TRAVELLING IS THE ONE THING about football that I’ve grown to truly loathe. Living out of a suitcase. Constantly having a changing room smell to my clothes no matter what kind of fabric cleaner I use. Commercial airlines or team buses filled to the brim with blokes. It’s a nightmare and a lot less glamorous than the papers would lead you to believe.
And after the mindfuck from my father last night, a quiet Monday at home has never felt so good. Plus, I get to see Sloan tonight, so I know I get to lose my fucking mind for the rest of the evening.
She’s due to arrive after dinner, so I stride into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I’m not much of a cook, but the team diet is normally pretty foolproof. Carbs, protein, vegetables. Mondays are always my pasta night.
I fill a pan with water to set on the stove when my security gate buzzes. Excitement washes over me when I see Sloan’s vehicle enter after using the code I gave her. She’s nearly two hours early, and my dick is already pulsing at the thought. I leave the pan by the stove and head to the foyer to let her in.
When I open the front door, I’m pummelled by Sloan’s tall, slender frame. Her handbag drops on the tile floor as she shoves her hands on my chest, turning me at a sharp, right angle to slam me against the wall. She lifts my shirt over my face and devours my chest with her mouth, running her tongue around my pec and biting down hard on my nipple.
“Jesus fuck, Sloan!” I exclaim, my body roaring to life from the sudden invasion.
“Call me Treacle,” she growls, releasing my shirt so I can watch her yank her own up over her head and kick off her flats. “From now on, Treacle or Tre. I’m not Sloan when I’m here.”
My brow furrows at the strained look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I will be as soon as you take your shirt off.”
My instinct is to press her about what’s going on that has her so crazed, but my mind is too cluttered to worry. Besides, letting her have control will soothe whatever is troubling her the same way giving it up will soothe what’s troubling me. So I do as I’m told, eager to erase all the bullshit that rests behind both of our eyes.
She stands before me in a grey bra and jeans—a much more casual look than I’ve ever seen her wear. Her chestnut hair is soft and wild around her shoulders as her chest rises and falls with deep breaths. The look she gives my entire body is a claiming, like she’s reminding herself of the property she owns. Technically, she really fucking does. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen her, and I’d do just about anything she demands of me right now.
She steps forward and presses her hands to my bare abs. “I want you to fuck me against this wall. Hard, fast, and dirty. Understand?”
“Yes,” I pant, my dick already hard in my jeans.
She looks down. “Get that dick out of those jeans. Now.”
I do as I’m told. Jesus fuck, I love doing as I’m told.
She ditches her own, along with her bra and knickers. Fuck me, she’s stunning. Wild and angry about something, like a beast that can’t be tamed.
She steps forward and fists me in her hand, squeezing so hard I’m wincing in pleasured pain. “God, you have a sexy cock,” she husks, letting her hard nipples brush against my chest when she adds, “Do you have a condom down here?”
My face falls. “Fuck. No. I can run upstairs.” I move for the stairs, but I freeze because she’s holding my cock hostage.
“When was the last time you were checked?” she asks with a serious look on her face.
I swallow slowly, my body jerking as she strokes the tip of my bare dick along the top of her smooth pussy. Some pre-come seeps out of me and coats her skin. “The team gets physicals at the beginning of every season.”
“What does that mean? When’s the beginning of the season?”
“Two months ago,” I bark out quickly as she presses the head of my dick between her folds. “Jesus Christ, you’re already wet.”
“Damn right,” she replies, clearing her throat and clearly struggling as hard as I am to stay in control. “Have you slept with anyone since then?”
I look away and reply, “No.”
“Gareth.” She says my name like a warning. “I have an IUD in and was tested at an appointment this past week, so I know I’m clean. But if you’re lying to me—”
“I’m not lying,” I snap, my eyes fierce on hers now that she’s questioning my honesty.
“Then why wouldn’t you make eye contact with me? I’m just asking when the last time you had sex with someone else was. I’m considering something very serious here.”
“I haven’t shagged anyone since you last year,” I growl, annoyance ticking my jaw from that admission. It says a lot about me that I’m not interested in sharing, so I really don’t want to be given the third-degree about this.
“Okay,” she replies softly and looks down with a frown as that fact sinks in. She looks up again. “Wait…No one? Are you serious?”
I exhale heavily, rueful resignation overtaking my earlier annoyance. “No one, Tre. I’m telling you the truth.”
Her eyes light up with renewed excitement from this admission. “Okay, then. Are you all right with not using condoms? Because I trust you if you trust me.”
“I trust you,” I reply seriously and hope the twinkle in my eyes isn’t visible to her. Fuck me, just the idea of pushing into her bare is going to have me coming so damn fast.
“Then pick me up and slam that big cock into me until I’m screaming for mercy.”
