Chapter 6
Someone truly spiteful would shove me around like I don’t matter to him. And I would shove them right back.
The problem with that is that I like kissing Calum too much to break off.
Plus, straddling his lap gives me a height advantage that I like even better.
It lets me repeat what he did in that alley.
I get to cup his face like he cupped mine.
Get to tilt it where I want him, and I do want him in ways that would make Lito throw his camera into the marina if he could see this difference.
With Calum, I want to crowd close instead of sliding away from someone greasy. Rather than knee him in the nuts and upload a video of snow-dusted nostrils for the world to laugh at, I want to hold tight.
So I do.
My hands are still on Calum’s face, his beard tickling my palms, soft in comparison to the hard line of his jaw, and that’s another contrast like one that followed me all the way back from Kensington.
No matter how fast I sped under so many of London’s bridges, I couldn’t shake off the contradiction between Calum’s hard-man image and everything else he’s shown me.
The internet barely served me a small slice of his story.
I’m so greedy for more, but first I need to kiss him with no cameras running.
A red light blinks somewhere to our side. I reach for its source only for the world to lurch beneath me. The last time I had that feeling, apex predators were the reason. Tonight, it’s Calum Trelawney who shifts me off my axis—I’m flat on my back with him on top, and I’m not mad about it.
His mouth is on mine in an instant, his tongue slipping inside as soon as my lips part, and it’s deeper from the get-go. I don’t know how long we kiss for. I’m lost in the sensation of being covered—smothered—because he’s so fucking heavy, and I had no idea how much I’d like that.
I strain against him, hard already. So is he. I can tell each time his hips shift, adding to a motion I’m well used to after years of living on the water.
Calum can’t be as used to this too-low-in-the-water rolling. He almost slips off until I lock my arms and legs around him.
“Stronger than you look,” he murmurs against my throat, teeth rasping. I’m in favour of this sharp-edged grazing and even happier when his hands get busy with the zipper of my jumpsuit.
He yanks it down, shoving until he can slide a hand under the remaining layers, and if I still needed any convincing about this same-sex attraction, Calum finding my dick cements it. His muffled yeah is triumphant.
I get to see as well as hear it—Calum breaks away from my throat to push himself up one-handed. He looks down at me, gaze dropping to my spread legs, where fabric hides what his other hand curls around tightly.
“Lift,” he orders, and typically I’d argue.
Tonight, I raise my hips fast, not caring that he leaves me bare to the damp chill of my cabin.
Calum getting me naked heats me up in a hurry.
So does him being laser focused on everything he uncovers.
I do shiver then, even though no chill truly registers.
It’s his touch that tightens my nipples, his slow and careful exploration that does it for me right when I could stand for him to be as fast and rough with me as he wanted.
This pace?
It gets to me in a way I don’t have words for.
Actually, I do have several.
“Call this spite sex? You’re not even trying.”
He looks up. His eyes laugh first before I hear it rumble, and who the fuck knows why Calum kneeling over me and grinning makes this even better. His shirt hangs open, his hands chasing goosebumps, and my nerves relocate to wherever he touches.
They spark beneath my skin. Explode like the fireworks do outside the cabin portholes.
Detonate as he works his way down my body.
And when his breath coasts over my hard-on, another firework burst lights the cabin.
It shows a sudden hesitation, Calum’s grin fading while his mouth is so close to where I want it that I’m breathless. “You don’t give head?”
He looks up again, no laughter in his gaze. “What did you say?” He repositions, his mouth finding my throat again as his fist wraps my dick, which does plenty for me—precome helps his hand glide, and his voice turns rougher. “In English, Valentin. What did you just say?”
I didn’t ask if he’d suck me off in French on purpose. I can barely think straight in English, despite my decade and a half here. “I . . . I said, I’m still not convinced.” His hand around me tightens, which feels so good my breath catches. “Actually, that’s not so bad. For a beginner.”
“Who said I’m a beginner?” His grin returns, and yes, I still have questions, but he quits bracing above me, and every single one can wait.
Calum’s tongue slides back where it belongs next to mine, and I can’t even be sad when he lets go of my dick because we’re back to the dry humping that, before this evening, I hadn’t done in forever.
