Ten #2
Back on court, he settled into the same pattern – serving fast so I had no time to get stuck in my own head.
For the first few points, it was more of the same tense failure, but as exhaustion pushed me into instinct, all that remained was the feeling of his words expanding my chest, giving me space to breathe again.
And on his next serve, I let everything go and just swung.
“Forty fifteen!” Miles called and served again. And again, I let instinct win, taking the ball early and tearing it down the line.
“Forty thirty!”
I’d loved playing once, but as a fierce joy burst out of me, I realised I’d forgotten what that truly felt like.
And I surrendered to it, ripping back returns and charging the net, finessing bitchy drop shots and lobbing over his head, the pair of us soon scrambling our way through rallies that left our chests heaving.
With a searing ache building in my legs, I was running on nothing but adrenaline, whether my shots even went in having long since ceased to matter.
And it wasn’t until Miles started grinning that I realised how long it had been since he’d called out the score.
“Did you . . .” I sucked a deep breath, hands on my knees after another glorious rally. “Stop . . . scoring?”
“Ages ago!” he called back, his smile brighter than any sunshine.
“Why?”
He spread his arms and laughed. “Why do you think? You fucking did it!”
The goal had stopped mattering, yet at those words I dropped to my knees, racquet sliding from my hand. And setting my forehead to the court, I laughed like something inside me had flown free.
When I looked up, Miles was leaning on the net, his hair damp with sweat. “You did good,” he said, soft amusement in his lopsided grin.
“Thanks,” I replied, a word wholly incapable of expressing everything I wanted to say. But it would have to do, because every other word was caught in a tangle of gratitude and sentimentality, and would surely have ended with me crying.
Straightening up, he folded his arms and attempted a scowl. “Yes, well, as your temporary coach,” he began with mock gravitas, “allow me to say that while I’m proud of you, I also knew you could do it and I told you so.”
“Is that how Leo Mannering talks?”
“Ha! I wish. No, but if I was channelling him, I wouldn’t be able to congratulate you on winning this spectacular piece of ass.
” He gestured down his body, drawing attention to the dark green shirt slicking to his chest, to the sheen of sweat gleaming on his arms and turning his leg hair into damp little curls. “What do you plan to do with it?”
Easier always to fall back into the safety of our mutual horniness. “I’d bend you over right here if I could.”
“Since I’m still your coach until we get back, that’s probably unprofessional.”
“When do you stop being my coach?”
“Hmm, let’s say at the top of the stairs.”
After a break to rehydrate, we played a while longer, but I was still flying when we headed back – the rush of finding myself like a shot of adrenaline I couldn’t spend.
The moment we reached the top of the stairs, I shoved Miles roughly against the wall and kissed him, swallowing his gasp of surprise and the appreciative sound he hummed into my mouth.
I slid a knee between his legs and my hands beneath the sweaty hem of his shirt, wanting to touch him everywhere all at once.
“Aren’t you going to let me shower first?” he said, words breathless as I trailed kisses down his neck.
“No, I want you sweat and all.” I licked his jaw from his chin up to his ear like he was a stubbly ice cream, earning a shiver.
“God, Mat, you’re feral!” His laughing attempt to shove me away had no strength in it, but he’d lost the bag off his shoulder and was struggling to keep it hooked on his elbow. “At least let me put this away first!”
I growled but let him go, the hallway hardly the place I wanted him anyway.
He turned to unlock his door, and because I couldn’t help myself, I slid a hand into his hair as I passed.
With a little gasp, his whole body tensed.
He let it go on a shiver as I walked on, leaving the sound of him fighting impatiently with the lock fading behind me.
The touch had been grabby because I was impatient as fuck, and as I unlocked my own door, I wondered what he had thought—had hoped—I was going to do.
Still buzzing, I dropped my bag in my room, grabbed lube and was back in the lounge before Miles arrived. He stepped in with a flick of his hair and I slammed the door shut by shoving him against it.
He gave a pleased little groan as I pressed against him, but said, “You know, when I said you could do anything with me, I figured you would give it some thought and be creative.”
“You’re hot and I want you. I refuse to think any further than that.” I slid my hand up his back beneath the sweaty stick of his shirt. God, he was even hotter with the faint sheen of sweat, his skin warm and yielding like the lips that parted for mine as I kissed him, deeply.
