Epilogue
FRENCH OPEN PARIS
I woke to hazy morning light and the sharp rap of Tina’s knuckles on our bedroom door, because it was one of those mornings.
“Wake up, sleepy heads!” she called. “Or stop being horny, either or!”
Beside me, Miles groaned and called back, “We haven’t even had a chance to get horny yet.”
“Well, don’t start now! Car will be here in ninety minutes and I need you both looking pretty!”
Her footsteps snapped off across the wood. From beyond the door came the hum of low conversation and the gurgle of the coffee machine.
“Good thing you’re always pretty,” Miles murmured, and rolled on top of me, all warm, soft skin and lithe muscle, and wholly mine. “Good morning, love.”
“Good morning,” I said, voice husky with sleep. “Mm, what are you doing?”
What he was doing, was gently sucking the side of my neck while he slid one hand onto my arse. “I’m enjoying you until Tina knocks again,” he said, and shifted his lips down to my collarbone to suck harder because he knew all my weaknesses.
“Hey, careful!” I wriggled, half-heartedly trying to push him off, though it achieved only rubbing our morning erections together. “If you want me to start changing my shirt on court again then don’t leave any marks on me.”
He lifted his head, blowing the hair out of his eyes with a regretful huff. “Why not? The cameras would love that. You could lose in straight sets and no one would talk about anything but your love bites.”
“Our fans, sure, but some people still actually care about the tennis, you know. And we really don’t need to give people more reason to think you’re my big strong top.”
“The unexpected blessing of being three inches taller,” he laughed.
“Two and a half,” I said between kisses, sliding my fingers down his back. “We checked this, remember?”
Miles ground against me, both of us already hard. “Oh, just call it three and let it go, Matteo!”
“Never. It’s two and a half and maybe one day—” I gripped him and rolled, pressing him down onto the bed in my place “—one of our fan fiction writers will get it right and realise that I—” I hitched his legs onto my shoulders and pressed my cock up against him “—am the big strong top.”
He groaned, lifting his arse in encouragement. “Fuck yes, do it.”
“You’ll have to be quiet,” I said, reaching for the bedside drawer. “Or Tina is going to start shouting.”
“You make quiet very difficult, you know,” he complained as I slicked myself up.
I paused, holding my dick mid-stroke. “Are you saying you can’t? We can just go have breakfast instead if you prefer.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Then show me you can do it.” I set the head of my cock against his hole and pushed into him ever so slowly. And Miles bit his lip and held his breath and, though he writhed delightfully, made not a sound.
Once I’d thrust all the way in, I kissed him, soft and adoring. “Good boy,” I whispered against his lips.
And then I fucked him.
TWO HOURS LATER, Tina was waiting when our car pulled up at Roland Garros. “All right,” she said, buzzing with nervous energy as we stepped out. “The court is great and we’re all set up. But uh, there are a few more cameras and rather more people than we expected.”
“What do you mean more cameras?” I asked. “I thought this was just something we’d set up.”
“It is! But I guess word must have gotten out that you’d be here together because—”
“I mean, it’s on the practice court schedule,” Miles said, shouldering his bag with a dismissive swish of his hair.
“—a bunch of the press have turned up and there are quite a lot of fans,” Tina went on, ignoring him. “The tournament director is keeping an eye on things, and has sent two handlers and four security guys.”
I turned a wide-eyed stare at Miles before looking to Tomas and Marcel, who both shrugged. “We’re here to get a feel for the surface and let people see you,” Tomas said.
“Yeah, private courts are for the real work,” Marcel agreed.
“Although,” Jada added, coming around the car with her bag. “If you think I’m not going to get you sweating just because there are cameras, you boys have another thing coming.”
“So long as no one expects us to answer questions,” I said, with a wary glance at Miles. “Press during the tournament is going to be rough enough as it is.”
Because last week it had become public knowledge that Miles had a court date later in the year, part of his parents’ ongoing attempt to take as much of his money as they could get.
“No questions,” Tina assured us with a grimace. “And I’m putting together a statement about the court case in the hope of avoiding questions about it in the press room too. That’s a conversation for later though, come on.”
There were the photographers Tina had hired, there was a gathered clutch of press, and there was the crowd.
It was huge – more people than I had ever seen standing around to watch a practice session in my entire life.
Even the path to the court was packed like people had come just to catch a glimpse of us.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered, but as the first jolt of unexpected panic rippled through me, Miles laced his fingers into mine.
“It’s fine,” he said. “You’ve got this. They’re just here to see us hit balls.”
Full of confidence, he left the security guys to range themselves around us as he led the way through the mass of people, pulling me like a baby duck behind him.
And whenever he paused to say hello and smile and agree to photos, he slid his arm protectively around my waist because fuck it, everywhere outside the bedroom he was my big strong top.
I had gotten better at dealing with people asking for autographs and pictures during the last season, but since the Australian Open things had gotten a lot more intense.
Now, this was the first grand slam since Miles and I had come out as a couple, and already we couldn’t move for having things shoved at us to sign.
Beyond the security guys some people were even screaming, the mass of people shifting around us like a wave.
Eventually, we made it to the practice court, and as we did, I realised it was the same one Miles had deliberately booked after me a year before.
With anyone else I would have thought it a coincidence, but Miles Callahan wasn’t a man who let things happen when instead he could plan and make it happen differently.
That we were here on this court again, meant he’d wanted us to be.
When I caught his eye, he just smiled.
Normally in practice session, we would only have been hitting balls, but because Tina had organised this as a low-key photo shoot, we gave the packed audience a full show.
Jada started us with movement drills, getting us sweating as promised in the fine Parisian sunshine, before Tomas and Marcel had us hitting practice shots and serves.
And then, because it was just what we did, we had fun making each other scurry for some ridiculous shots to enormous cheers from the crowd.
And when the hour was done, I met him at the net.
“See?” he said, his damp hair flopping into his eyes as he pulled off his sweatband. “They just came to watch us hit balls. And maybe also . . .”
He hooked a finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up the two and a half inches to meet his dark, steady gaze. And there he paused while my heart thudded and the whole damn crowd starting squealing.
“Mm now there’s a picture that’ll go viral,” he murmured.
“Playing for the crowd, are we?” I asked.
Miles lowered his lips toward mine, not quite touching. Near the fence a group started chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Over the noise, he said, “Absolutely,” all smug, self-satisfied smile. “Got to maintain my big top energy after all.”
“I’m going to get you back, you know.”
“Bring it, Princess,” he said, and kissed me.