“Yes, Treacle,” I growl and follow orders like it’s my fucking job.
By the time we stride into my kitchen, we’re both cleaned up, halfway dressed, and feeling a hell of a lot calmer than we were twenty minutes ago.
Sloan glances over at the mess around my stove. “Oh, I interrupted your dinner,” she states, clearly not sorry as she eyes me in my jeans and nothing else.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head and fuss with the pasta as I try to remember where I left off. “I wasn’t expecting you for a couple of hours.”
I put the pan of water on the burner and click the flame to high. Then I turn on the back burner where I left the pasta sauce sitting earlier.
Sloan is watching me curiously. “You look so domestic. I never would have imagined you cook for yourself.”
I shoot her a half-smile. “If you call boiling linguini and heating up premade Bolognese sauce cooking, then yes, I’m a grade-A chef.”
She giggles and strides around the island to peer over the stove. She’s only wearing her jeans and bra, so I have a nice view as she lifts the lid off the saucepan. “Who makes your sauce?”
“Dorinda’s son, Robert,” I reply, staring down at her cleavage as she dips her pinkie in to sample. “He’s saving up for culinary school, so I hired him to help me maintain my diet for extra cash.”
She smiles a pleased sort of smile and turns to face me, her finger still in her mouth, her golden eyes fixating on mine with heated warning. I immediately imagine her lips wrapped around something else. As if she reads my mind, she smirks and her finger plops out of her mouth. “It’s good.”
“Well, there’s plenty, so I hope you’re hungry.” I reach out and place my hand on her hip to pull her in close to me.
She looks down at my embrace with accusatory eyes. I quickly lift my hand away, holding it back in silent apology. That’s right, Sloan’s in charge. She says when, where, and how. With a naughty grin, I grab the linguini off the counter and drop them into the boiling water.
“How was your week?” she asks, hoisting herself up onto the counter next to the stove.
Her question is refreshing. She has no clue I played a game this weekend, let alone won or lost. The entire town of Manchester knows the score, so I’m congratulated everywhere I go. But Sloan somehow manages to continue living under a rock.
Choosing to ignore the horrid conversation I had with my dad, I reply, “It was good. How was yours?”
She sighs. “Pretty shitty.”
“Is that the cause of the early arrival and assault?” I waggle my brows at her. Her cheeks flame red, so I add, “Trust me, I’m not complaining.”
She issues a small smile, my comment soothing her anxiety. “I just had a bad phone call earlier.”
I frown. “Some rich prat you style giving you a hard time?”
She lets out a polite laugh and shakes her head with a curious expression. “Didn’t you say your dad is a famous soccer legend?”
“You mean a famous football legend?” I correct and narrow my eyes at her. She gives an eye-roll and I answer her question with a curt, “Yes.”
“So, aren’t you used to this kind of life?” She gestures around like my house is a direct reflection of how I grew up. “Didn’t you come from money?”
“I didn’t grow up like this,” I reply, tensing at the mention of my upbringing. My jaw tightens as I think back to the home in Chigwell where we lived when Mum died and how vastly different it was to the small Manchester flat. The truth is, that’s why it’s difficult for me to imagine leaving Manchester. This is where my only positive childhood memories live on. “We lived in a big house east of London, but it wasn’t a home. It was nothing like this.”
Sloan glances around the kitchen casually, her bare feet swinging side-to-side. “You told me before that you hired a decorator because you wanted it to be different from where you grew up. What did you mean by that?”
Anxiety begins simmering inside of me as I shove the rest of the pasta down into the water. It’s impressive that Sloan was really listening back then. I find the majority of people who meet me only listen when I say something they want to hear, which is why I am so reserved with most outsiders.
But I remember when I said that to Sloan in the early days of her styling me. It was because it bothered me that she looked at me like a typical footballer. I didn’t want to be lumped into the same category as everyone else, spending loads of money on styling just because I could. I wanted her to see me differently.
I’m regretting that moment of weakness because it opened doors between us that are better left closed. “I thought we weren’t supposed to get this personal,” I deflect, my tone flat because I don’t want to explore my past with her. Especially when my memories are currently extra raw.
“Touchy much?” she asks, her brows lifting into her hairline. “It just seems like you’re a guy who’s used to getting everything he wants. I’m guessing your dad spoiled you growing up, didn’t he? Fancy cars, best sports camps, best clothes.”
She eyes me brazenly, and my blood pressure spikes from the mere mention of him again. “I didn’t get a thing from my father. And, believe me, there are a lot of things I want and don’t get.”
“Like what?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What is this, Twenty Questions?” I drop the spoon on the counter, my hand fisting in frustration.
“Hardly!” she retorts. “I’m simply trying to get to know the man who has all of this but submits to a woman so easily.”
“I don’t hear you complaining,” I snap.
