Eight
Dick Scrunchie
you awake?
Yeah, what’s up?
me
you haven’t left for the gym stupidly early or something have you?
No. I don’t think it’s been ten hours yet though. Something you want?
you’re going to make me ask for it?
I’m going to make you ask for it
you’re a monster
I can feel myself drifting back off to sleep
damn it, i’ve been lying here thinking about your dick for twenty minutes and it’s becoming a problem
cock
now
. . .
please
See? Was that so difficult?
Door’s unlocked
WE FUCKED. WE ate. Then we almost fucked again, but managed to drag ourselves to the gym first, although only I was training hard since Miles was recovering from his previous day’s match ready to play again tomorrow.
He biked and stretched and did some resistance band work, but for the most part he kept me company and made horny comments about my arse.
After that, shower and lunch and rest became shower and lunch and jerk one another off, questing touches hastily becoming an unspoken competition as to who could make the other come first. It was stupid and horny and joyful, the awkwardness of the previous night wholly absent as we laughed and trash-talked our way to climaxes that had no business being that good.
The desire to stay in and just keep fucking him was strong, but I’d booked a court and would kick myself later if I didn’t keep up with my schedule, especially when I had Miles to hit with – a great improvement over a ball machine.
So, we made our way out into the sunshine, carrying our tennis bags and our idiotic grins and the sure knowledge that the moment we got back we’d be shoving each other against the walls and being dicks about it until we were once more fucking like bunnies.
“You know, the weather this week has been uncommonly good for London,” he said as we pushed through the gate onto our court. “It’s suspicious.”
“Saving all the rain for Wimbledon.”
“I’d say don’t jinx it, but what’s Wimbledon without rain?”
He chose a racquet and jogged to the other end of the court to warm-up, the strangeness of the situation nipping at my attention.
I was still coming to terms with having fucked him twice, and now here he stood at the other end of the court, making it impossible to ignore that he wasn’t just Miles Callahan, new fuck buddy, but Miles Callahan, the world number four.
The man who’d beaten me at Roland Garros.
I tried to focus, telling myself I could have a crisis about it later.
Having warmed up, we started with a light hit, more conversation than battle.
From there he set up balls for me to smash and laid out volleys for me to chase, getting me running around the court until I had sweated through my shirt.
It was so much better than working with a ball machine, better even, I had to admit, than working with Katie who, for all her skill, couldn’t hit as hard or as heavy or from such an angle as Miles.
She also lacked a desire to punish me, which he put to good use with that bright gleam in his eyes.
“Is there anything you want to work on?” I asked when we took a break. “I know you’re enjoying making me suffer, but I can return the favour.”
“Serve at me.”
I towelled the sweat off my face. “Because you think it’s hot when I do, or . . .?”
He shoved my shoulder. “It’s not serving that’s hot, idiot. You giving no shits and smashing the ball with confidence is hot. But no, Kozel might have gotten better, but his serve is still his biggest weapon.” Miles pointed to a spot inside the court. “Stand here and serve at me.”
“Inside the baseline? How weak do you think my serve is?”
“Your serve is nasty, but his is more powerful, so stand there and be a dick at me.”
Trying to hide how much I was preening at having my serve called nasty, I shrugged. “If you like. I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to torture you for a change.”
I took the basket of balls and dropped it inside the baseline, while at the other end Miles prepared to receive, bending over ready such that his silver necklace hung down, catching the sunlight.
Not having to watch a score or worry about his response, I cheerfully set aside all thought of tactics and started launching bitchy serves at him, all kick and slice and perfect placement. He lunged for the first few only to miss, and the glee I felt watching him scramble made it even more fun.
“Fuck!” he snapped as he was pulled wide again, reaching the ball with only the top of his racquet frame.
“You said you wanted it hard and nasty,” I said. “So, I’m giving it to you hard and nasty.”
His glare took on a glitter of heat, and he called out, “That had better be a promise!”
I groaned, and adjusted myself in my shorts – a win I happily let him have.
After a few more serves, he started getting used to the speed and the angles but still seemed unable to guess where each was going, and after ten minutes his expression was fighting itself – half grin, half scowl.
“Goddamn it,” he said. “All right, I take it back. Just hard and less nasty for a bit because thankfully Kozel is not you.”
“Are you asking me to go easy on you?”
