A STIFFY PALACE.
That’s what my idiot of a brother, Tanner, calls my home. A stiffy palace. A sex mansion. A bone-a-thon fortress. I could keep going because his obnoxious phrases are endless, but repeating them might actually make me as stupid as him.
Standing in my dressing room, I drop the damp towel from around my waist and reach up to pull down a navy cotton T-shirt from a hanger. The selection disrupts the perfect rainbow of colours positioned exactly an inch apart from wooden hanger to wooden hanger, all meticulously ordered and hung with care. My closet, while obnoxiously large, is organised impeccably. It pretty much has to be considering one whole side of the wardrobe is made of clear glass that overlooks my bedroom, like a giant fishbowl.
My entire house is aquarium-like with floor-to-ceiling glass windows throughout, including my bedroom. It’s ironic considering I relocated to this secluded residence in rural Astbury to remove myself from the snow globe life I was living in Manchester. In my early twenties, I wanted to be immersed in the football scene. I lived in a posh downtown flat situated in the party district even though I rarely went out. My building had a butler and a chauffeur whom I never used. The paparazzi camped outside of my flat on a regular basis just to get a glimpse of what I ate for bloody lunch. And if it wasn’t photographers, it was fans trying to take pictures of me. I couldn’t go out for a coffee without feeling eyeballs on me.
That’s what being a Man U football player gets you. The city is obsessed with footy players. With two professional teams and the National Football Museum plopped right in the middle, the people around there eat, sleep, and breathe football. Everywhere you look, there’s someone wearing some sort of a team shirt or a street vendor selling foam fingers and flags. And it never fails that at every city park, there are a couple of old geezers on a bench, arguing over which Manchester team has more silver in their trophy cases.
It’s an odd feeling to be a part of something people are so obsessed with, but it’s the gig I signed up for. It’s the gig that’s made me millions. And it’s the sport that now holds my family together when we were once ripped apart completely.
Our father, Vaughn Harris, was a star striker for Man U back when they won the FA Cup in ‘83 and ‘85, but he quit when our mum got sick with cancer in ‘93. Without so much as a goodbye to the team, he broke his contract, sold the Manchester flat, and moved us all out to the empty mansion he owned just outside of London in Chigwell. There, our mum got sicker and sicker, and he got angrier and angrier. When she died, he became a shell of a man. He had the outward appearance of a human, but he was stone on the inside. He stayed that way for many years, and I was left to pick up the slack. To hold our family together.
It wasn’t until Bethnal Green F.C. came courting him to manage their team that he turned things around. But instead of atoning for what he’d done to all of us for so long, he simply acted like nothing happened. He started encouraging us to play football and embrace our God-given talents. My brothers were so eager and excited, I couldn’t say no to them.
So we played. We kicked a ball around and soon saw that we all had quick feet and the natural movement of footy players. It was in our blood. Dad enrolled us in the Bethnal Green Academy, so we pretty much grew up on the Tower Park pitch. Vi was there a lot, too, but never seemed interested in playing. She was on watch to make sure we all finished secondary school.
But school wasn’t something any of us spent much time on. We preferred retrieving balls and running plays with the team. Football was all Dad cared about, so it was all we did.
Essentially, our dad went from being our pathetic excuse of a father to our sports manager. We never had a say in the matter. We never even had a say in what team we played for. It was expected that we play for Bethnal. We were just players in his game.
I grab a pair of jeans off the shelf and slide them on, making sure to tuck every bit of me inside the denim before zipping up. Looking over my shoulder, I check the time on the large clock mounted on the wall next to three big screen TVs. A bit obnoxious for one room, but this is a bachelor pad. And with a family full of footballers, there’s usually more than one game I need to be watching at a time.
Sloan Montgomery is due to arrive any minute. Having a personal stylist is something my brothers tease me mercilessly about. But as the captain for Man U, I’m required to attend a lot of events. And the fact that I am so particular about my clothes means that having her help is a tremendous relief.
