CHAPTER 21
Leo
He flips his cap backwards, eyes gleaming with competitiveness, his mouth teasing a small smile that he won’t let free.
I have to breathe slowly to stop my hands shaking. I’m living outside of my body right now, floating above this surreal scene. I’m about to play tennis with George Hampden.
And not only that, George Hampden called this a date. He wrote me a note. He held my hand. He organized this, for me.
I can’t comprehend how the man I hated so much, for a year, is the same man who called me cute for blushing. Called me pretty. Who said he thought my eyes were incredible?
It’s a lot. I’m thankful we’re playing tennis and therefore my mind shouldn’t wander. Every ounce of my concentration has to be on the point we’re playing, my next shot, his return, the ball, the depth, the spin . . .
It shouldn’t be on his thighs, thick but lean, tanned, flexing as he bounces from foot to foot just behind the baseline.
Not on his arms, muscles perfectly defined, protruding from his tennis shirt as he swings side to side, causing it to cling to rounded pecs.
He stretches up and the hem rises, a hint of sculpted abs peeking through.
I shouldn’t focus on how he’s literally mouth-watering.
Fuck. I need to focus.
He bounces a ball, two, three times. ‘Want to serve first or shall I?’
‘You,’ I call back over the net. I look up at the ceiling, a work of art in itself but nothing on the view in front of me, and exhale deeply, centring myself.
‘Ready?’ He looks serious. I gulp. Come on, Leo.
‘Just get on with it. Quit stalling!’ My voice sounds more confident than I actually am.
He grins, ‘OK. Good luck.’
He executes a perfect serve, half the speed he’d use in a competition, and my brain kicks into gear following the same basic start point that has been drilled into me for years.
Turn, racket out, waist height, 45 degrees.
I hit the ball back, a perfect rainbow over the net, topspin bringing it down a metre inside the baseline. Thank you, Jack.
‘Impressive!’ he shouts over, and we’re off.
We rally back and forth most of the time, settling into the rhythm of each other’s game.
I find myself totally at ease, and in turn my shots are fluid, strong.
He’s a good partner, placing the ball perfectly to allow me to set up my return.
It’s fun, comforting. The thwack of the ball, the echoing bounces around the cavernous space; it’s like a cathedral, and I’m here to worship. Tennis is my happy place. Hallelujah.
I stop for some water, breathless and exhilarated. He jogs over, having barely broken a sweat.
‘You’re good, Leo. Your form is so graceful, elegant.’
I blush. Again. He chuckles, a new sound to me. I like it a lot.
‘I have a good teacher.’ His brow lifts. ‘Jack,’ I clarify.
‘Oh yeah? He is the best.’ He shakes his head. ‘Insane he’s not a pro really. But he loves teaching.’
‘He’s so good at it, I’m not surprised.’ I smile. ‘Everyone loves him.’
George frowns. ‘But you two never . . .?’
I laugh and some of the tension in his face lifts. ‘No. We weren’t meant to be like that. He’s like a brother to me now.’
‘Do you ever play matches against him?’
‘Sometimes.’ I search his face. ‘Why?’
‘Will you play with me?’ His tone is playful and it makes him look younger, lighter. He’s glowing and it’s so beautiful I stumble over my reply.
‘I-I can.’ I shake my head. ‘But surely you’ll just smash me?’
‘I’ll be good. Promise.’ He looks downright cheeky now. ‘I won’t go too hard.’ He raises his eyebrows, walking back to the baseline.
Being this close to him, it’s hard to deny him anything. When he’s in this mood, I can’t resist.
‘Fine, but please, don’t totally destroy me.’
‘I won’t. Besides, you’re good. I should be asking you the same,’ he shouts from the opposite baseline.
I roll my eyes. ‘I’ll serve first.’ I remove a ball from my inside pocket and look over. He’s bouncing on his toes, bent over, eyes focused. ‘Ready?’
‘Quit stalling, Leo!’ He echoes my previous words and I smile.
My serve is adequate and he returns it gently.
I send a powerful forehand crosscourt and run to cover both halves as he sends it back.
I push him deeper, until one of his shots bounces in the service box and I sprint forward, connecting just as the ball reaches net height, my racket path flatter, powerful as I send the ball low into the back corner.
Usually a certain winner, he lobs it back easily. I run backwards, attempting an overhead smash as he jogs to the net, ready to volley. I hit the ball as hard as I can, controlling my swing and end up sending it straight into his side as he ducks out the way.
My hand flies to my mouth. ‘Oh my god!’
He’s doubled over in pain by the net, his racket on my side of the court. I run over and pick it up, mortified, but as I reach him, he stands up slowly, his face creased in laughter, his body shaking.
‘I thought I hurt you.’ I lean across the net to smack his arm with my free hand. ‘Idiot!’
He’s still laughing, breathless. ‘You’re amazing.’ He reaches for me, taking my hand in his, and pulls me towards him. ‘What a shot . . .’
‘So you’re not hurt?’ I try not to smile.
‘No.’ His smile is so wide, I can’t help but grin back.
I can’t believe I get to see him like this.
‘I’m just so impressed by you.’ He brings my hand up, placing it on his broad shoulder, before moving both of his to my waist, fingers flexing as he tugs me closer.
We’re only separated by the net. ‘You’re good, Leo .
. .’ He almost whispers it as his head ducks down, nose skimming my ear, following a path down to my collarbone.
He pulls back to look me in the eye. ‘And not just at tennis. I think you’re good for me. Thank you.’
‘For what?’ My voice is husky. He smells delicious.
‘Just thank you. For making me smile.’ His eyes are fire. Intense. He softly brings his hand to the back of my neck, fingers pushing through the hair at my nape. I look up at him; my whole body is tingling, warmth slowly blooming in my core from his touch.
