The Thing About My Rival (The Boston Commoners #1)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DREW

I might have had only two small glasses of Guinness, but I weave a line toward the bar that would suggest I’ve had closer to twenty.

My brain is on the spin cycle, my legs like overcooked spaghetti.

How in the holy mother of hell did I keep my hands off him?

How was that the hottest thing I’ve ever known even though he barely touched me?

How the hell can I ever look at him again and not be overwhelmed with the desire to smash my lips against his, or suck one of them between mine, or just gently rest mine against his for several hours?

When I reach the bar, I grip the edge and bend at a right angle from the waist, letting my head dangle free in the hope the blood will rush to it and calm my racing thoughts, steady my trembling hands, and slow my galloping heart. The wetness between my legs is a lost cause though. That’s not going away any time soon.

I close my eyes and take those deep breaths the mindfulness coach in Portland taught us. In for four…hold for four…out for four…hold for four…in for four…hold for f?—

Two sharp taps sound on the door.

The door I just closed on Hugo.

My heart lurches, and I bolt upright, making my head swim. “Jesus.”

Now my blood is pumping even harder. I clutch my forehead with one hand and steady myself against the bar with the other.

I glance back at where Hugo and I had been sitting, to see if he’s forgotten something. But there’s nothing there other than my empty glass and his almost full one, and he wasn’t carrying anything when he came in anyway.

Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s someone else who forgot something and saw the faint lights still on.

Or maybe it’s drunken assholes wandering around knocking on pub doors. Since all the others are probably still open, they’d have better success pretty much anywhere else.

Yes, it’s probably not Hugo. Why would he come back? No need at all.

Blowing out a long, cleansing breath and smoothing down my hair, I make my way back toward the door.

To be on the safe side, I inch back the blind to check that it’s not an armed robber looking for the night’s takings or something.

Two brown eyes stare back at me from Hugo’s perfect face. The perfect face that has the perfect amount of a smile on it. Not too much, not too little. Just the exact amount that says, “Hi, it’s me again.”

A flutter in my pounding chest ripples down to my belly and settles at my core, where my inner walls throb at the mere sight of him.

My body’s reactions might be beyond my control, but since he’s completely out of bounds and totally wrong for me anyway, there’s no way I’m going to do anything about these thoughts in my head or these feelings in my pants.

Returning his smile, I unlock the deadbolts and open the door. “Did you forget som?—”

The door is snatched out of my hand, Hugo strides in, and his hands are on my face, his mouth on mine.

I freeze for a second, my arms stretched wide like I’m not sure what to do with them.

Which I’m not.

I’m not sure what to do with any part of me.

This is a real kiss. Not like the one on the sideline when we beat Atlanta.

His lips are soft and luscious and taste of beer. The breath through his nose tickles my cheek and, oh dear God, he’s moving his hands down to my waist.

What am I supposed to do? Push him away? Kiss him back? Pass out?

This is a very big decision to have to make in a split second.

Before I can process any part of what’s happening, he eases back a little, just enough to look at me.

“I hate that I can’t remember what it felt like to be with you in Paris.” His breath is fast and heavy. “So how about we make some new memories?”

And I melt. Who knew Hugo freaking Powers had such a way with words? A way that reinforces all the little signs of there being a good man inside this handsome lump of muscle and bravado. A way that makes me think it’s somehow okay to do this incredibly dangerous thing right now and worry about the consequences later. A way that makes me reach up, rest my hands on those solid square shoulders, and stare into the depths of his brown eyes—depths he tries to hide but have become so obvious to me.

His hands slide around to the small of my back, shooting sparks up my spine that burst and tingle at the base of my neck.

“This is an incredibly bad idea.” My voice wobbles with excited nerves. “But yes, let’s make some memories.”

Stretching up on my toes, I rest my lips against his. And for only the second time in my life, I let myself give in to pure physical desire.

I don’t think about tonight’s losing game, I don’t think about how the mouth I’m kissing belongs to the rival I need to beat to stay at my beloved club, and I don’t think about how on earth we’re going to deal with this tomorrow.

I want Hugo freaking Powers. I want him now. And he wants me.

And in this moment, those are the only things that matter.

