Trying Sophie: A Dublin Rugby Romance

by Norinne, Rebecca

  “I want to taste you so bad right now,” he growled, slipping his hand into the waistband of my leggings and then down. “Fuck,” he whispered, when he felt how slick I was with desire.

  Slipping two fingers through my folds, he stroked softly and then slid one long finger inside of me. When I groaned and strained for more, he answered by capturing my lips in a clash of lips, teeth, and tongue. A second finger joined the first and with his thumb pressing against my clit, he pumped in and out as I rode his hand with abandon. I cried out with frustration when he slipped his hand from my pants and sucked his fingers into his mouth, licking my juices from them as his heavy-lidded gaze held mine. When he moaned around his fingers, my pussy clenched with want. Watching him savoring the taste of me was dirty and carnal and so fucking sexy.

  When his fingers were clean, he reached for the waistband of my pants and tugged. “Pull these down a bit. I need to be inside of you.”

  In the confined space of his car, getting my pants and boots completely off would be impossible without some serious acrobatics. Instead, I raised up on my knees and shimmied my leggings down my thighs, thankful for stretchy cotton fabric because there was no way I could have done this in jeans! When I tried to maneuver myself back into his lap, we both realized how difficult sitting astride him was going to be.

  “Here, flip around and lean forward for a second,” he said, guiding me so that I faced forward, my chest resting against the steering wheel.

  Behind me, I heard the clank of his belt being unbuckled and then the snick of his zipper being lowered. Wrapping a strong arm around my middle, he pulled me back toward him and then settled me in his lap, the seam of my bare ass snuggling against his rock hard cock, which jumped against me when I stopped moving.

  Declan had played with my ass before and even though I loved it, he’d never pushed for more. Oh, he’d talked often enough about how much he wanted to fuck me there, but finger play was as far as we’d gone.

  Could we now? I wondered, as I rocked my hips against him and felt his body go stiff.

  “Sophie,” he warned on a low growl.

  Twisting my head over my shoulder, I watched his face as I rolled over him again. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Fuck that feels good,” he bit out and I turned back around and braced my hands on the dash.

  For the next several moments, I gave him a lap dance to rival all lap dances as I rocked his shaft between the cleft of my cheeks, breathing deep each time he pushed up against me. When he skimmed a moistened thumb down my crack I sucked in a lungful of air. Lost in the exquisite feel of him against that secret spot, I moaned when he reached between us and massaged a tight, wet circle over my bud. With his other hand, he wrapped my hair around his fist and tugged my head back, exposing the long line of my throat. His front to my back, he bit the curve of my neck and then licked away the sting of his teeth.

  “You’re a fucking temptress, you know that.”

  I swallowed deep. “You do this to me.”

  “What do I do to you?” he asked and I heard the flick of a plastic top.

  “You make me …” I moaned when his lubed thumb breached me and one of his fingers slipped forward to tease my pussy.

  “I make you what?”

  “You make me feel so good,” I breathed out.

  Speaking was proving difficult, as was forming coherent thoughts. I’d meant to tell him that he’d turned me into a temptress but the pleasure I was experiencing below my waist made it difficult to tie the threads of a conversation together in my brain. With another finger easing its way in and out of me in steady motion, I was paralyzed with desire.

  “Please,” I begged on a strangled whisper when he added a third finger, stretching me as wide and tight as he ever had. The world around me receded, all of my thoughts and feelings and emotions centering on that one spot that hurt so good. So fucking good.

  “Please what?” he asked, loosening his grip on my hair and trailing his hand down my back to rest on my hip.

  “Please …” I moaned as his fingers dug into my skin and guided my movement. I let out a low, keening cry when I felt myself near to orgasm. I held off though, wanting to come around his cock. “Please fuck my ass,” I begged.

  He slid his fingers from me and settled me forward as he added extra moisture to his cock. Then, he rubbed it over my tight bud for a few strokes to loosen me up. I took a deep breath and relaxed as he pressed forward, the head of his cock slipping inside, stretching me wide. When he was fully sheathed inside of me he held still and held his breath.