“I’m just trying to get a read on you.” She leans forward, not the least bit intimidated by me, which happens to be one of the things that turns me on most about her. But that’s beside the point.
“This is just fucking,” I growl, pressing my fisted hand against the counter. My anger surprises me. I know it has more to do with my dad than Sloan, but I can’t seem to stop it now. “This isn’t personal, Sloan. This is fucking, so stop trying to get into my head.”
I glance up to see her body has gone completely rigid. Her eyes narrow as she replies, “Excuse me for thinking we’re friends.”
She slides off the counter and moves past me to walk out of the kitchen back toward the front door. A deep growl vibrates in my chest as I splay my hands out on the island. This is all my fucking father’s fault. He has me on edge. No, I’m not much of a sharer, which has been a reoccurring problem I’ve had with other women. But Sloan is right. We’re friends.
And I’m a prat.
With a heavy sigh, I double-check the linguini is at a good temperature, then stride out to where I assume Sloan’s getting dressed and preparing to leave. She’s not in the foyer like I expected, though, and her shirt and shoes are still where she left them on the floor. I see a glowing light down the hall past the sitting room and make my way toward it.
I find Sloan in the media room, sitting in one of the black theatre chairs. She’s fiddling with the remote and attempting to put something on the projection screen. “I don’t know how to use this. Can you show me?”
Her calm voice surprises me, so I enter the room and grab the remote from her hand. Our fingers brush and the electric current we always have is as strong as ever, even when she’s pissed me off. “You’re on the wrong input.”
I push a button and hand it back to her as a sports channel illuminates the screen.
“Thanks,” she replies and attempts to flick the channel around my frame standing right in front of her. She still hasn’t made eye contact with me.
“You’re not leaving?” I ask, half expecting to get hit in the nuts at any second.
“Do you want me to?” She finally looks up, her eyes starry in the darkness. Her skin green from the glare of whatever is on the projector behind me.
I give her a simple shoulder shrug, tired of my emotions already. This is why I wanted to try this control thing. It gives me the freedom of not having to think. I get exhausted when I have to think about my family. My upbringing. My dad.
“I want whatever you want,” I reply because that’s the truth. If she doesn’t want to be here, I would never force her.
“Well, I don’t like confrontation,” she replies, her eyes narrowing up at me against the light. “So if you could refrain from being a dick when I’m just making small talk, it would make things a lot more pleasant.”
I pull my lips into my mouth and bite back my knee-jerk argument. There is no way she would know that the topic of my father is not small talk. Sharing about family is small talk to most. “My dad was a tremendous arsehole when my mum died. Mean, angry. He didn’t mourn well, and we suffered for it as children. I get touchy when I have to talk about him.”
Sloan’s chin drops as she mindlessly fingers the remote in her lap. “That sucks.”
I shrug once again. “And I didn’t get a thing from my father. None of my brothers did either. Our sister was the only one whom he ever gave anything to. And if you think I’m saying that out of spite, I’m not. Vi is a saint and deserved everything he gave her.”
Sloan pauses, eyeing me speculatively. “What did you deserve?”
Her question stings, but I know that’s not how she means it. She’s pushing for information. She’s trying to get to the bottom of whatever this is all about. What she doesn’t realise is it’s an endless pit that I have never fully dug into myself.
My reply is firm. “I deserved a better father. But I don’t want you thinking I’m some rich prick who was raised around other rich pricks. That couldn’t be farther from the truth.”
“I’m sorry, Gareth.” Her face softens as she absorbs what I’ve shared. “I’m projecting my issues onto you. It’s horribly unfair. It’s just, in my life, I see a lot of arrogant privilege, and it makes me crazy to see that sense of entitlement sometimes. You’ve never shown me that, so it was unfair of me to assume you’re part of that world.”
I nod thoughtfully, knowing exactly what she’s going on about. My teammates’ kids are prime examples of arrogant privilege, all a bunch of sods. They speak to their foreign nannies like slaves because that’s what they think is appropriate. And the nannies tolerate it because the parents make so much money and they need the job. It’s an ugly sight.
We had no help in our childhood, foreign or otherwise. As kids, we learned quickly how to become self-sufficient because it was clear that our dad wasn’t going to do a thing for us. I remember stealing his credit cards to pay bills when he forgot.
“I’ve worked for everything I have, Sloan. Even though my dad played for Manchester United, he did not part on good terms with them. They weren’t pulling any favours by signing me. I wanted to play for them because I have this irrational need to be better than him. A better player. A better contract. Better endorsements. House. More money. Whatever it takes. I even have retirement plans set up for all of my siblings and a savings account for my niece that none of them know about. I’m consumed by taking care of everyone enough to make his existence irrelevant.”
“Are you succeeding?” Her question is seemingly innocent but loaded with more than she could fathom.
