Fifteen #2
God, that smile was so infectious. “Not too many, not too few. Juuusst right,” he said, drawing those last words out as he pressed two fingers inside – not just to the first knuckle but all the way, gaze fixed on me.
Everything with him was a challenge, yet he seemed perfectly at ease, the one in charge even as I gave the orders.
I thought through all the things that might push him out of his comfort zone, only to realise that anything that did was probably something I didn’t want to see.
He was just too comfortable with his own body. But there were other ways to win.
“Do you do this when you’re alone?” I asked, watching him press his fingers in deep again.
“Sometimes. Dildos are easier though.”
Almost I asked if he had brought one with him, but watching him fuck himself on a rubber dick might wreck me, while not discomposing him in the slightest.
“What do you think about when you do it?”
“Lots of different things,” he said, his words getting slightly breathless as he curled his fingers inside himself to find all the most pleasurable spots. “You, on the rare occasions I’ve had to take care of myself recently.”
“What about me?” I asked. “Use your words.”
He laughed, only to bite his lip as he kept his fingers working. “Touché.”
“Well? When you close your eyes, what am I doing to you?”
“You fuck me mostly,” he admitted.
“Details, Callahan. What exactly do you think about me doing?”
A hint of wariness replaced some of the heat in his gaze, though his cheeks were flushing with pleasure and his fingers didn’t stop – this a challenge he sure as hell wasn’t going to fail either.
“You hold me down. You pull me up by my hair. You slap my ass and tell me to take it like a good boy. You tell me how good I feel, that no one has ever felt this fucking amazing tightening as they come on your cock.”
There was a needy tremor in his voice now and I stared at him, letting out my own groan through parted lips. I’d never felt closer to coming without touching myself, without even the friction of my shorts to rub against.
“What else do I do?” I asked, the words rough in my throat.
“You fuck my mouth.” He said it and looked immediately hesitant, as though after all the rest, he was unsure what I would think about that one.
“Oh, you like it when I do that?” I said, the mere thought destroying me and turning my voice to gravel.
“Yeah, I get there really fast thinking about that. Oh my god, Mat, get the fuck over here.”
I didn’t need telling twice.
Having ripped off my shirt, I all but dove atop him as he shifted up the bed, pulling a pillow beneath his arse as he went.
He was never reticent about what he wanted, and I took my cues from his body, hoisting both his legs onto my shoulders.
And with his hole already slick, I pressed into him and he arched back, letting out a heartfelt groan as I slid slowly inside, all the fucking way.
“Shit,” I said, pausing to shudder out a breath.
“After that show, I’m not going to last very long. ”
Miles huffed out a tense laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m right with you. Just . . . god, just . . . wait a moment, actually. Fuck.”
Together we stilled, breathing off climaxes that had already come too close. I leaned forward to kiss him softly, our bodies locked together, his thighs pressed almost right up against his torso. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate this flexibility of yours?” I said between kisses.
“Mmm, not in so many words, but I have eyes. And I’m quite a fan myself.”
As though to draw attention to how close our bodies were, he squeezed his muscles, contracting around my dick. I hummed into our next kiss. “Careful.”
“I’m almost good,” he said. “I just didn’t want to miss out on a proper railing. Although, this is quite a good stretch. Should get you to help with all my pre-match routines.”
Our next kiss became a shared groan at that thought, before he nodded. “All right, that’ll have to do. Go for it.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured, and go for it we did.
I thrust hard and kissed harder, and gripping his hair, forced up his chin to lightly suck the sensitive skin beneath.
I wanted everything and gave him it all, and with a loud, wild cry, he called out my name as he came, his release shuddering all the way through him.
Even biting the inside of my cheek couldn’t have stopped me longer and I crushed my lips to his to keep from moaning his name in return, lest the possessive desire that filled me pour out in its wake – I want you, I want you, you’re mine.
I kissed him through it, and through the lingering quivers of our bodies, the aftermath feeling raw and momentous in a way it shouldn’t have.
Desperate to escape the feeling and lighten the moment, I said, “And to think you worked so hard to clean yourself up in that terrible shower, only for me to make a mess of you again.”
I pulled out, and Miles let out a final little moan steeped in regret as we parted. “You say that like I mind,” he said, touching two fingers to where cum was now leaking out of him, the sight always desperately hot especially because it was mine. “Besides, I like showers, even if this one sucks.”