  Holy fucking Christ! I thought as my body clamped around him and I breathed through those first few seconds of discomfort while I adjusted to his size.

  Reaching around, Declan toyed with my clit while he waited for me to acclimate to the feel of him in my ass. “Are you okay?” he bit out.

  I nodded and whimpered. He was huge and it felt so different from just his fingers but it was a good kind of pain. Soon the pleasure of his finger skating over my clit and the feel of him at my rear morphed into a whole new feeling.

  “More,” I said in reply.

  On a grunt, he pushed into me, and then waited, again, for my body to adjust to him buried so deep. He felt so good, so perfect. My body was stretched to its limit, poised to shatter and fly off into the heavens. With his fingers tickling a pattern over my pussy, I tested what it would feel like to move against him and saw stars.

  “Oh god, I’m coming,” I exclaimed as my orgasm ripped through me. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming!”

  Declan shouted my name and pumped in and out of my ass as he joined me in oblivion.

  My body sated and exhausted, I glanced over my shoulder with a happy, satisfied smirk. “Merry Christmas, I whispered.

  “You give the best presents,” he laughed just before he claimed my mouth in an unhurried, sensual kiss.

  Epilogue

  Sophie—Six Years Later

  “Mommy, mommy!” Moira screeched as she ran straight toward me like the hounds of hell were hot on her heels.

  When she launched herself into my arms, I settled her on my hip and turned toward the house. “What is it baby?”

  “Carlos was teasing me again. He said I’m not really a girl since I’m better at rugby than he is.”

  “Of course you’re better than he is, sweetie. Your daddy’s the captain for Ireland and you’re going to be the ladies team captain one day.”

  Maybe that was a lot of pressure to put on a five-year-old, but I was thrilled she was more obsessed with rugby than Disney princesses. You wouldn’t believe how much some of my friends spent on all the dresses and accessories little girls demanded with each new movie that came out. Katie’s daughter, two years younger than Moira, refused to take off her tiara, even in the bathtub.

  But that little shit Carlos was a giant pain in my ass. He reminded me far too much of another little boy who liked to make fun of a tender-hearted little girl when they were kids. Not that Moira was tender-hearted (my daughter was a fierce warrior), and sure, things had worked out for Declan and me, but if I could keep our kid from feeling bad about being different, you could bet your ass I was going to try.

  “How’s my little flanker?” Declan asked, crouching down with open arms.

  “Daddy!” Moira yelled, sliding down my leg.

  When she ran toward him it wasn’t to seek comfort or affection like it was with me. No, my little hellion was going straight for a tackle.

  When Declan collapsed to the floor and pretended to ruck, she laughed uproariously. Then, a few seconds later she shouted “Penalty!” as she jumped off him.

  Swiftly, Declan rolled to his feet. At almost 33, he probably only had three years left in his professional career—barring any further injuries—but he still moved with a speed and agility few could match.

  “Penalty?” he asked, hands braced on his hips. “For what?”

  “You didn’t roll away in time!” she yelled indignantly, ste
pping into his personal space, her chest puffed out and her eyes blazing with fire.

  Declan dropped to his haunches in front of her. “Sweetie,” he said, “we can pretend to play rugby all you want but if you’re going to get angry over make believe, I’m not going to want to play anymore.”

  “Fine,” she muttered. “I won’t get mad when you cheat.”

  “Moira …” he warned. “What have I told you about good sportsmanship?”

  “I should never say a clean play is dirty if it wasn’t,” she parroted back. I wasn’t sure she’d taken the lesson to heart so much as memorized it for times like these.

  Moira’s temper was something we were trying to deal with in as constructive a way possible but it was proving difficult. Her competitive spirit was … overwhelming at times. It was why I didn’t understand why she let Carlos rattle her so much. If I’d had half as much confidence and physical capability as she did when I was her age, I would have put a stop to Declan’s teasing instead of merely enduring it for those two years.