I huff out a laugh. “What’s success? He’s still around, and it seems like every time I reach some line I’ve drawn for myself that will make me better than him, the line gets pushed back even farther. It’s a sick cycle that I’m stuck in, and I don’t talk about it to anyone really.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I think that happens to kids who lose their mothers when they’re young. They are driven to succeed because they have something to prove, whether it’s to the deceased or themselves, or maybe it’s just to society. You want to accomplish all of this because you were shorted a mother.”
This brings me up short. “I don’t do everything because of her.”
“You don’t?”
“Don’t get me wrong. My mum was incredible. She was my best mate. When I lost her, it killed me. But to say I was shorted would sully the eight years I had with her. I was with her when she died and, as hard as it was, that memory is precious to me.” I swallow the knot forming in my throat and push myself to continue, trying to ignore the painful memory. “I do all of this because control is something I can’t seem to let go of, except with you.”
She watches me for a minute, staring up at me with a million thoughts and feelings. It’s an intense admission I just dropped on her. They’re words I never envisioned telling her, but it feels good to actually understand why I’m craving this arrangement with her so much.
As if sensing that I’ve reached my maximum for the sharing I can do in one night, Sloan replies lightly, “Should we have sex now?” Her giggle that follows is like a beam of light brightening my dark soul.
“How about we eat first?” I hold my hand out to help her stand. “I have a feeling I’m going to need my strength.”
I’m overly curious about Gareth. This is just sex, but he has a heavy presence about him that makes me want to know all his deep, dark thoughts. Even when he smiles, he has sad eyes with an almost haunted look that screams mystery.
When he told me last year that his mother died, I was surprised I hadn’t guessed that sooner. I dated a guy in high school who lost his mom while we were together. Both he and Gareth have that same look in their eyes. I was with him during the funeral, and it was hell. Torturous hell. About a month later, we broke up. He was a different person than when we started our relationship. Losing a parent does that to you. It changes your personality. Not negatively. Just differently. I imagine if I would have met him after his mother died instead of before, our relationship would have been totally different.
Hearing Gareth speak about his father, I know there are so many more layers to him than I ever gave him credit for. But he was right to have his guard up. What we’re doing isn’t personal. It’s sex. That is why I’m not kissing him.
But after the phone conversation I had with Callum about Sophia not being able to come to my house for Thanksgiving, I didn’t give a shit if Gareth was uncomfortable. I wanted to pick a fight with someone, and he was the unlucky person closest to me at the time.
It’s making me crazy that I have no control over where Sophia spends her Thanksgiving holiday and that Callum can shut me down for no apparent reason. Just because he can. That is my life right now and it’s maddening.
So to Astbury I drove, like a bandit. I went to the one place where I am not shut down. The one place where I have nothing but control over my own life, my own choices, my own decisions. The one place that lets me forget. Gareth and I have only been at this for a couple of weeks, but his house is the one place that allows me to escape all the shit I have to put up with in my personal life.
Originally, I had planned to finish my day helping Freya with alterations, shower, shave, and primp myself properly for the night. But I was so worked up after Callum called, I drove straight out to his house in my damn mom jeans! My need for Gareth’s presence—his manliness, his warmth—was like I was dying of thirst and only he could quench it.
That’s why I need to turn this night around. Stat.
We put our clothes back on to eat because, well, it’s hot food and it seems dangerous to eat without shirts on. Gareth makes both of our plates up with the best linguini and Bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted. I nearly ask for the recipe before covering my mouth and mumbling something about how it would pair nicely with a red wine. Asking for a recipe is a mom move. Super mom move. You don’t ask for recipes from the guy you’re fucking.
We end up hand-washing the dishes because his dishwasher is still drying a load. Brushing shoulders as we stand next to each other by the sink is some kind of kinky foreplay that probably only a mom would get turned on by. There’s something about his wet, veiny hands plunging in and out of the bubbly water. And maybe the fact that Gareth actually does his own damn dishes.
I dry off my hands and open the refrigerator to see what’s inside. It’s so empty, I would normally question whether anyone actually lived here. There are only a couple of Tupperware containers full of prepared foods—probably from the magical chef, Robert—some sports drinks, and a lime.
Rolling my eyes, I wrench open the freezer. The disappointment continues when all that lays inside are some gross looking protein balls. Athletes are weird.
Inspiration strikes as I close the freezer. “Can I get a glass?”
Gareth eyes me curiously and reaches up into the cupboard to grab a glass down for me. The skin that peeks out from beneath the bottom of his shirt when his arm stretches up is oh-so sexy, I can’t wait to try what I have planned.
He hands the glass over to me and watches me expectantly as I fill the cup with ice cubes all the way to the top. “I think we should have sex again soon.”