“You can use ours if you like.”
He shook his head, a little bemused. “I’m good. You need your own shower. Got to look good for those cameras tomorrow.”
“God, don’t remind me,” I said, glad to talk about something as safe as tennis, even if it was about my upcoming match. “Centre court! Too bad it’s not a late match, I could have borrowed your slutty eveningwear.”
“Idiot.” He grinned and pushed my shoulder with his foot. “Go on. You should go.”
“Oh, had enough of me already?”
I’d spoken lightly, but Miles gripped my arm before I could rise. “Hey, no. Never,” he said. “But it’s getting late, and unlike me, you have a match tomorrow and need to get your head in the game. Something tells me that dealing with a drunk idiot is not usually part of your preparations.”
I wanted to say ‘but what if my tournament is over tomorrow?’ or ‘What if this is our last day?’ But what did it matter if it was?
The end had been implicit since the beginning and he was right.
I needed to prepare, needed to call Danny and get a good sleep, not spend the evening making out while a replay of Bicchieri’s most recent match went ignored on the TV.
A sensible man escaped while he could and, occasionally, I could be sensible. I glanced around for my clothes.
“Hey.”
I looked back, the sight of him lounging on the bed—sleepy and sated and beautiful—one I wished I could burn forever into the back of my eyelids. “Yeah?”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “You know, I wouldn’t let you go so soon if I thought there was any chance of you losing tomorrow. You’ve got this. I’m sure of it.”
THE CROWD’S WELCOMING cheer when I stepped onto court was nothing to their thunder when I smashed the final winner – the sound deafening.
With a roar, I dropped to my knees and let out what felt like a lifetime of pent-up relief and adrenaline, racquet falling from my hand.
It had taken almost four hours but I’d done it in four sets, and as an underdog against the world number three, the crowd had been with me from the very first service break.
Yet all I could think was that I hoped he’d been watching.
When the on-court interviewer asked how I felt after such a win, I know I laughed, but the rest was a blur and I could only hope that years of tennis speak had come to my rescue.
In its aftermath, the whole match felt like that, a collection of tiny moments making a mosaic in time – the hush of the crowd before the first serve, the echo of the umpire’s voice, and Bicchieri’s incredulous look toward his team when I demolished his third service game.
Then I was signing balls and scribbling something on the camera and heading for the locker room in a daze. By the time I dug my phone from my bag, I had regained my head.
Miles C
fuck yes! i told you so! god it feels good to be right. congratufuckinglations!
Nico
Broooooooooooooooooooooo!!!
Mum
That was outstanding, Matty! We’re so proud of you. I know you’ve got a tonne of press and cool down to go through, so we’re heading to bed. Call us later! Love you!
Danny
Congrats, kid! Call me when you can.
As I climbed onto a bike to start my cool-down, I thumbed Danny’s number and set the phone to my ear.
“Mat!” Danny said, answering after only a single ring. “That was amazing. Haven’t seen you play like that for years. Bet that felt good.”
“So good. Wasn’t sure I could still do it, honestly. Did you see that backhand down the line in the second?”
“And that dropshot in the fourth! I mean the whole match was a joy to watch.”
“Thanks.” I grinned as my legs slowly pumped the pedals. Around me, the chatter of people coming and going from the gym held the hum of early-tournament possibility, perfectly suiting my energetic mood. “So, when can I expect your notes?”
Danny laughed. “Steady on! You just beat bloody Marco Bicchieri for the biggest win of your career. They’re already calling it the upset of the tournament and half the draw hasn’t even played yet!”
My grin widened, the whole thing still feeling surreal. “Right, but there’s always something to improve, isn’t there?”
“Nature of the game,” Danny agreed, “but I think you can give yourself a few hours grace to enjoy this, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Danny.”
“You’re welcome, kid. But Mat? Play nice with the press, all right?”
Once I’d showered and made my way to the press room, I was surprised to find it looked the same as it always did, all dark curtains and pale lights, synthetic carpet and boards emblazoned with sponsorship logos.
Eyes and cameras turned my way as I entered, the click click click of my life becoming snapshots always unnerving. I took my seat at the table, telling myself to relax. This time I deserved to be there. Had earned the interest.