His lips are soft and cushiony. They tease mine open as he grabs my butt and hoists me up in one effortless move.

Wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, I hold on tight.

“Now that I know what it feels like to have your legs around me, I’m never going to forget it.” His breath is heavy against my mouth. “And Christ, you taste good, Wilcox. ”

“That’s the Guinness.”

“It’s not. It’s you. The sweet taste of grit and determination.”

And then his tongue is on mine, tasting me with all his might, all his need, and shooting electric tingles to every corner of my body.

He carries me, our mouths locked together, over to the bar and sits me on the edge.

His lips move from my mouth to my neck, and his hands find their way under my shirt.

“It’s a sports bra,” I say breathily. “Not something sexy and lacy.”

“I don’t care about your underwear, Wilcox. I care about what’s underneath.”

This man desires me. Wants me. This hotter-than-all-hell man who was among the best soccer players in the world wants me. Right here on my aunt and uncle’s bar.

And I want him, no, need him. Like a wilting flower desperate for water. Like a fading flame desperate for oxygen to stay alight. To hell with the consequences of the awkwardness at work—frankly, it can’t get any more awkward anyway.

Maybe if we finally do this, the tension between us might ease and things will actually be better.

Yes, I’m letting him push up my sports bra and cup my bare breast in his large, strong, groan-inducing hand, purely for the benefit of workplace relations.

He thumbs my nipple, and I sink into a pool of wanton desire, arching into him.

Then his lips are off my neck, his head dipping below the edge of my pushed-up shirt and, oh dear God, his mouth is on my waist.

“Your skin is so soft,” he murmurs against me as his tongue trails up my side and replaces his thumb on my nipple.

“Holy shit.” I grip the edge of the bar and fall forward over his face.

His warm, wet mouth is the most thrilling thing that has ever touched my body. I can just about feel myself dripping into my underwear.

His hand finds my inner thigh and, with a thrilling almost-tickling sensation, moves all the way up to my throbbing center.

When he reaches his goal and strokes a line up and over my core to my clit, the world behind my eyes turns into a pile of floaty pleasure clouds.

“Christ, I want you, Hugo.” And I’ve never meant anything more.

He lifts his face from under my shirt and straightens. My fingers gravitate to his sexily ruffled hair and dig in deep. He takes his hand from my heat and pulls me to the very edge of the bar, where he positions himself perfectly between my legs. And presses against me.

We both sigh at the intimate contact, and his mouth is on mine again—slightly slower now, his lips and tongue moving in time to the grinding of his hips as he circles the glorious hardness in his pants against me.

I shove his jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor, then claw at the edge of his shirt, lifting it up until he takes over and yanks it over his head.

And there, in all his topless glory, is Hugo freaking Powers.

I rake my fingers from his forearms up his biceps, over his muscular shoulders, across his firm wide pecs, and downward, tracing the outline of his abs. He could be a model for an anatomy class—everything perfectly formed, everything in exactly the right place.

He drops his lips to mine again and thrusts his rock-hard erection against me. I press back into him as his hands slide up over my hips, around to my back, and find the waistband of my leggings.

He makes like he’s going to push his hands inside, but, instead, yanks them down. It’s a swift, determined action. An in-charge tug that sends a shiver of desire right through me.

“Lift up,” he says into my mouth.

I raise one butt cheek.

He eases down my leggings, thong with them, on one side.

Then the other butt cheek.

Farther down they go.

The chilly wood of the bar quickly warms against my bare ass.

Hugo lets go of my clothes and steps back, trailing his hands all the way down my legs to my feet, where he yanks off one of my sneakers, then the other, and tosses them over his shoulders with a wide, wicked grin that’s enough to make even the nunniest of nuns throw her underwear at him.

Then he’s back, grabbing either side of my leggings and thong and peeling them lower.

“This is going to be fucking amazing, Wilcox.” His eyes eat up every inch of my flesh as it comes into view. “Fucking amazing.”

“It already is.”

And it is. Amazing. Breathtaking. Extraordinary. None of the words in the dictionary fit. A whole new vocabulary is needed to describe what’s going on inside me right now .

If anyone had ever told me that a sexual encounter with Hugo Powers would feel special, I’d think they’d need to be given a very firm talking-to about how appearances can be deceptive.

