins in his forearms as he ties a knot and drops the rubber on the floor. In one swift move, he rolls us so I’m on top of him. His softening penis presses against my belly as my head and hair splay across his damp chest.
His fingers find my hair as I stare at the wall, recovering from the shock of such a powerful orgasm. I would have thought the slickened feeling of sweaty flesh on sweaty flesh would bother Gareth, but he doesn’t seem tense. He seems relaxed, the rise and fall of his chest slowing as he catches his breath.
Gareth’s voice is hoarse and muffled in my ears when he croaks, “If that was the main course, I do hope you’ll be offering seconds.” His fingers brush my scalp as he mindlessly plays with my hair.
With a smirk, I muster all the strength I have to lift my head and rest my chin on his chest. “I think I’m definitely up for seconds.”
SOME SAY SEX AND FOOTBALL do not mix. Considering I just played the game of my life today, I say, sign me up for thirds, please.
Our boot studs clack against the concrete of the stadium tunnel as we make our way off the pitch at Chelsea Football Club. Matches at Stamford Bridge in South West London are always intense. The Blues fans are notoriously known as glory hunters and Chelsea has had an incredible season. So the fact that I stopped a shot from their star striker, Vince Sinclair, with only twenty seconds remaining means I’m not getting any smiles from these fans.
The atmosphere in the tunnels after games is always night and day different than it is before games. Before a match, it’s like a family reunion. Lots of matey pats on the back and memories tossed back and forth between old teammates. Often times, there’s some youth group or fans being escorted out by the host team. The energy is buzzing with intensity and excitement.
After a match, it’s another matter entirely. We’re forced to make our way off the pitch, side by side through a single hallway. The losing team is pissed off because they lost. The winning team is euphoric because they won. Everyone is at completely different emotional levels with testosterone-driven adrenaline bubbling beneath the surface. This means trash-talking and fights happen quite regularly in the tunnels. Tonight the air is thick with the tension of someone itching to throw a punch.
I’m just itching to see Sloan again.
We saw each other a couple more times after our blindfold experiment that was a smashing success on all levels, but now I haven’t seen her for an entire week. She said she was going to be travelling for work and wouldn’t be due back until next Monday. I thought it might kill me, but her sexy texts and one epic phone sex session have kept me functioning.
This letting go of control is actually working for me. She makes the rules. She sets the times. She goes home every night. I’m literally at her mercy and I’ve never been more sexually satisfied. Hearing her confident voice through the phone line, seeing her eyes light up with strength…It’s the ultimate aphrodisiac. She’s a total tease when she wants to be, and she seems to really get off on edging my cock, which turns me on even more. I’m relishing in the pleasure it brings her and having orgasms I didn’t even know existed.
It is the perfect arrangement.
And thank fuck she’s back in two days because I feel like a starved carnivore that hasn’t had meat for days. I’ll stay in London through Sunday night dinner at Dad’s. Then Monday morning, I’ll be on the first train home to prepare for a night of debauchery with Sloan—my fucking gorgeous Treacle.
Vince Sinclair suddenly jogs past me in the tunnel and aggressively bumps shoulders with Hobo, who’s a few steps in front of me.
“Oh, I beg your pardon for being totally fucking visible!” Hobo exclaims and pushes forward at Vince’s retreating frame.
I reach out and yank Hobo’s shoulders back, forcing him to fall in line beside me. Vince turns on his heel, walking backwards and smiling the same shitty smile he always has on the pitch. He’s known for being a cocky sod. Fans either love him or hate him.
His dark eyes slide in my direction, losing all humour and pinning me with a murderous glare. I stare back with indifference. I’m too old to get sucked into the bullshit with newbies. Fights only happen between players who are insecure about their place on the pitch. Vince’s contract was nearly sold last year, so he’s what I call a flailing guppy in football, trying to make a splash back into the sea.
Vince’s teammates push him to keep walking. Thankfully, he begrudgingly concedes. I exhale and try to shake the anxiety riddling my nerves. Vince is a prat, but it doesn’t change the fact that he nearly got one past me tonight. He’s fast and two-footed and difficult to predict. My tackle on him at the end could have very easily turned into a penalty kick for Chelsea, which would have fucked us royally.
But the call wasn’t made despite Vince’s dramatics on the ground or his obnoxious arguing with the ref. That means we were able to hold our victory over Chelsea one-nil.
Hobo gives my shoulder a shove. “Jaysus, I hate that guy. I was glad you took him down, but you gave us all heart attacks when you did it in the box like that.”
I shoot him a moody scowl. “I knew what I was doing.” The truth is, Vince is a hell of a lot faster than me. I’m finding a lot of strikers are nearly getting past me these days. I’m thirty-two years old. In the world of football, that’s grandpa status. The last couple of years, I’ve had to adjust my defence to keep up.
We turn down the hallway toward our changing room where a mass of cameramen, photographers, and media personnel are standing outside the door. I intend to pass by without a word, but a female journalist who looks shockingly like Sloan catches my eye.
“Gareth! What do you have to say about rumours that you and all of your brothers will be sel
ected to play for England in the World Cup this summer?”
My steps falter as the woman arches a perfectly plucked brow at me. Several of my teammates pause and gawk at the question my agent has been calling his wet dream coming true. The headline potential of four brothers playing for England in the World Cup would be the endorsement deal of a lifetime, but the actuality of it happening is less likely than me going back to play for my father.
I stop in front of the woman and all the other cameras press in around us, one even bumping me in the shoulder. “Where do you hear these rumours?”
The brunette smiles a flirty smile and shrugs. “Around.”
I nod knowingly, my eyes narrowed. “There’s a lot of season left to be played before World Cup selections are made.” I know this better than anyone. I was a qualifier for the World Cup team four years ago, but I sprained my ankle at the tail end of the season. It was a minor injury in the scope of my career, but it ruined my chance to play for England.
“Well, your brother Camden’s hat-trick for Arsenal tonight pretty much sealed his spot on the team.”
My brows lift. Now I’m itching to get to my locker to see for myself. Normally, the very first thing I do after a match is walk off the pitch and check my mobile to see how my brothers played. Vi texts us updates of each other’s matches, and reading her stream of commentary during all of our games is one of my favourite things about football. I’ve been telling her for years to do a podcast, but she laughs it off.
I shoot a broad smile at the reporter. “The only thing I know to be a fact and not a rumour is that Camden would have never scored three on me.”
The other reporters roar with laughter. Then the woman smiles and nods a silent thank you as the others begin shouting follow-up questions. With a wink, I turn away from the crowd and find Hobo standing at the changing room door waiting for me.
“You are a cocky sod, you know that?” he jeers.
I shrug. “It’s a family trait.”
After finishing the post-match press conference where I was grilled about the upcoming award I’ll be receiving, I hurry out to the player parking garage to find Vi waiting in her vehicle. She smiles brightly as I hold up one finger and jog over to the waiting fans on the other side of the barrier. I hurry through about twenty autographs before I give everyone a smile and wave my goodbyes.