His concealed chuckle is appreciated. “Why not now?”
I shrug. “You got lucky with a quickie before because I was having a moment. Now I’m more in control. And because I have to torture you first, of course.”
This causes him to full-on belly laugh. “Well, I’m at your service, Treacle.” He winks at me, and I swear the look alone could get me off if I concentrated on it hard enough.
“Are you the type to get squeamish over unsanitary kitchens?” I ask, eyeing the large granite kitchen island that’s grey with sparkles.
“Not if you’re not,” he replies, his forearms flexing as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“Good because I want you naked and lying on the counter.”
His smile is sinful. “Whatever you say, Tre.”
I hurry out to the foyer to get my handbag with the items I grabbed for tonight while Gareth undresses in the kitchen. When I return, he’s standing by the island, shirtless with his jeans unbuttoned. My eyes instantly go to the trimmed trail of hair that leads to his groin.
When he grabs the band of his jeans, I stop him. “Hang on.”
He pauses, leaving his jeans hanging on the edge of his hip bones. The deep V that angles toward his package is so sexy, I have to close my eyes and regain some composure.
“Hold your hands out together,” I state, setting my bag on the counter and rooting around for a moment.
When I pull out a yellow rope from inside my purse, his eyes fly wide. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Is this not okay?” I frown. “I bought it online. It’s like sex rope or something. They cut to your order. It’s less harsh on your wrists than regular rope from what I understand.”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips and a heated look billows in his eyes. “It’s okay.”
With trembling hands, I instruct him to hop up onto the counter. He does as he’s told and holds his two fists out to me. I begin wrapping the rope around his wrists, cinching them together and nervously looking up into his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” he husks.
My eyes dart down to take in the straining erection under his jeans. “Just this does it for you?”
He shrugs. “You do it for me, Tre.” He swallows slowly and pins me with a serious look. “You should see yourself right now. What are you thinking about?”
I pause to take in the full effect of his wrists bound together. His muscles and broad shoulders tight and flexed. The soft jeans. Bare feet. It’s all…really, really hot.
“I think this is really freaking exciting,” I croak, totally unsexy. His pleased laugh has me rolling my eyes. “Try to contain your amusement and lie down, please.”
He smirks and shifts back on the counter. The movement has his abs bunching and showcasing the rivets of his perfect six-pack beneath his fisted, trussed-up hands. When he lies down on his back, he winces at the cool granite and the rivets become softer and more spread out.
I slide my hands on his forearms and pull them up to rest above his head. The effect of seeing him laid out like this at my mercy is incredible. “God, you are sexy.”
He chuckles. “So are you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m in a T-shirt and jeans.”
He shakes his head and looks up at the lights. “Still sexy.”
I try to hide my pleased smile as I pull my shirt up over my head and slide my jeans down my hips. It’s amazing how we’ve only had sex a handful of times and I’m already so comfortable being naked in front of him. At first, I thought I’d want the blindfold again tonight, but feeling his heated gaze on me is part of where I draw my bravery from. Gareth has a way of making me feel like a million bucks just by looking at me. He did it that night I caught Cal cheating on me, and he’s doing it tonight. He makes me feel impossibly strong.
Wearing nothing but my grey bra and black thong, I stand beside a half-naked Tarzan who’s tied up on a kitchen counter like my own personal buffet. I drag my nails down his furry chest, raking over the springy muscles appreciatively. He is such a glorious specimen of a man. So masculine and powerful, like he was fathered by the legendary Atlas himself.
Gareth’s eyes are on me as I crawl up onto the counter and position myself astride his groin, a leg curled up snugly next to his hips. “Keep your hands above your head,” I state, dipping my fingers inside the glass and grasping a large, dripping ice cube.
Air hisses between his teeth as a few drops of freezing water drizzle onto his chest. I press the cube between his pecs and drag a moist path of water all the way down to his navel. My hair tickles his sides as I bend down and drop a soft kiss on his hard, tiny nipples. I’ve noticed Gareth’s nipples are extremely sensitive, and I’ve been daydreaming all week about how he reacts when I touch them.
I continue my path downward along the ridges of his abs, my own nipples hardening inside my bra as he writhes beneath me. He twines his fingers together above his head, and his arm muscles flex with every squeeze he makes as he fights the urge to lower them and touch me.
Suddenly, my bra feels heavy on my skin. “Close your eyes,” I state, dropping the ice in the glass and reaching back for the clasp.
He narrows his gaze but obeys. I slip out of my bra, then grab a piece of ice and put it into my mouth. I lie down overtop of him, the ice peeking out between my lips as I slide it down the thick column of his throat.
His low groan vibrates against my chest as my hard nipples brush against his damp skin. The skin-on-skin contact is intoxicating as the ice melts to nothing in my mouth. “Does this feel good?” I ask, dragging my tongue along a thick tendon in his throat.