But it is special—the anticipation of what’s to come is uniquely sizzling. It’s like the blood coursing through my veins is pumped full of lust—a deep desire fueled by the disagreements, the bickering, the battling against each other for the job. It’s a heady combination that makes me want him to ram himself inside me right now, but also to wait, to draw it out as long as possible, because I don’t want it to end. I don’t ever want to come down from the high of these sensations.

Hugo yanks my leggings and underwear over my feet and tosses them away with my shoes.

Then he dives toward me, head down, like a heat-seeking missile, his mouth landing high on my inner thigh and forcing every last bit of air from my lungs.

My throbbing clit and burning center ache for him to hurry his journey to the top.

He shifts my knee to rest on his shoulder as his tongue glides higher and higher, until…oh sweet baby Jesus…and all the heavens above…the angels are singing and the devils are dancing.

The combination of the sucking and the licking of my clit, and the…oh, whatever he’s doing with his finger—or is it a thumb?—as it slides inside me…

I open my eyes for a second to take in the glorious sight of Hugo’s face between my legs.

His eyes lift to meet mine, his tongue never stopping, his fingers or thumb or whatever he has inside me never stopping. And he wiggles his eyebrows at me.

It’s impossible not to giggle just the tiniest bit. I mean, seriously, I’m about to come on his face and he wiggles his eyebrows at me.

Only Hugo freaking Powers, with his special blend of cockiness and charm, could possibly pull that off.

His hair is like a magnet for my hands and I can’t help but run my fingers through it again. This time I hold on tight and let my eyes drift shut as I bear down on his mouth and his hand and allow myself to dissolve into a mass of nerve endings entirely under his control.

He hits a magic combination of internal and external pulses that cause me to buck into him with an unfamiliar low groan.

I reach back to keep from toppling over and find one of the beer taps to grab onto.

Hugo’s tongue stops and just as I’m about to ask him if he’s fucking kidding me, he speaks. “Come on, Wilcox. Come on.” His words of encouragement are as hot to my ears as they are against my throbbing wetness.

His mouth gets right back to the teamwork with his fingers as they thrust and find the elusive spot in there that no one has ever found before—not even me.

“About to,” I tell him as I fist his hair in one hand and the beer pump in the other and…oh my good fucking God, here I go.

The floaty pleasure clouds behind my eyes now dissolve into bursts of golden explosions against a dark sky.

I buck back and forth, out of my own control yet entirely under his.

My walls clench around his fingers, never wanting to let them go.

The cries I can hear must be mine, but they sound otherworldly, like they belong to a woman who knows what she’s doing and constantly has mind-blowing sex on a bar top with a sports hero sex symbol.

Waves of earth-rocking ecstasy roll over and over me as Hugo works me to keep them going.

A month ago, I’d have sworn that I’d never let Hugo Powers within a ten-foot radius of me. Now here I am grinding on his face and fingers and having the orgasm of my life.

The crashing pleasure gradually calms from roaring surf to lapping ripples, and I let myself fall to my side.

Hugo’s beaming face emerges triumphant from between my legs and bends over me, kissing me long and slow, the taste of me on his tongue. He tickles his fingers up my exposed outer thigh as I stroke his stubbly cheek.

“I want you so much, Wilcox,” he murmurs. “You’ll think I’m spinning you a line, I know you will. But I’ve never wanted anyone or anything the way I want you right now.”

“Not even a World Cup win?”

“Well, okay, maybe that.” He gives my bare ass a playful slap. “But I really fucking want you.”

“Protection?” I ask.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

As he reaches for his back pocket, I finger the outline of the bulge in his track pants. It’s long and thick and a little bit frightening. But good God, I can’t wait to feast my eyes on him, to feel this man in my hands, inside my body.

He’s still trying to undo the foil square when I sit up and plunge my hands inside his pants and boxers.

“Holy shit.” I giggle at my own exclamation.

“Like what you’ve found, Wilcox?” He smirks and raises one eyebrow .

I nod and stroke my fingers up either side of his length. “Like what I’m doing?”

His eyes close and his head falls back. “Holy shit is right.”

I grab him tighter and slowly pump. I want him to feel the best he’s ever felt. For me to be the best for him, like he just was for me.

