Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (7 page)

“I like to care for my decor.”

“The same decor you were happy to be fucked upon an hour ago?”

“Fair point.” Fergus tossed the folded fleece onto the floor, then lay down again, curling his arm beneath his own pillow.

John gazed at him, then broke into a wide smile. “Hey, look. When we’re horizontal, we’re the same height.”

“Then we should be horizontal together more often.”

Fergus regretted the words as soon as he uttered them. He was coming on too strong. Perhaps that was why John had panicked to begin with.

Hesitation flickered over John’s face, then vanished like a ghost. “We should.” He reached out and slowly swept his finger over Fergus’s collarbone, eyes following its journey up and down the V. “Sorry about my, erm, malfunction earlier. I guess I wasn’t ready.”

“Don’t apologize. When you asked me to dinner, I assumed nothing. When I invited you over, I assumed nothing. Though you were pretty clear about what you wanted.”

John grimaced. “Too bad I’m all talk.” He touched Fergus’s chin and met his eyes. “I hope it’s okay if we take things slow.”

Fergus reminded himself to breathe as that gaze threatened to drown him. “I can do slow if you can do slow.”

“Oh, I can do slow.” He traced Fergus’s mouth with one fingertip. “Shall I prove it?”

Fergus hoped the parting of his lips was a sufficient reply, because he couldn’t speak for the desire rising in him again.

John eased forward and kissed him, so softly Fergus could feel his breath caress the chapped, sunburned places on his own lips. Then he gently pressed Fergus onto his back.

“I’m gonnae make you come,” John whispered. “In about an hour.”

Fergus glanced at the clock: 10:55 p.m. “An hour? Are you serious?”

“Shh. You’ll see.”

John kissed him so slowly, carefully, artfully, that Fergus began counting the minutes, for his cock had grown hard as granite. But then he let himself just exist in this moment and feel every press of John’s lips, every sweep of his tongue, every tug of his teeth.

John moved to kiss his nose, lashes, brows, cheeks, chin, always returning to Fergus’s mouth. Then he continued lower, covering every inch, reminding Fergus of all the sensitive places on his body he’d forgotten. Like how a tongue twirling inside his navel could make him gasp, and that he was more ticklish on the left side of his ribs than the right.

After a dreamlike eternity, John pulled back the covers, then settled between Fergus’s legs, where he kissed and nipped his inner thighs, fingertips swirling over the backs of his knees. All of this should have tickled too, but instead it made Fergus feel dazzlingly alive. Never had his skin seemed so connected to the nerves deep inside him.

When John sat up, Fergus was thrilled to see the lad’s erection had made a defiant return. But he scarcely had time to admire it before John ran his hand down Fergus’s calf, then lifted his foot and brought it to his lips.

Fergus smiled and squirmed, slipping his hands beneath the pillow. No one had ever sucked his toes before. After ten years of near-daily runs, he didn’t have the world’s most attractive feet. But John’s lips and tongue made them feel perfect, callouses and all.

Eyes closed, Fergus felt the shift of John’s weight on the mattress, followed by a sudden warm, delirious pleasure as John’s finger slipped into his still-slick arse. Fergus sighed and drew him in, needing more.

John stroked deeper. “Och, you feel so good. I cannae wait to taste you.” He curled his finger a bit, making Fergus moan. “But I will wait, just a wee while longer.”

Fergus bit his lip to hold back an indignant whimper. This was too good to dare complain about.

Soon John shifted again, planting his hands on either side of Fergus’s hips. Then he dipped his head to let his silky fringe of hair drift over Fergus’s rigid cock. It jerked with eagerness as Fergus gave a sharp, shuddering gasp. Everything—
everything
—John did was making his body sing.

Fergus felt soft breath against his balls, then the feathery flick of John’s tongue against their underside, and finally—
oh God
—the warm, wet embrace of his mouth as he gently drew one in. John groaned even louder than Fergus, and the vibration of his voice, together with his slathering tongue, made Fergus grip his pillow so hard he thought his hands would cramp.

At long, long, long last, John took Fergus’s cock in hand. Then his mouth crept up, an inch away from the shaft. As his tongue stretched out, in agonizing slow motion, he lifted his dark eyes. He didn’t smirk or smile, just held their gaze as he gave the tip of Fergus’s cock that first lick.

Fergus thought he might die, from either not enough breaths or too many.