  Then again, it was probably a good thing she didn’t go around punching Carlos’s lights out. His mom and I had a difficult enough relationship as it was. I didn’t need Cait Verano trying to charge my young daughter with assault to boot.

  If Moira was competitive, that woman was ultra-competitive. Her husband Julio had recently joined Dublin’s soccer team from Portugal and she hated it when Declan’s team won or when he signed a major sponsorship deal, as if it was a personal affront to Julio’s career. Putting aside for a moment that rugby and futbol were completely different sports, she hated it when other athletes succeeded. It was frightening how well she kept tabs on all of Dublin’s professional athletes (and not-so-professional since she was particular aggrieved over our GAA heroes).

  Not only was she competitive, but she was also delusional. As far as she was concerned, rugby players were nothing more than a bunch of thugs. I’d once shared the old adage about rugby being a thug’s sport played by gentleman but it’d gone right over her head. Ironically, her husband had more red cards to his name than the entirety of Declan’s two teams combined.

  I often wondered how her precious Julio would handle getting hit by one of our props. If his theatrics were any indication, he’d flail around on the ground screaming for a yellow card against one of them. Assuming, Matt, Sean, or Ciaran didn’t knock him out entirely. Okay, so maybe there was a little bit of thug in me to be harboring such thoughts, but I couldn’t stand the woman.

  Needless to say, I hated living next door to The Veranos and couldn’t wait until our house in Ballycurra was ready. Especially since in about six months we were going to need the extra space.

  I hadn’t told Declan about the baby yet and the only reason he hadn’t noticed my belly was rounding out and my boobs had grown bigger was because he’d spent much of the last month in Australia for an international tour. In fact, he’d only gotten home two days ago and I was trying my damnedest to disguise my current state. Thank god it was summer and maxi dresses had come back in style. Still, when I’d caught him staring at my chest this morning, his eyes raking over my body with intense scrutiny, I’d wondered if the jig was up.

  I’d had a few early miscarriages after Moira that Declan took worse than I did. Each time, he’d blame himself for not being tender enough, or caring enough, or not putting me on immediate bed rest. I tried telling him they weren’t his fault. They hadn’t been anyone’s fault, but after the last one he swore if I ever got pregnant again he wasn’t going to touch me until after the baby was born. Since that was completely unacceptable, I was debating how much longer I could keep this pregnancy a secret. Because not having sex with Declan? Not an option. After all this time, he still did it for me.

  I mean, how could he not? He was sexy as hell, always had been. But with age had come wisdom and experience that was written on his body as a testament to the good life he’d led. That we’d led. There had been tears along the way, but there’d also been much happier times too, and the laugh lines that were beginning to crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled at me or chuckled at something our daughter said or did … well, how could I not love them?

  Across the room, Moira was apologizing for acting out. As Declan whispered words of encouragement and understanding, she raised her eyes to his and smiled a toothless grin. When he grinned back, it was like a mirror image—young and … no longer quite so young.

  Reflexively, my hand settled on my stomach. If Moira had gotten the very best of Declan, I wondered what this little one would get from him too. Because that man across the room, the one I’d fallen in love with against all reason? He made good babies. We made good babies. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to tell him he was going to be a father again.

  “Hey little lady,” I said, interrupting their little tête-à-tête. “It’s time for you to get washed up for bedtime. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  Moira groaned and nuzzled her head into Declan’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna,” she mumbled against his skin.

  “Tough luck, Moira,” he told her. “If you’re going to win tomorrow, you need to be well rested.”

  “But I’m not tired!” she wailed.

  Declan leveled her with a stare that meant business. “Moira Maureen O’Shaughnessy, do you think I like going to bed early the night before a big match either? No, but I do it because eight hours of sleep means I’m at my best on the field. You told me just now you want to win tomorrow. Well, are you going to put in the effort beforehand, or are you going to leave it all to chance?”