He pants into my ear, “What did you just say?”
I didn’t know I’d spoken. “Uh, I said I haven’t got off like this since my last year of boarding school.
” I push up against him, and there’s no need to translate what that movement begs for—he grinds down harder, still half-dressed and so, so frantic that we both almost lurch over the edge of the bench seat.
Again, he braces, this time to stop both of us from hitting the deck, and I grasp him so tightly that the vibration of his question rumbles through me.
“You said this bunk pulls out?”
“It used to—”
If I wanted a demonstration of strength, I get it.
Calum wrenches my bunk to full-size with me on it, and with what looks like zero effort.
I sprawl back to watch him lose the rest of his clothes.
He steps out of his suit trousers first, quads just as impressive as earlier this evening.
His shirt is next, snagging at his elbows while more fireworks explode.
Red sparkles fill the whole cabin, and once Calum shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off, he’s speckled with sparks. And faded bruises. So many of them.
I kneel up to kiss the edge of one splashed across his belly. His cock is right there, so I do what he hesitated over, my mouth way too busy then for either French or English.
I lick all the way up his shaft until my tongue dries.
Precome wets it again when I suck the smoothness of his crown.
He’s so hot. Musky in a good way. Big, but not impossible to manage until his hips jerk, and then I splutter.
I also hope we get another chance to practise because he’s good at reading silent signals—the moment I grip his thighs, he stops.
Holds still. Goes slower, only giving me more after I dig my fingers into the meat of a phenomenal bottom.
More fireworks sparkle with ruby flashes. Or maybe lack of air does that to my vision. All I know is that I look up and Calum looks down, and I stop breathing.
He’s so into this.
Into me.
I taste it, getting a sudden mouthful of sharp-tasting proof he’s close already, and his hips tilt one more time in a frantic stutter. As suddenly, I’m flat on my back again with no warning, and with him as a warm and heavy blanket.
His kiss is desperate until he breaks off to roll us sideways. He gets a hand between us and holds our dicks together. I don’t know when my fingers found his hair. They spasm, but Calum’s growl doesn’t sound like a no in any language.
My brain can only process what his hand around our dicks has done—I’m there, coming with his face tucked into the crook of my shoulder. Calum shudders too, so I guess we both won this race to the finish.
I float while my boat bobs in the water, and me giving a hockey player a good, long cuddle wasn’t how I expected this evening to end, but I one hundred percent recommend it.
“Speak English around me, yeah?” His face is still against me, beard tickling my shoulder, my throat, the shell of my ear. “I want to understand you.”
“I might.”
“That means you absolutely won’t, doesn’t it?” His hand runs down my back to pinch my rear end. “Dickhead.” Pulling back, he looks at the mess we’ve made between us. “You’re not planning on making anything easy on me, are you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” And fun is what I’ve been missing.
Or at least this heart-pounding feeling of not knowing what will happen.
I lean up on one elbow to wipe us with a discarded T-shirt, then study what fireworks pop off to show me.
Calum lays flat on his back, both hands covering his heart.
His eyes are closed, eyelashes casting jagged shadows, and this sounds as rough-edged.
“My agent had this written into my very first pro contract.”
“What? Me being a dickhead to you en francais?”
He laughs, which is loud in contrast to his voice quickly getting so much quieter. His eyes stay closed at this confession. “My contract has a clause about me being bi. And about no club I signed with dropping me for it, if I met someone who . . .”
I preferred that laughter to how his voice now fades, so I try to tease more of it from him. “Someone who what? Had a cock you couldn’t resist? Or who annoyed you into getting yours sucked?”
He chuffs out another laugh. It doesn’t hold much humour.
“Believe me, cocksucking happens on the road. Teams close ranks on that. What I had written into my contract was me not being dropped for catching long-term feelings.” His eyes open.
“My side of the deal was that I’d work with management if it happened.
Give them advance warning if I could. Drop everything to be present if I couldn’t. ”
“To deny it.”
I sink onto a pillow. It leaves our faces so close I can see how much he means this.