He thrusts his hips up into me, his erection pressing the needy part of my centre. “That should tell you your answer.”
With a little growl, I sit up and eye him in silent warning. “I want to hear you say it, Gareth.”
His lazy smile is adorable. “Yes, Treacle. It feels good. You feel good.”
I reach down to the firmness beneath me. “Should we get these tight jeans off?”
“Yes,” he pants, his eyes hooded as he watches me stroke him firmly over the fabric.
He brings his arms down as I reposition myself beside him. As he lifts his hips, I shimmy his jeans down his ass and off his legs, smiling proudly when I see he’s not wearing underwear, as usual.
I ditch my panties as well and take a moment to realise that I’m completely naked on the kitchen counter of Gareth Harris’ home. What a wild turn my life has taken. I’m not sure I could be any luckier as I stare at his hard cock bobbing up toward his chiselled stomach, the vein underneath looking angry and promising all at once.
I dig in the glass for more ice. Most of it has melted, so I bring it to my lips for a cool drink and grab the small chunks at the bottom. Without a word, I dip my head and slip the tip of his bare cock into my mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Gareth groans, the coldness of the ice and the hotness of my mouth tipping him into sensory overload. “Jesus, Sloan.”
His fingers find my hair as he rides my movement. A few pieces of ice slip out of my mouth and fall on the counter below him. I release him and chomp down on the remaining ice while fisting him in my hand. “Treacle or Tre, Gareth. I’ve told you this.”
“Sorry, Tre. Treacle. Got it,” he states, his eyes landing on me with a worshipful, apologetic look.
Feeling brave and curious, I ask, “Did you like the ice?”
He nods and waggles his brows. “I’d like to use it on you.”
I smile and shake my head. “That’s not what happened in the porno I watched.”
He chuckles, his tone disbelieving when he asks, “You watch porn?”
“Once,” I lie. There’s no way in hell I’m telling him that I’ve been looking up ideas for what we can do on Porn Hub all week. He’ll think I’m a total perv. “It really helped me get you under control I think.”
His abs tighten with a soft chuckle, but his amusement fades when I climb on top of him again and place his hands so they rest on his chest. “I’m going to ride you, but your hands need to stay right where they are, on your chest. Got it?”
He nods eagerly, so I position my pelvis over his tip, leaning forward a little so that my breasts are in his face. I feel his trussed fingers reach out to touch me, so I scold him with a giggle. “No touching or I’ll strap your hands above your head.”
I press my palms on his forearms for stability. The pressure pulls on his wrist restraints as I position the head of his penis between my folds.
“Christ,” he growls, watching the action between our bodies and fighting against the rope around his hands.
“Problems?” I ask, looking up at him with concern.
His jaw ticks. “I really want to touch you.”
My brows lift. “How bad?” I sink down on him just an inch and hold myself there, his arms the perfect balancing point for control.
His low groan is wonderful. “Really fucking bad, Treacle.”
I plunge down the rest of the way. “How about now?”
The veins in his arms thicken as he pulls hard against the rope. “Let’s take this off.”
“I’m in charge,” I reply, watching his eyes on me as I sit back and completely open myself to him. Grinding back and forth over him, I work myself against the incredible friction.
“You are but…” he growls, his eyes flashing all over my chest as I squeeze my breasts and roll my nipples between my fingers. He begins fidgeting to try and find a position that gives him some leverage. His tone is frustrated when he says, “This could be so much better if you let my hands free.”
“Why, Gareth?” I ask, making confident eye contact with him and arching a brow. I slowly trail one of my hands down to my centre and make a few slow, lazy circles around the bundle of nerves. “Would you touch me here?” I moan and have to force my pleasure-filled eyes to stay open.
The crazed look in Gareth’s eyes is almost frightening. “Fuck, Sloan…Let me loose.”
He’s full-on growling now, but I’m not listening. I’m too focused on what I’m doing. I’m getting off on torturing him. This position gives me so much control as I bounce on him, making big, grinding sweeps. The pained look in his eyes has my head lolling back as I let out a low moan and relish in the feeling of him thick and hard inside of me.
I continue riding him slowly, and Gareth’s growls of anger grow more and more frenzied. He manages to find some purchase with his feet and begins thrusting up into me. Deep, punishing strokes that bring me to the precipice of release far quicker than I anticipated.
“Let me loose, Sloan.” His voice is quieter now, more controlled as he stops his delicious thrusts. “Let me touch you. You feel so good. Let me make you come.”
The need to orgasm is so strong, I hear myself croak, “Okay.”
I sit forward, his dick still rock-hard inside of me as I pull my feet out from under his arms and tuck them underneath me. I ride him for a moment longer, then grab hold of his wrists and begin fumbling with the rope. It’s distracting to have him inside of me while I try to release him, but he feels so damn good.