“You’re standing two steps inside the baseline!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes! Fuck!” He laughed. “Go easy on me.”
“Aw, poor baby,” I crooned, and held up another ball. “Ready?”
Miles said nothing, just prepared to receive again, eyes fixed on me as I launched into my service motion. This time, I kept it simple, focussing on placement and speed, and soon he was ripping almost all of them back like they had personally insulted him.
“He’s in trouble if you return like that tomorrow,” I said when we headed back to our bags to drink and towel down.
“Told you I play best after being railed.” He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt as he spoke, leaving the gleaming expanse of his chest to hammer those words straight to my dick. “If I win, you’ll have to send Kozel your apologies.”
“I can think of better things to do with my time. Do you do celebratory fucks, too, or just preparatory ones?”
Miles gave me that come-fuck-me look of his and pulled on a clean shirt. “Oh, you’re not the only one who’s versatile.”
The urge to shove him against the wire fence and kiss him was strong, but these were public courts, and even without Miles’s insistence on secrecy, I doubted the women playing on the next court would have been impressed by the sight of us making out.
Especially since I would have struggled to keep it at making out.
It was like every shred of energy I’d ever put into hating him had been transformed into desire, making keeping my hands off him a monumental effort.
From its place atop my bag, my phone buzzed, and I glanced down to find Danny had already tried three times to reach me via video call.
“Damn.” I snatched up the phone. “I forgot it was Tuesday. It’s Danny,” I added with an apologetic grimace.
“You’re good,” Miles said. “I’m pretty done for the afternoon anyway.”
I answered the call, and Danny’s face appeared in the middle of the screen, greying hair washed out by artificial light. “Sorry,” I said in greeting. “I lost track of time.”
Danny lifted a hand in something between a salute and a wave. “Hey, I was about to give up on you. It’s getting late here.”
“We can reschedule if you like.”
“We can, but you’ve got less than a week until qualifying starts, so we need to focus. Have you watched those matches I sent through yet?”
Matches I had completely forgotten about. I shook my head. “Not yet, though in my defence you only sent them yesterday morning.”
“True,” he said with a small smile. “But you’ve got to keep building your strategies. Tennis is like chess, after all, you’ve got to practice building those points and thinking as many moves—”
“But that’s not how Mat plays,” Miles interrupted with a scowl.
For a moment, there was no sound but the rustle of leaves and the distant thwack of the ball from the next court. Then Danny’s expression glitched into a frown. “Is that Callahan again?”
“Yeah, he’s here.” I glanced up at Miles, a knot forming in my gut. “We were having a hit.”
Miles leaned into view with a tight smile. “Afternoon, Mr Lovett.”
“Callahan,” Danny said. “I’m surprised you’re not at Queen’s.”
“I was yesterday and I will be tomorrow, but today I needed a good hitting partner.”
“Well.” Danny seemed to chew this over. “If you’re having a hit, we can talk strategy later. Why don’t you set me up on the sideline somewhere so I can watch Mat while you boys play for a bit.”
Boys. Not a descriptor that had ever bothered me before, yet it felt deliberately belittling given what I knew he was presuming about us.
Miles showed no sign he thought so and agreed with a shrug, yet when he headed to the other end of the court, he looked bored and annoyed, nothing like the Miles I’d been hitting with for the last hour.
Failing to catch his eye, I searched for a way to prop up my phone on the sideline.
“You didn’t tell me Callahan was sticking around,” Danny said as I fetched a water bottle to lean him against.
“It didn’t seem important.”
“Not important that you’re hitting with a top-five player?” The phone speakers gave his laugh a tinny edge. “I’d have given you a different regimen if I’d known he was there.”
I knelt at the side of the court, using the excuse of finding a good angle for the phone not to answer.
With a creak of his office chair, Danny leaned his elbows on his desk, drawing closer to the screen. “Are you boys . . .?”
He left the question to trail off suggestively and I wasn’t sure if I was most annoyed by society’s eternal assumption that any man I spent time with I must also be fucking, or that Miles’s request for secrecy meant I had to lie.
Although annoyance at the former certainly made the latter easier.
“Are we what?” I asked curtly, turning the phone so he could see as much of the court as possible.
“You know what I mean, Mat. And you know I don’t care, except when it gets in the way of your game.”