With each upward stroke, John bunched the foreskin so his lips could tug it at varying strengths until he found the touch that made Fergus cry out loudest. With each downward stroke, he licked. Fergus’s mind spiraled as oxygen drained away. It seemed he could feel every taste bud on John’s tongue.

Finally John ceased his rhythm, lips poised against the slick, straining, exposed head of Fergus’s cock. He looked up again, perhaps searching for a sign that Fergus was ready to come. Their eyes met.

The connection was pure electric. Stunned by the mix of confidence and vulnerability in John’s gaze, Fergus managed only a shaky nod.

He expected to be taken deep, pumped with quick, tight strokes—the usual reliable method. Instead, John simply slid Fergus’s sheath down a bit farther, finally revealing the ridge beneath the head. Then he pressed his tongue flat against the ridge and began to stroke that most sensitive spot. Never breaking their eye contact, he lapped again and again, back and forth, on and on. That was all.

But after this exquisite, eternal buildup, it was all Fergus needed. He gave himself over, riding this runaway train, holding John’s gaze until the last moment. Then his mind blanked and his neck arched, yanking back his head so that he could stare only at the ceiling. A blinding, blistering energy raced up and down his spine at light speed, finally bursting out of him in consciousness-stealing waves, each building on the last. He thrust upward and held his cock deep in John’s mouth, letting it bathe in its own hot cum. He was vaguely aware that someone, somewhere, was screaming, and that it might be himself.

John released him just long enough to swallow. Then he took Fergus in his mouth again and gently milked him dry, an act that somehow lengthened and deepened his orgasm.

Fergus’s limbs gave a few final twitches, then went slack. Finally he let his hands drop from the pillow and looked at the clock. It was 11:55.

John lay down beside him again. Before he could say a word, Fergus pulled him close and kissed him, relishing his own taste on John’s tongue. When he stopped to breathe, Fergus said, “That was…you are…I mean, my God, I just…you…”

John merely smiled, then planted a languid kiss on Fergus’s cheek.

As his breath slowed, Fergus trailed his fingertips over John’s waist, pondering how to blow his mind in return. “It would be a travesty to try to replicate that magnificence. But I’ve a few ideas of my own.”

John’s eyes lit up. “Yaldy.”

Fergus guided John to perch at the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, then sat behind him, one leg on either side. When Fergus’s still-sensitive cock met the warm, bare skin of John’s back, his breath stopped again. For a moment, all he could do was press his lips to John’s hair and wait for the sensation to pass. “God, I’m still feeling it. You’re fucking incredible, you know that?” He collected a bit of lube, then, wrapping his arms around John from behind, he briskly rubbed his palms together.

“Oh,” John said, a moment before Fergus took his cock in both hands. “Oh!” His head snapped back against Fergus’s shoulder.

Fergus was determined to make this last. He varied his strokes, sometimes using only his palms or his fingertips, drawing them up John’s shaft, one hand after the other. Each time John’s breath began to hitch or his thighs began to quiver, Fergus lightened or even removed his touch, letting John retreat from the edge, his steel-stiff cock straining with need. Each time, he heard John bite back words of begging, though his cries grew more anguished as Fergus circled the pads of his fingers over the hard, tight nubs of his nipples.

Finally Fergus reached lower to cup John’s balls. He massaged the rough skin with his fingertips and the twin bulges with his thumb until John was writhing in his arms and lifting his hips off the edge of the bed.

“Please…” he panted. “Make me come.”

Fergus nipped at his ear. “But you made me wait an hour.”

John whimpered. “Be a…better man…than me.”

Fergus wrapped his hand around John’s thick cock, firmly this time, then began the swift, sure strokes he knew would make him explode.

“Aye! God, don’t stop. Please. Please…ohhhh.” John’s fingers clutched Fergus’s thighs so tight, they were sure to leave bruises. His entire body began to quake, harder and harder, before going suddenly rigid. When Fergus felt John’s balls pulsate in his palm, he leaned back, holding John steady so that the thick shower of cum would drench his chest and abs. Fergus’s mouth watered at the sight, and he couldn’t wait to lick those smooth muscles clean.

In the aftershock spasms, John’s body tautened, then finally went limp in Fergus’s arms. He let out a long, deep sigh. “Fuck…I may never move again.”