When I make no headway, I snap myself out of my sexual daze and crawl off of him. He lets out a pained groan as I kneel beside him and continue my efforts. Whatever I’ve just done to the knot has only tightened the tension. That can’t be good.
“What’s the matter?” Gareth asks, half sitting up. His hard, wet cock looks horribly angry. “Why is the rope so tight now?”
My hands begin to tremble as I stare down at the mess I’ve created. “I can’t get the knot loose,” I mumble, out of breath and trying not to panic.
“What?” he asks, his face leaning in close to mine to inspect what I’m doing.
My gaze snaps up to his wide hazel eyes. “I don’t know how I did this!”
“You didn’t know what you were doing?”
“No!” I exclaim and look down again, jerking and tugging, trying to find any loose areas to begin untethering something.
“You bloody well acted like you knew,” Gareth retorts, accusation lacing his tone.
“I was pretending!” I peal, lifting his hands up to see if I can find somewhere underneath to start. Good God, it looks even worse there. “Gareth! I can’t get this!”
The emotion in my voice is intense as angry red marks begin forming around his wrists. Suddenly, a shaking starts happening all over Gareth’s body. I assume he’s having some sort of a panic attack because I’m nearly crashing into one myself. But when I look up, I don’t see panic in his eyes.
He’s laughing.
He’s laughing like crazy.
He has tears running down his face because he’s laughing so hard. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s really disarming.
“This isn’t funny!” I scream, releasing his hands with a hard thrust and shoving my fists against his chest so he falls back on the counter.
“I beg to differ,” he replies, but it’s barely audible through his deep, booming laugh.
“This isn’t funny! It’s mortifying!” I run a hand through my hair, doing my best to calm my nerves so I can figure out what to do next. It’s difficult because Gareth’s abs are tight and defined as he continues roaring. Occasionally he looks at my crestfallen face and that sets him off further. I’m only halfway serious when I punch him in the gut and add, “We’re going to have to amputate.”
Gareth roars once again. Finally, I can’t contain it any longer. I crack a smile. Before I know it, I fall onto him in a fit of giggles. I end up losing it so much, I get a cramp in my calf muscle and have to roll off of his chest to clutch my leg.
He seems to find that even funnier.
“Fuck you,” I groan, wiping tears from my eyes. “This is such a mess. I was trying so hard to be sexy.”
“Mission accomplished, Treacle,” he retorts, his amusement dying down so that only the delicious crinkles on the edge of his eyes remain. He is quite a sight right now. Belly-flipping sight, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s naked.
“Don’t call me that,” I groan, sitting up and ignoring the tender look on his face. I slip off the countertop and place my hands on my hips. “I’m an imposter. I don’t deserve the name.”
With affectionate, smiling eyes, Gareth guides me to a pair of kitchen scissors in a drawer. As soon as I cut and all the rope twists loose, he’s off the counter and all over me. His heat warms my trembling body as his hands fork through my hair and he twirls us so my back presses against the kitchen island. His hot breath is licking tantalising kisses up my neck as he husks, “Perhaps we need a safe word after all.”
I burst out with a giggle and cover my hands over my eyes. “Yes. I think a safe word is wise considering I totally screwed tonight up.”
Gareth pulls away from my neck, looking down at me with a fiery smile in his eyes. God, he’s sexy in this moment. I make a mental note to make him laugh more during sex because it is the best form of foreplay I never ever had with Cal.
With a teasing waggle of his eyebrows, Gareth grabs my hand and places it on his dick. “Does that feel like you screwed anything up?”
I can’t help but giggle. “What does that say about you?”
His body vibrates with a silent chuckle. “That I’m a bloody freak for you.”
With the echo of my giggles, Gareth grips me by the waist and lifts me up onto the counter. He spreads my legs out wide and hooks his hands under my knees to pull me to the edge.
Our smiles both fall as he positions his tip between my folds and thrusts into me, unapologetic, hard, and bare. My earlier excitement is still present between my legs. Honestly, seeing him so relaxed and carefree has only further stoked my desire for him.
He grinds deep inside of me, swirling his hips and hitting that G-spot he seems to have a direct map to. It’s unimaginably perfect as my nails score over his shoulders. The growl that rumbles up his throat in response is so damned hot, I feel close to coming already.
“Make this slow, Gareth. Make it count,” I state, then lick my lips and look down to where our bodies connect.
He slams into me one more time. “Oh, I plan on it.”
“You know you can stay here if you ever want to,” I say as Sloan gets dressed.
“What?” She gazes up at me, pushing a strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes.
I try to come off casual even though I feel anything but. “I’m just saying it’s been kind of late the times you’ve left, and if you ever want to crash here so you don’t have to drive home in the dark, you can.”