Had it been less logistically difficult, I might have fucked him right there – a thought that must have occurred to him, for he murmured, “I don’t think you’re tall enough to fuck me standing against a door.
I bet I could do it though.” Hooking an arm around my waist, he switched our places.
As I hit the door, the muscular press of his weight against me almost made me change my plans, but he pulled away, eyes wickedly glinting as he backed into the room.
When he bumped into the couch, he stopped, and slowly peeled his damp shirt up over his head, leaving gleaming skin in its wake.
Half a dozen steps took me within reach, and before he could tease me any further, I gripped his hips and spun him to face the couch, a hand in the middle of his back bending him over.
“God,” he groaned as I ripped down his shorts. “I think impatient Mat is my favourite.”
I tore the lube open with my teeth, slicked up and fucked him, one hand on his hip, the other on his back keeping him down.
It was desperately hot how easily he took it, how hungrily he wanted more—faster—harder—and how much he loved it when I gave it to him.
Each moan a shameless plea, every cry of my name a delight.
We were not going to last long, but by god was I going to enjoy every moment.
Until the door creaked, and with a jolt of panic I turned to find Katie standing in the hallway, headphones on and tennis bag over her shoulder. Miles made to flee, but I dug my fingers into his hips to stay his escape.
“Just give us two minutes!” I said.
“What?” Disbelief swept Katie’s horrified face, but rather than argue while I was balls deep in Miles, she lifted a hand and turned away with a vehement, “oh my god,” and slammed the door.
Miles’s laugh had an almost hysterical edge as I went back to pounding him. “Two minutes?”
“What?” I said, sliding my hand down his back and into the loose waves of his hair. “You think I can’t get you there even faster?”
Before he could answer, I gripped his hair and tugged hard, and Miles’s laughing protest became a guttural cry of, “fuck, yes!” that tore from his bared throat.
God, it felt good to be right. As good as listening to his desperate little gasps as I worked his cock.
As good as watching his fingers dig into the couch.
As good as the way he pressed back against me all need.
As he neared his climax, I pulled him up by his hair to lean against me, his back to my chest, his head on my shoulder. “Fuck, you feel so good,” I growled by his ear as his gasps became wanton moans. “That’s it. Come for me, Miles. Show me how much you love this.”
A few more strokes and he was done, and looking down the curve of his arched torso, his every muscle tensing as he unloaded, was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
When I let him go, he collapsed atop the back of the couch, a string of “fuck”s hissing out between his lips. As he convulsed around my cock, I dug my fingers into his hips and drove the last of my need into him until I came hard, like I was releasing far more than just my load.
For a few seconds, we heaved our breaths in silence, the way my whole body tingled bordering on surreal. Then Miles groaned into the back of the couch, his shoulders shaking with a laugh. “Fuck that was good. Like . . . really fucking good. But Katie is going to kill you.”
“Nah, she’ll be fine,” I said, gently pulling out of him.
Still leaning on his folded arms, he looked up at me over his shoulder. “She’s used to it, in fact? Happens all the time?”
“Ah, no.” I ran my hands down his back, the journey from shoulder to hip one of lithe muscle and skin tacky with sweat.
“I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve had a guy in our shared apartment and still have enough fingers left to give you a rough time.
” I slapped his arse with an appreciative groan because by god, it was a fine arse.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” he asked, grabbing his shirt as he straightened up.
“You tell me.”
He paused in the act of wiping himself, long fingers clutching the discarded shirt.
Its colour almost matched that of the woven bracelet caught at a drunk angle around his wrist. “Fuck, I’d want it to be a promise,” he admitted, unfreezing after a moment.
“But I’m ashamed to say I don’t think I could handle it right now. Not after that.”
In the wake of all the adrenaline and heat and need, I gave an awkward half shrug and a rueful grin. “I did promise you hard and nasty the other day, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did.” He met my gaze only to look away with a disbelieving little shake of his head. “You really are a bundle of contradictions, Matteo. I feel it was quite the understatement the other day when I said you weren’t what I expected.”
“Since you expected cocky dick, I’ll take that as a compliment!”