Chapter 14
Travelling is the one thing about football that I’ve grown to truly loathe.
Living out of a suitcase. Constantly having a changing room smell to my clothes no matter what kind of fabric cleaner I use.
Commercial airlines or team buses filled to the brim with blokes.
It’s a nightmare and a lot less glamorous than the papers would lead you to believe.
And after the mindfuck from my father last night, a quiet Monday at home has never felt so good. Plus, I get to see Sloan tonight, so I know I get to lose my fucking mind for the rest of the evening.
She’s due to arrive after dinner, so I stride into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I’m not much of a cook, but the team diet is normally pretty foolproof. Carbs, protein, vegetables. Mondays are always my pasta night.
I fill a pan with water to set on the stove when my security gate buzzes.
Excitement washes over me when I see Sloan’s vehicle enter after using the code I gave her.
She’s nearly two hours early, and my dick is already pulsing at the thought.
I leave the pan by the stove and head to the foyer to let her in.
When I open the front door, I’m pummelled by Sloan’s tall, slender frame.
Her handbag drops on the tile floor as she shoves her hands on my chest, turning me at a sharp, right angle to slam me against the wall.
She lifts my shirt over my face and devours my chest with her mouth, running her tongue around my pec and biting down hard on my nipple.
“Jesus fuck, Sloan!” I exclaim, my body roaring to life from the sudden invasion.
“Call me Treacle,” she growls, releasing my shirt so I can watch her yank her own up over her head and kick off her flats. “From now on, Treacle or Tre. I’m not Sloan when I’m here.”
My brow furrows at the strained look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I will be as soon as you take your shirt off.”
My instinct is to press her about what’s going on that has her so crazed, but my mind is too cluttered to worry.
Besides, letting her have control will soothe whatever is troubling her the same way giving it up will soothe what’s troubling me.
So I do as I’m told, eager to erase all the bullshit that rests behind both of our eyes.
She stands before me in a grey bra and jeans—a much more casual look than I’ve ever seen her wear.
Her chestnut hair is soft and wild around her shoulders as her chest rises and falls with deep breaths.
The look she gives my entire body is a claiming, like she’s reminding herself of the property she owns.
Technically, she really fucking does. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen her, and I’d do just about anything she demands of me right now.
She steps forward and presses her hands to my bare abs. “I want you to fuck me against this wall. Hard, fast, and dirty. Understand?”
“Yes,” I pant, my dick already hard in my jeans.
She looks down. “Get that dick out of those jeans. Now.”
I do as I’m told. Jesus fuck, I love doing as I’m told.
She ditches her own, along with her bra and knickers. Fuck me, she’s stunning. Wild and angry about something, like a beast that can’t be tamed.
She steps forward and fists me in her hand, squeezing so hard I’m wincing in pleasured pain. “God, you have a sexy cock,” she husks, letting her hard nipples brush against my chest when she adds, “Do you have a condom down here?”
My face falls. “Fuck. No. I can run upstairs.” I move for the stairs, but I freeze because she’s holding my cock hostage.
“When was the last time you were checked?” she asks with a serious look on her face.
I swallow slowly, my body jerking as she strokes the tip of my bare dick along the top of her smooth pussy. Some pre-come seeps out of me and coats her skin. “The team gets physicals at the beginning of every season.”
“What does that mean? When’s the beginning of the season?”
“Two months ago,” I bark out quickly as she presses the head of my dick between her folds. “Jesus Christ, you’re already wet.”
“Damn right,” she replies, clearing her throat and clearly struggling as hard as I am to stay in control. “Have you slept with anyone since then?”
I look away and reply, “No.”
“Gareth.” She says my name like a warning. “I have an IUD in and was tested at an appointment this past week, so I know I’m clean. But if you’re lying to me—”
“I’m not lying,” I snap, my eyes fierce on hers now that she’s questioning my honesty.
“Then why wouldn’t you make eye contact with me? I’m just asking when the last time you had sex with someone else was. I’m considering something very serious here.”
“I haven’t shagged anyone since you last year,” I growl, annoyance ticking my jaw from that admission. It says a lot about me that I’m not interested in sharing, so I really don’t want to be given the third-degree about this.