Fergus drew his middle finger through a rivulet of cum before it could drip onto the sheets, then slid it into his mouth. “Mmm. Luckily, you don’t have to.”

John stirred, his hair tickling Fergus’s chin. “What do you mean?”

“You can stay if you want.” He swiped up a few more drops, thirsty for every taste of this man.

John tensed against him. “What, spend the night?”

Fergus froze, finger in his mouth. Was he moving too fast? It had been more than four years since his last first date. He was pathetically out of touch with hookup etiquette.

Besides, he could be risking his heart by sleeping in the arms of a man he barely knew. The fact he badly wanted to spend the night with John was probably a sign he shouldn’t.

“Yes,” Fergus said, in spite of all that. “I’ve an extra toothbrush, if it’s dental hygiene you’re worried about.”

John gave a booming laugh. “You pure know how to tempt a man.”

Soon they were beneath the covers again, this time with the lights off. Fergus turned on his side away from John, intending to give him space. But after a few minutes, John shifted over and slid a tentative arm around him. “Is this okay?” he whispered.

His throat too tight for words, Fergus took John’s hand and pulled him closer, rounding his own back so that their bodies curled together. Then he stayed awake as long as he could, listening to this new breath, inhaling this new scent, absorbing this new skin against his.

= = =

“If you hurt him, I will kill you.” Fergus’s flatmate, Abebi, eyed John from the other end of the corner couch, her pink-pajama-clad legs stretched out to rest her slippered feet on the coffee table. “I’ve performed sixty-three autopsies, so I can make it look an accident.”

John laughed out loud, then covered his mouth and cast a glance down the hall toward the bedroom door, which was still shut. He’d left Fergus sleeping soundly half an hour ago, resisting the urge to kiss those tasty lips—upon which sat the most adorable slumber-smile—at least until after he’d brushed his own teeth.

“I’ll do my best.” John took another sip of the bracing Ceylon tea Abebi had made for them. “I know he must still be reeling from the breakup.”

“He was, until the last two weeks.” She continued, her deep, strong voice holding a mere trace of Nigerian accent. “We moved in together at the beginning of May—he found me through a Gumtree listing—and I barely saw him eat that first month. I did see a lot of empty Jameson bottles in the recycling bin.” The corners of her berry-colored lips pulled down, then up again. “But about a week before the Warriors’ first practice session, he came alive again. I suppose football gave him something to be strong for.”

“He takes it very seriously. One would almost think he was the manager, not the captain.”

“He will be manager one day. Not that he’d muscle Charlotte out of the way or anything. The job would need to be thrust upon him, like this one was.” She ran her thumb over a cartoon panda on her pajama trouser leg. “He didn’t want to be captain at first. I think all he wanted was to crawl into a hole and die.” She gave a grim smile. “Or I could be wrong. There’s a reason I didn’t choose psychiatry as my specialization.”

John tried to return her smile, but his face felt suddenly rigid with tension. What was he thinking, getting involved with a heartbroken man? He couldn’t offer Fergus the sort of stability he needed, not when he had to hide a huge part of his own life.

I should leave. Now. Wake Fergus long enough to say goodbye and thank him for an enjoyable evening. I owe him that courtesy.

Yet he couldn’t bear the thought of walking into that bedroom, seeing that face again, then walking out forever. Not after the way they’d connected, both body and mind. Not after the way they’d held each other as they fell asleep.

One date, one night…for the first time in John’s life, it wasn’t enough.

But maybe it would have to be.

= = =

Fergus woke slowly, languorously, the way one does after the sort of night he’d not had in months, the sort that ends with a pair of orgasms and a pair of smiles.

Another one—a smile, that is—curved his lips now as he reviewed every detail of last night, especially its conclusion. Thanks to John, Fergus had rediscovered his own body, grown foreign to him after months of celibacy preceded by years of sameness. With Evan, sex had been reliably satisfying but decidedly lacking in ambition. Rather like Evan’s architecture.

He let his lids fall shut again, imagining the faded imprints of John’s lips on his skin from head to toe. Soon this train of thought awakened Fergus’s cock, so he rolled over to see if John was awake and in a similar mood.

The bed beside him was empty, covers thrown back, a head-sized indentation left in the snow-white pillow. He sat up and scanned the floor, seeing only his own clothes crumpled in a sorry heap, trouser legs clinging to the distressed-wood feet of the bedside table.