“How would that work?” she asks, furrowing her brow at me like I asked her a complicated math question.
“What do you mean?” I slide my hands into my pockets and follow her into the foyer.
She pauses in front of the door and turns on her heel to eye me. “Would we cuddle?”
A smile spreads slowly across my face over how serious she looks. “I’m not a huge cuddler.” I reach out and smooth a strand of hair that’s sticking up above her ear. “But I could be convinced if you wanted to. You’re in charge after all.” I wink.
“No.” She shakes my touch away, but the heated look in her eyes tells me she likes it.
My hand moves to her wrist, and I trace small circles on the inside. She watches my finger as I lean in and whisper in her ear, “If you slept in my bed, you could assault me any time you wanted.”
“Oh, is that right?”
Her tone is teasing, but I’m not losing my edge. “I would be at your complete mercy.”
“Such a giver,” she cajoles, pulling back and smiling up at me. She sucks her lower lip into her mouth, and my body roars back to life.
I lift my brows. “It would be a tough job, but I’m pretty strong. You can feel my muscles if you want.”
She whacks me on the chest, then chews her lip more thoughtfully. “You know, Thursday would be good.”
Her reply puzzles me. Our first week together, we saw each other every night. Is she trying to see me less? “So you won’t be coming out here tomorrow?”
“God no!” she barks.
I deflate.
“I mean, yes!”
“Wait, what?”
“I mean, of course I’ll be coming out tomorrow and the next day. I’m free all week!” She gestures between us and her face falls. “Unless you don’t want me here that much?”
“No, I do!” I reply quickly, then bite the inside of my cheek. Get control of yourself, Gareth. You don’t want to look like a completely sex-starved wanker. Tanner has that look on lockdown. “I just don’t understand why you want to spend the night on Thursday in particular.”
She relaxes instantly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she replies, “Oh, well, it’s Thanksgiving on Thursday?” She says it like a question.
I tilt my head curiously. This is not anywhere near where my head was going. “I’m somewhat familiar with that American tradition.”
She purses her lips nervously. “I could like cook for us, maybe?”
My brows lift. “You cook?”
“Sometimes.” She shrugs. “I mean, I’ve never cooked Thanksgiving dinner completely by myself, but I think I can handle it. But I know you’re an athlete, so maybe you can’t eat certain stuff.”
My reply is instant. “I can eat stuff.”
She smiles with an adorably hopeful twinkle in her eyes. “It’s just, it’s kind of a special holiday to me. I think it would be fun to actually make a meal and, I don’t know…Celebrate. Last year, I travelled home to my mom’s. Every year before that I was busy with work, so I’ve never actually celebrated it here in England. I’d really like to, though.” She looks awkward and quickly adds, “But after we eat, we can totally fuuuck.”
I fight back a laugh at her horrid attempt at sounding cool. “Is that part of the Thanksgiving tradition as well?”
She barks out a laugh. “It’s not, but we can definitely make it an annual thing.” When she realises what she just said, her face falls and she claps her hands over her mouth. “Not that we’ll be doing this every year. I just mean…Freaking hell. I’m not saying that. Of course this isn’t going to be a yearly thing. Good God, I should leave right this second.”
Desperate for an escape, she turns on her heel and swings the door open. In a quick move, I step forward and wrap my hand around her stomach, stopping her momentum and pulling her back against my body. She’s practically heaving with embarrassment as my other hand pushes the door closed.
“I’m such a puke,” she groans and covers her face.
“You’re not a puke,” I chuckle, pressing my lips to her hair. “Turkey and sex sounds perfect.”
She relaxes into my embrace and tilts her head back, revealing her bare neck. Her sweet scent rolls over my body. I have to fight the urge to turn her around, strip her naked, and fuck her against the door right this second.
Instead, I slip one hand into my pocket, grab my keys, and hold them in front of her. “I have practice until five and I assume turkey takes a while to cook.” I slide the key off the ring and hold it out. I say against her hair, “Front door key…for your convenience.”
“Thanks,” she husks like we just had thirty minutes of foreplay and she’s ready to come. She wraps her fingers around the key and nearly moans her next words. “I’d really love for you to kiss my neck, Gareth.”
My body roars to life from the gentle command. I push her hair back with my nose and lightly brush my lips beneath her ear. My tongue slips out and draws a line up to her earlobe. When I pull the tender flesh between my lips, she sags against me, rolling her body in my arms and grinding her supple arse on my groin.
Just when I think she’s going to give me round three, she pulls away and opens the door, leaving on wobbly feet. I watch her, regret and yearning stronger than I’ve ever felt coursing through my veins.
I watch her car drive away, then close the door, realising with a nervous thud of my heart that I can’t wipe the smile off my face.