  “Fine daddy. I’ll go to bed now. And when I wake up tomorrow, you’ll take me to the game?” Her eyes lit with excitement.

  “Yes, my little pub girl, I’ll take you to the match tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll stand on the sidelines cheering?”

  “I’ll be louder than everyone else.”

  “And you’ll wear your Ireland jersey?” she asked hopefully.

  “And I’ll wear the Ireland jersey,” he answered, his lips twitching.

  Moira liked Declan’s Dublin jersey just fine but she loved his Ireland one. I think it was because she had grand plans of someday wearing the same colors as she took the field.

  “Okay mommy,” she said, reaching her arms out. “Take me to bed so I can get a lot of good sleep, just like daddy does before a big game.”

  When I pulled Moira to me, Declan raised his eyebrows to the heavens and shook his head. If she’d gotten the very best of Declan, our daughter has also gotten some of his worst attributes. The child was stubborn as a mule and if you wanted her to do anything, it took eighty different ways of convincing her. The only person who could make her see reason was Declan himself. Then again, he often said the only person who could make him see reason was me, so I guess we had a nice, symbiotic circle going on.

  * * *

  An hour later, Moira having finally settled in for the night, Declan and I were sitting alone outside as the sun began to set. When he was traveling, I missed these quiet, everyday moments, how great it was to just sit and be with each other away from all of the madness of our hectic lives. Between juggling his devotion to team and country, raising one very spirited daughter, and running a successful pub and inn, times like this were becoming more and more infrequent.

  “So,” he said, spinning a bottle of beer in his large hands, the condensation trailing down the glass to pool on the table between us. “How much longer were you going to keep me in the dark?”

  His eyes flicked to my breasts, definitely larger than they’d been when he’d left for Australia almost a month ago. I didn’t have small boobs to begin with so my current state of boobage was quite the eyeful.

  “It’s the boobs, isn’t it?” I asked, looking down at my rounded globes.

  His eyes followed and he smiled salaciously. “God, I love your tits when you’re pregnant.”

  And he did. I’d barely been able to keep him away from me the last two months of my pregnancy wit
h Moira.

  Trailing his eyes to my face, his smile sobered and his face became worried. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry,” I answered.

  I didn’t like keeping something so monumentally important from him, but I didn’t want him worrying about me when he was in Australia either. Or worse, telling his coach he couldn’t go at all. Because I had no doubt in my mind that’s exactly what he would have done … and probably without discussing it with me first. He loved rugby, but he was insensible when it came to his girls.

  His eyes traveled down my torso to where my belly was hidden beneath the table. It had a slight bump at this point, but it looked more like I’d eaten my weight in burritos than I was carrying around a human inside of me. I’d never gotten this far with those two other pregnancies, but I’d really started to show with Moira around the four-month mark so any day now I expected to pop.

  Mmm, burritos, I thought despite us having just finished dinner. I could put a hurt on an al pastor super burrito with extra guacamole and pico de gallo right about now.

  My cravings this time around leaned decidedly toward the spicy end of the spectrum, whereas with Moira I’d wanted only potatoes. Declan had gotten a hoot out of that and had called her his little Irish spud the entire time she was in my belly.

  “I was going to tell you soon, I promise. I just didn’t want you worrying about me when you were gone.”

  His eyes flashed with anger. “What if something happened?” he asked, his voice strained. “What if you had another miscarriage and I wasn’t here for you?”

  He had every right to be angry, I knew, but I was tired of him blaming himself for something neither of us could control.

  “If I told you I was pregnant, you wouldn’t have gotten on that plane.”

  “Damn straight I wouldn’t have!” he hollered, then checked his volume lest he wake Moira up or alert those damn nosy Veranos to our conversation. If Cait found out I was pregnant, I wouldn’t put it past her to get knocked up too just to compete with me on that front as well.