I’ve had difficulty wearing certain fabrics ever since I was a kid. Anything that feels stiff on my body—like bumpy seams or rough material—sends chills down my spine. Dad actually ordered our team football kits from a special company because of my issue.
Shopping was a nightmare, so I wore and re-wore the handful of clothes that worked for me. I’m not typically one to give a shit about gossip rags, but the papers started remarking on my appearance. So when I met Sloan at an endorsement shoot a couple of years ago and she knew exactly what was going on, it seemed like a no-brainer to hire her.
And let’s face it, between my Man U salary, product endorsements, and business investments, I have more money than I know what to do with. My empty fishbowl closet was also looking rather pathetic. Having someone fill it for me was the grown-up thing to do, even if the only other person who sees much of my home is my house manager, Dorinda.
Within a week, Sloan and her assistant flooded my closet with a whole new selection of soft shirts, pristine suits, expensive jeans, and boxers that I rarely wear. Items that don’t feel like wet polystyrene sliding against rubber. Sloan even took the time to remove the labels from the necklines. She pays attention to everything, so I never have to give clothes a second thought. I love that. The sense of confidence she has in my needs is a luxury I haven’t had too often in my life.
We’ve developed a sort of friendship over the last couple of years, which says a lot because I don’t really have friends. Sure I have teammates and my neighbour up the road, but I tend to keep everyone at arm’s length. I don’t have time for expectations. I’m also usually wary of people because, with the level of success I’ve achieved, it’s rare for me to meet someone who isn’t angling for something that’s self-serving.
Besides, if I did have free time, my siblings would most certainly find a way to consume every second of it. On any given day, I get a call from at least one of them. Often, it’s Booker checking in because he’s awkward and needy like that. Dad calls to talk football; Camden calls to talk women; and Tanner calls with a dick joke. Most of the time, it’s Vi relaying an issue that one of our fully grown, idiotic brothers is dealing with and how we’re going to handle it because handling things is what I do. I’ve been doing it since I was barely eight years old, and it’s become my lot in life.
Needless to say, I’m an extremely private person, so the fact that I connected with Sloan almost instantly when I met her wasn’t something that was easily ignored. There’s just something about her that’s easy to be around. Perhaps it was the way she instinctually knew how to touch me without me really having to tell her. It formed a bond between us.
And the views of her inside my bedroom for the past two years have been an added bonus. Looking is all I’ve ever done, though, because the rock on her finger isn’t something I would overlook. In fact, I annoyingly notice it every time she comes by. I also notice how she never speaks of her husband or her home life. She’s a stunning little untouchable mystery.
A million different scenarios have played in my mind about what Sloan’s life is like outside of my bedroom. I imagine she is unhappy in her marriage. I imagine her husband travels a lot and comes home just to fuck her. Not even asking, just taking. Constantly taking because it’s what he wants. I wonder if she ever orgasms. If she ever screams with pleasure. Or if her husband ever asks her what she desires. What her opinion is. I doubt it because the one thing I’ve learned about Sloan is that she can be a bit of a chameleon, which I find rather frustrating.
She’s been to my house numerous times for fittings and restocking my closet. Every time she arrives, she has an uncanny way of shifting her mood to what suits me. If I’m angry at my dad about something, or if we’ve lost a match and I’m in a foul state, she instinctually senses it and addresses me with care. Or if I’ve just gotten off the phone with one of my brothers, who always manage to make me laugh, she absorbs my demeanour like a sponge and projects a beaming reflection of warmth. I remember when Vi called to tell me she and her fiancé are having a girl. I was so bloody happy when Sloan showed up while I was on the phone. After I hung up, we were laughing so much, she could hardly take my measurements for the tux she was fitting me for.
I’ve never met anyone like her who is so adaptive. It makes me wonder if anyone ever alters to her mood. How much of herself does she suppress every day just to keep other people happy?
Who keeps Sloan happy?