He twitches in my hand, like he’s already about to explode.

“Fucking hell.” The wrapper still in his hand, he grabs my hips and drags me off the bar, my feet thumping to the ground. In the same swift movement, he spins me around and yanks my ass against his crotch. “Hold on tight, Wilcox.”

And I do exactly as he instructs—lean forward and grab the edge of the bar. It’s exactly the same position I was in just a little while ago when I was taking deep breaths and thought he’d left for the night.

Oh, what a difference a few minutes can make.

The torn wrapper drops to the floor just in front of my feet, which must mean I am fantastically, terrifyingly, close to having Hugo inside me.

He reaches around and strokes my still-swollen throbbing clit.

Then his tip nudges my entrance. Nudges and circles. Nudges and circles.

“Are you ready, Wilcox?” he pants.

“Born ready,” I tell the floor and close my eyes.

The first inch of him makes me cry out.

“You okay?” he asks, resting just the head inside me. “Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop?”

Well yes, it did hurt, but I definitely don’t want him to stop. “It’s okay. You’re just a bit…much. ”

He chuckles. “You’ve thought that since the moment you met me.” And increases the pressure on my clit, setting my body on fire all over again.

He eases himself in a little farther, circles his finger again, reigniting my fire and my juices, and my body welcomes him in.

“Okay?”

It’s nice of him to check again. Even nicer that his voice is so throaty.

“God, yes.” And I am. I could not be more okay to have Hugo freaking Powers filling me with his enormity.

He lets out a long aaah when he finally buries himself up to the hilt.

“Christ, Wilcox.” He rocks back and forth, stroking himself against my inner walls. “You’re so warm and wet and fucking delicious.”

He feels so good. So fucking good. And with all of him inside me and his finger caressing my clit, I start to climb that rising wave once more.

His thrusts get harder, more eager, until he’s exiting my body entirely then powering himself all the way back in. Over and over.

“Shit, I wanted to stay inside you for hours. But I can’t hold the fuck on.” He rams and circles me with such divine pleasure. “Christ, Wilcox. You’re making me come straight away.”

“Good,” I gasp at him as I grip the edge of the bar, pressing down against his hand and back against his dick. “Me too.”

His first spasm inside me tips me over the edge, and I’m lost again, panting, moaning, every part of me contracting and releasing in rhythmic ecstasy, consumed by his pleasure as much as mine .

He bangs into me hard with a cry of his own.

“The sound of you coming, Wilcox. It’s too much.”

And he comes with me. Me hanging onto the bar, him hanging onto me.

“Fuck. Jesus. Oh my God. Oh, my fucking Jesus-ing God. Argh .” The sound of the man behind me losing himself in me is a bigger high than I ever could have imagined.

For a minute it feels like it will never end, like we’ll stand here joined together, never wanting to break free.

But, eventually, the contractions in my core ease against his slowing thrusts.

With one long exhale, he reaches around my waist and pulls me upright, my back against his slick chest, his ever-hard dick still inside me.

“Christ, Wilcox. What have you done to me?”

I peer at him over my shoulder. “Do you think you’ll remember this one?”

He rests his mouth against my cheek. “To my dying fucking day.”

I twist just enough for our mouths to touch. Our lips part and our tongues meet in a slow, deep kiss that’s almost a thank-you.

He nudges himself a little farther inside me. “No one would believe this in a million years.”

And reality hits me like an icy shower. I’d shoved the real world out of my head to allow myself to do this. But his words bring it back like a truck slamming into a concrete wall.

“No one can know,” I whisper, resting my hand on his cheek.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I mean, what would the Fab Four think? ”

I pull my face away just far enough for him to register my concern. “They cannot find out, Hugo.” Shit, neither can my dad. “ No one can find out.”

And the only way to be sure that happens is for us to never do this again. My hand falls from his cheek like a lead weight.

“Of course.” He kisses a line up to my ear. “It’s our little secret.”

Goose bumps ripple from his mouth down my side and all the way down my naked leg, and I’m putty in his hands again.

“But this is too good to ignore,” he breathes against my skin. “Way too good.”

My inner walls give him an involuntary squeeze.

Like me, when it comes to Hugo freaking Powers, they just can’t help themselves.