“Okay,” she replies softly and looks down with a frown as that fact sinks in. She looks up again. “Wait…No one? Are you serious?”
I exhale heavily, rueful resignation overtaking my earlier annoyance. “No one, Tre. I’m telling you the truth.”
Her eyes light up with renewed excitement from this admission. “Okay, then. Are you all right with not using condoms? Because I trust you if you trust me.”
“I trust you,” I reply seriously and hope the twinkle in my eyes isn’t visible to her. Fuck me, just the idea of pushing into her bare is going to have me coming so damn fast.
“Then pick me up and slam that big cock into me until I’m screaming for mercy.”
“Yes, Treacle,” I growl and follow orders like it’s my fucking job.
By the time we stride into my kitchen, we’re both cleaned up, halfway dressed, and feeling a hell of a lot calmer than we were twenty minutes ago.
Sloan glances over at the mess around my stove. “Oh, I interrupted your dinner,” she states, clearly not sorry as she eyes me in my jeans and nothing else.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head and fuss with the pasta as I try to remember where I left off. “I wasn’t expecting you for a couple of hours.”
I put the pan of water on the burner and click the flame to high. Then I turn on the back burner where I left the pasta sauce sitting earlier.
Sloan is watching me curiously. “You look so domestic. I never would have imagined you cook for yourself.”
I shoot her a half-smile. “If you call boiling linguini and heating up premade Bolognese sauce cooking, then yes, I’m a grade-A chef.”
She giggles and strides around the island to peer over the stove. She’s only wearing her jeans and bra, so I have a nice view as she lifts the lid off the saucepan. “Who makes your sauce?”
“Dorinda’s son, Robert,” I reply, staring down at her cleavage as she dips her pinkie in to sample. “He’s saving up for culinary school, so I hired him to help me maintain my diet for extra cash.”
She smiles a pleased sort of smile and turns to face me, her finger still in her mouth, her golden eyes fixating on mine with heated warning. I immediately imagine her lips wrapped around something else. As if she reads my mind, she smirks and her finger plops out of her mouth. “It’s good.”
“Well, there’s plenty, so I hope you’re hungry.” I reach out and place my hand on her hip to pull her in close to me.
She looks down at my embrace with accusatory eyes. I quickly lift my hand away, holding it back in silent apology. That’s right, Sloan’s in charge. She says when, where, and how. With a naughty grin, I grab the linguini off the counter and drop them into the boiling water.
“How was your week?” she asks, hoisting herself up onto the counter next to the stove.
Her question is refreshing. She has no clue I played a game this weekend, let alone won or lost. The entire town of Manchester knows the score, so I’m congratulated everywhere I go. But Sloan somehow manages to continue living under a rock.
Choosing to ignore the horrid conversation I had with my dad, I reply, “It was good. How was yours?”
She sighs. “Pretty shitty.”
“Is that the cause of the early arrival and assault?” I waggle my brows at her. Her cheeks flame red, so I add, “Trust me, I’m not complaining.”
She issues a small smile, my comment soothing her anxiety. “I just had a bad phone call earlier.”
I frown. “Some rich prat you style giving you a hard time?”
She lets out a polite laugh and shakes her head with a curious expression. “Didn’t you say your dad is a famous soccer legend?”
“You mean a famous football legend?” I correct and narrow my eyes at her. She gives an eye-roll and I answer her question with a curt, “Yes.”
“So, aren’t you used to this kind of life?” She gestures around like my house is a direct reflection of how I grew up. “Didn’t you come from money?”
“I didn’t grow up like this,” I reply, tensing at the mention of my upbringing.
My jaw tightens as I think back to the home in Chigwell where we lived when Mum died and how vastly different it was to the small Manchester flat.
The truth is, that’s why it’s difficult for me to imagine leaving Manchester.
This is where my only positive childhood memories live on.
“We lived in a big house east of London, but it wasn’t a home. It was nothing like this.”
Sloan glances around the kitchen casually, her bare feet swinging side-to-side. “You told me before that you hired a decorator because you wanted it to be different from where you grew up. What did you mean by that?”
Anxiety begins simmering inside of me as I shove the rest of the pasta down into the water. It’s impressive that Sloan was really listening back then. I find the majority of people who meet me only listen when I say something they want to hear, which is why I am so reserved with most outsiders.