Regardless, a quiet friendship developed between us over the past couple of years. I’m comfortable with her, and we’re familiar enough with each other now that all of our meetings feel very natural. We know what to expect from each other, and that realisation has a certain peacefulness about it.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to fantasising about her firm hands on my body as they were the first time we met. She’s careful not to touch me like that anymore, and I can’t help but wonder if she was as affected by that day as me. I liked that side of Sloan. The unwavering confidence she has is sexy. I wonder what shade of her I’ll be seeing tonight? Likely whatever shade I project.
I yank my shirt down over my head and stride barefoot out of my closet just as my gated driveway entrance buzzes. I make my way over to the small LCD screen mounted by the light switch. It shows a black SUV waiting at the gate. I tap a button and Sloan’s face fills the screen. The quality of the security camera isn’t great, but I can make out her facial features. She looks different than normal. Still sexy, though.
Sexily married.
“I know you’re there.” Her voice cuts through the speaker, making me jump. “There’s a little red light on that wasn’t there a minute ago. Can you let me in, please?”
My brow furrows at her unusually brisk tone, but I hide it as if she can see me through the one-way camera. Without a word, I press the admission button and make my way out of my bedroom, stopping for a second at the propped hallway mirror to check my appearance.
My dark brown hair is tousled and still damp from my shower, so I run my hands through it to smooth down the edges. My hazel eyes look tired, creases beginning to show signs that I’m not in my twenties anymore. My five o’clock shadow is overgrown and patchy, but I save shaving for the morning of a match. It’s part of my ritual, and you don’t mess with game day rituals.
I jog downstairs and open the double front doors, propping myself on the frame just as Sloan steps out of her car. Her strides are long, her tall body lithe and fit beneath her demure black dress. Her chestnut hair is tied back into a low ponytail, revealing the smooth contours of her pale complexion in the evening light. It’s late for a house call, and I’m sure she’s not happy about driving nearly an hour out to Astbury. Although, most women would be thrilled to be working in the fashion industry up close and personal with a footballer. They’d trip over their words and show off their cleavage. Anything to get noticed.
However, Sloan doesn’t seem to be in the industry for the fame. She’s never dressed to impress. She’s never star-struck. She doesn’t make a fuss.
She lifts her eyes as she climbs the stairs and my heart sinks. Her normally vibrant, honey-coloured gaze is red-rimmed and the skin beneath her nose is pink. She looks like she’s been crying.
“Hey, Gareth. How are you?” Her wobbly smile is disingenuous. Forced. She looks as beautiful as she always does, but something is seriously wrong.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, concern pulsing through me as I puzzle over what could have possibly happened.
“Of course!” She smiles again, but the trembling of her chin says otherwise. “I have your suit.”
I stare back at her in confusion because this is not a side of Sloan that I’ve ever seen. She’s normally cheerful and composed, completely put together. But it’s clear she’s a mess right now, and it’s killing me that she’s acting like everything is fine.
This is the problem with having a friend whom you know very little about outside of work. It’s similar to knowing your teammates. I might know which foot our star striker prefers or what kind of drink he keeps in his water bottle, but I know sod all about his home life. It’s the same with Sloan. I know that she hates tea but loves teacups. And that she has a genuine laugh and a fake laugh, and the genuine one is a rare unicorn that only comes out when she is completely surprised. But none of that knowledge will help me figure out the baggage she’s carried to my doorstep.
“Has someone died?” I ask, cutting to the chase because the longer she stands in front of me acting like she’s fine, the less civil I become.
“No!” she exclaims, her fake smile finally dropping as her shocked eyes dart to mine. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because it’s clear something is wrong, Sloan, and I’ll be damned if I just stand here and don’t bloody well get some answers.”
“Why do you assume something is wrong?” she asks, covering herself with the garment bag as her suit of armour begins to disintegrate.
“Because it’s written all over your face and you’re a crap liar.” I step closer to her and hear the shakiness of her breath as she inhales. It triggers a deep, burning need to fix whatever is hurting her. Desperation taints my voice. “Tell me what I can do?” Who do I need to fucking murder?