He looks at me questioningly and I give him a slight nod. Ducking to reach to me, he peppers light kisses along my jawline, punctuated with whispered ‘thank you’s, the only sound alongside the steady rise and fall of his chest as his breathing intensifies.
This is so hot, torture. I’m desperate to feel his mouth on mine, but he continues to tease me, kissing my cheeks, my forehead. He pauses before kissing me gently, almost reverently, at my temples.
I’m trembling as he pulls back, face impossibly close to mine, and looks me in the eye. His are a stormy, smoky grey slicing through the deep warm brown. Tumultuous.
‘You are so beautiful, Leo,’ he breathes as he finally lowers his mouth to mine and our lips touch softly, the gentlest of kisses.
It’s instantly electric. He breaks the contact with a small gasp, his eyes wild, roaming my face.
But only for a second, before his grip tightens on my neck, his other hand running lower, his lips finding mine, desperate for more.
His tongue pushes into my mouth just as his hips push against me and I let out an involuntary moan, dropping the rackets.
They clatter to the floor and I pull away. ‘George, I’m sorry, your racket!’
‘I don’t care.’
His voice is gravelly, rough but commanding, as he returns to my lips, gliding his tongue against mine, the searing kiss heating my entire body.
I can feel his low groan reverberate against me as my tongue flicks his in return, my hands thrust into his dark curls and my arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer and closer. I can’t get him near enough.
Our bodies are pressed tight, my breasts full and aching to be touched, against his chest. I allow my hands to roam across his body, exploring the sharp planes of his muscular form.
We’re separated only by the net, but I can still feel his erection, hard against my stomach.
Desire courses through me; I’m so wet already, my core is pulsing, nearly unbearable.
I’ve never felt like this, where uncontrollable need overtakes all sanity.
I don’t know if anyone can see us. Frankly, I don’t care right now.
His hands move lower, squeezing my arse as he grinds against me, and I shiver, my breathing laboured as he groans, ‘Fuck. Leo. This is perfect.’ My core clenches at the sound of my name on his lips.
They leave mine and I feel empty until they drop to my neck again, trailing slowly up my throat until his tongue is hitting my most sensitive spots.
He reaches my ear, practically growling.
‘You taste so good.’ He bites my neck, causing me to shudder with pleasure before kissing the small hurt away, his tongue flicking against me.
‘I bet your pussy is fucking delicious.’ I whimper, unable to stay quiet.
Fucking hell. He doesn’t seem to have trouble talking now.
This is, without doubt, the single hottest make-out session I’ve ever had. He’s no longer the George Hampden I see on the screen, the tennis superstar, cold, beautiful. He’s George, giving and warm and real.
I moan loudly as he catches my mouth with his lips again, and the sound echoes in the hall, causing us to stop.
We part slowly, chests heaving, and he bends down, pressing his forehead to mine.
‘That was so fucking hot,’ he rumbles, voice low. I feel my face flame. ‘I love this.’ He kisses my red cheeks again, before moving back to step over the net, picking up the rackets in one huge hand.
He pulls me into his side, the other hand around my waist as he kisses the top of my head and guides us to the edge of the court.
‘I don’t think I can play right now,’ he tells me, looking pointedly at his crotch. I stop myself from staring. His breathing slowly returns to normal. ‘So technically you win. That last point was yours.’
I laugh while trying to breathe evenly, so my words still come out laboured. ‘So I’ve taken a game from George Hampden?’
‘You’ve taken more than that.’ He exhales. ‘Fuck. How am I supposed to get anything done today now?’ He smiles down at me before lowering his mouth to mine for a lazy kiss.
His lips are so soft, full, I can’t help but bite down and he groans before twisting again to face me, setting the rackets down gently this time on the bench.
He plays with a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind my ear as he looks me straight in the eye. ‘I’m trying to be a gentleman, but if you want me to fuck you right here, right now, just tell me, Leo.’ His words hit me, rippling pleasure throbbing through me. I can’t think straight.
He kisses me again, deeper, murmuring against my mouth, his breath hot.
‘Because if I wasn’t a gentleman, I’d have my hands up this skirt .
. .’ His hands move lower, down my waist, as he continues, ‘If I wasn’t a gentleman, I would tell you that I think your arse is fucking phenomenal, but I can’t stop thinking about your pussy .
. .’ I blush again at his heated gaze, a cocky smile playing on his lips.
He cups me over my skirt and I gasp loudly as he pushes the heel of his hand against my clit.
‘Are you wet for me, Leo?’ His other hand comes back up to my jaw, gently forcing me to look him in the eye. ‘Because you make me so. Fucking. Hard.’
I close my eyes. It’s so erotic I can’t focus on anything other than his touch, and a loud moan escapes me once again as our mouths collide.
‘Excusez-moi? Monsieur Hampden?’ A voice comes from the hall, footsteps echoing, and we spring apart.
George picks up the rackets hastily, placing them strategically against him, before catching my eye and offering me another wink.
I hide a shy smile and straighten my skirt, smoothing down my hair just as an older man walks in, La Cavalerie uniform tight across his ageing frame.
‘Merci, Thibault.’ George thanks him in perfect French. ‘Nous avons terminé ici. Merci pour votre aide.’ He gathers our things and takes my hand as ‘Thibault’ looks me up and down. I know my lips are puffy, swollen, and I appear a little out of it.
He looks at George, shaking his head with a knowing smile, and a horrible thought pops into my mind. How many girls has he brought here before?
I pull away slightly and he frowns, questioning.
Images from the press of him stumbling out of various clubs flash through my mind, a different girl in tow each time. I remember vague headlines about him ending his engagement right before Wimbledon last year, his blonde fiancée, Olivia, notably missing from his box.
Was I just the latest?