I know I’m coming on rather strong, but I simply can’t help it. I’ve always reacted intensely when women cry. Perhaps it’s because I only have one sister, and my brothers and I take protecting her so seriously that I nearly went to jail after choking the last fucker who broke her heart. Or maybe I am this way because of those months as a boy when I literally had to defend my mum against my dad because he couldn’t cope with the fact that she was fucking dying.
The wateriness in Sloan’s eyes doesn’t seem to get better when she looks up at me. It seems to get worse. Her voice is hoarse when she replies, “You can just let me do my job.” It’s a demand and a plea all rolled into one. She could bark it or beg it and I’d submit if that’s what takes the sad look off of her face.
“Whatever you say.” I step back, holding the door open. “Please, come in.”
She moves past me to head inside. Her posture straightens now that she has purpose again and I make another mental note about Sloan. She doesn’t do conflict. The creamy scent of her vanilla perfume wafts over me, and I follow it like a starved dog as she makes her way toward the staircase.
“Has your exercise regime changed recently?” she asks, clearing her throat and attempting to change the focus to me. “I used the same measurements on your suit, and they weren’t too tight on your legs before.”
“Erm, yes. Man U got a new trainer and…” I continue jabbering about the new leg work we’ve been doing while trying not to trip as I notice her left hand clutching the railing.
Her ring finger is bare.
As in no wedding ring.
In all the times I’ve seen her, she’s never not had her ring on. Not once. This has to mean something.
My eyes mindlessly drift from her delicate hand to the curves of her hips. It’s amazing how the lack of a wedding ring changes how you see a woman. The black dress she’s wearing is nothing special, but the thigh-high boots revealing a couple inches of thigh at the top…Fuck me.
Suddenly, her tears don’t hurt me. They excite me. If she’s crying over a failed marriage, I can think of a myriad of ways for her to truly forget about him. My stomach somersaults with visions of Sloan naked and screaming my name.
The fact that my body is reacting like this is impressive. There haven’t been many women I’ve looked twice at over the last several years. I’ve grown tired of the Harris Ho groupies who blatantly rub up against me any chance they get. The neediness they emit isn’t a turn-on anymore. They expect me to throw them against a wall and fuck their brains out. Go complete dominant alpha dog on them, and that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m exhausted from having control over every other aspect of my life. I don’t need them coming at me with thoughts of who they expect me to be.
Even if I try to force myself to engage with them, my body refuses to react. It’s not impotence because I have no problem getting rock-hard in my dreams. And lately, they’ve been so bone-chillingly intense, I wake up and only need to jack myself a couple of times before coming like a bloody freight train. The problem is, the women I’m seeing in my fantasies don’t exist in real life.
Sloan turns to make her way into my bedroom and drops the garment bag on my bed. She unzips it and pulls out three morning suits in varying shades of blue. The femininity of her curvy body in the masculine design of my room is always a sight. My room is various shades of grey, black, and white. At the foot of my bed is a charcoal tufted lounge sofa, like something you’d see in a high-end porno. The truth is, it’s never looked more appealing than it does now that Sloan is in my room, seemingly unattached for the first time since I’ve known her.
“I brought three options for your press conference,” she says with a sigh as she spreads them out on the grey duvet. “One of these should definitely fit over your thighs or I’m going to start to think you’re on ‘roids.”
I chuckle, relieved to hear her having a laugh. “I assure you, I’m definitely not on steroids.”
“I know you’re not,” she replies as she turns toward me. She crosses her arms and slides her gaze up to my face with a curious sort of expression. “Tell me, Gareth, why do you have a morning press interview tomorrow? Usually you talk to the press after a match. This isn’t something I’ve styled you for in the past.”
Clearing my throat and trying to ignore the fact that Sloan fits perfectly in this space in all her womanly glory, I reply, “We’re playing Arsenal for the first time since my brother Camden signed with them as a striker.”
“So?” She jerks her chin, shoving back a few loose strands of glossy hair that are glowing in the blue rope lighting that lines the ceiling of my see-through closet. “Brothers have played against brothers in soccer before, I’m sure.”
“It’s called football, Sloan,” I correct with a cheeky wink. She gives me a wry smile, and seeing her face slip back into her old self makes me feel like a fucking champion. This is a fight we have almost every time we see each other, and I’m pleased it’s helping her feel better. “And you’re correct. Brothers have played against brothers. But not the Harris Brothers.”
“What’s so special about the Harris Brothers?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, looking me up and down once more.
My smile wavers. “I guess it’s because there are four of us and we all play.”
“You all play soccer?” Her brows lift in genuine surprise.
“Yes,” I reply with a laugh. I love that after two years of working together, she has never Googled me. “My three brothers all played together for Bethnal Green—the championship league club our dad manages. But Camden signed with Arsenal, so he’s joined me on the Premiership, and the media are having a heyday with that.”
She sighs heavily with a shake of her head. “Wow. Four boys, all professional athletes. Your mom must be exhausted.”
Her offhanded comment cuts through me harsher than I would have anticipated. They say grief gets better with time. Eventually, the parts of you that broke will mend. That’s not been the case for me. Maybe it is because I was with my mum when she drew her last breath. I’ve never been able to shake the sensation of her body going limp in my arms.
For me, grief is a lot like the ankle injury I suffered years ago. The doctors said it was a really bad sprain, but I’d get back to one hundred percent with solid physio and training. I never did get everything back that I lost, though. I’ll always feel that tendon a little more. I’ll always step a little differently wherever I go. Be a bit more aware of my surroundings. And if I close my eyes, I can remember the feeling of the horrid popping sensation in my bones, and the nausea pummels me like the weight of an entire football team.
My jaw ticks as I attempt to conceal the fresh stab of pain Sloan’s words have caused. Clearing my throat, I reply, “My mum died when I was eight.”
Sloan’s face falls, and the look that casts over her features is like kicking a person when they’re down. “Oh my God, Gareth. I am so sorry. I’m such a puke!” She covers her cheeks with her hands, her head shaking back and forth in horror.
“You’re not a puke.” The word sounds odd coming from me. “You didn’t know. It’s fine.”
“God, you were eight?” Her mind seems to have drifted somewhere else. “You were eight and without your mother. Only your brothers and dad…I’m so sorry.”
“My sister, Vi, was there. She’s younger than me but an old soul. She held us all together.” My words don’t seem to be helping her calm down, so I add, “We had Vi and football. We didn’t need much else.”
Her lips are downcast. “Still. Five kids and no mom. I’m so sorry, Gareth.”
“Stop saying sorry. I’m fine.” My jaw clenches, fighting back feelings I normally keep locked up tightly. This is why I keep people at a distance. Surface level relationships are easier. Safer.
And I hate talking about my mum.
I hate thinking about her. I hate remembering her. When the media try to bring her up to me, I instantly shut down. My agent prefaces all of my interviews with that information, and I am desperate to change the subject entirely right now.
“How’s the husband?” I ask, knowing it’s a dick thing to ask. She’s clearly upset, but she’s managed to slice into my personal life with very little effort. It’ll be easier to have the tables turned.
Her eyes flash to mine like a zap of electricity has been shot through her veins. “Why do you ask?”
She looks just as confused as I feel about this entire conversation. Dead mothers and secret husbands. Tonight is blurring every single one of our once cosy personal boundaries.
I look down at her hand. “I noticed you’re missing some hardware.”
She pulls her hand up in front of her chest, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip as she looks down at the floor. Her thumb strokes the inside of her ring finger that shows a faint tan line. “We’re not together anymore. It’s kind of new,” she adds with a sad look on her face.
Silence falls over us. I should say something. Something respectful. Something proper. Something meaningful. Something to cheer her up. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Or something painfully generic.
“Yeah, thanks.” She gazes up at me, her eyes squinting with question. “I suppose that’s the proper response, right?”
“I guess so?” I respond with a question because I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
She looks around the room, searching for her answer. “I should be sorry. I should be concerned. I should be sad, right?” She looks back at me for my response.
I can only shrug. She looks sad enough to me. Although, perhaps sad isn’t exactly the look I see in her red-rimmed eyes. More lost. “I think you should feel how you want to feel,” I reply sternly.
“That’s the thing, though!” she peals, her eyes wide and anxious. “I don’t know how I want to feel. My marriage is over and I don’t know how I should feel. I thought about it the entire drive over here, and it’s making me crazy that I don’t just know.” She tugs nervously on a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from her ponytail. “Can you tell me how to feel? Please?”
“No,” I state quickly, taking a step back. If I tell her how I want her to feel, it’s happy. Turned on. Liberated. I’d tell her to feel fucking euphoric to be free to do whatever she wants with whomever she wants. But telling her that would only serve me, not her. “It’s your life. A life I’m just learning about. So it’s certainly not my place to tell you your feelings. They should just…come naturally.”
“Well, they’re not.” Her tone is exasperated. She looks like she’s going to lose it again.
“They have to be there,” I retort, stepping closer to her, loathing the lost look in her eyes. “Fuck, I’m an unfeeling prick nine times out of ten, but even I’d have some sort of reaction to not being with the person I loved anymore.”
“That’s the thing!” she exclaims, her voice rising in pitch. “I don’t think I love him! I was just existing with him! So now that I’ve told you that, how do you think I should feel?”
This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had, and that’s saying a lot because my brothers have spoken to me for hours about the size of their balls. But in all the visions I’ve had of Sloan and her husband, I never considered her not even loving him.
Swallowing hard, I reply, “Try saying the first thing that comes to your mind. I’ve split with my husband and I feel…”
“Out of control!” she exclaims, her eyes wide and watery. She moves closer to me, an urgency causing her hands to shake in front of her body. “I feel like I’ve been out of control through the entirety of my marriage and getting divorced doesn’t change a damn thing. He will still have all the power, and I’ll still have zero control of my own damn life.”
“That can’t be true,” I argue. “You won’t be with him anymore. That’s the ultimate freedom. And you have an incredible business you’ve built. You work for some of the wealthiest people in England.”
“He pushed me into this job! And those people just tell me what to do!” she replies with a laugh I don’t entirely trust.
“They ask for your opinion,” I scoff. “You tell them what to wear.”
She smiles, but it looks like it hurts. “I’m a glorified order-filler. I shop and make thoughtful selections, then they send me back to get them something else. You’re my only client who wears what I tell you to wear. Why is that, Gareth?”
She steps even closer to me and grips the sides of my arms with her long, delicate fingers. I flex in response because her hands on me normally feel strong and reassured. But with the crazy look on her face, I’m not sure how to feel right now. “I don’t know. I guess I just tr-trust you,” I falter.
“You’re the only one.” She sniffles and swallows down a lump in her throat while staring at my chest. “You’re the only one who listens.”
She presses her forehead to my chest and her body trembles against mine. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her. One hand cups her neck while the other wraps around the small of her back. We’ve never embraced like this, but she fits perfectly beneath my chin and I can tell she needs this. I squeeze her tightly in a vain attempt to take her pain away. Then I envision punching her fucking husband for turning her into this out of control, emotionally tortured mess before me. Sloan deserves so much better.
“How can I fix this for you?” I ask, wanting to kiss the top of her head but holding back because I don’t know if she’d welcome the touch. “I fix things, so just name what you need.”
Her head lifts, her eyes rising to my face, zeroing in on my lips. My gaze falls to her mouth in response. Her lips are pink and wet and open just enough for me to see the tip of her tongue. A shift in the air has me pulling in a deep, cleansing breath. She looks tearful like before, but there’s a spark in her eyes that I’ve never seen. It’s electric. Mesmerising. Meaningful.
I can smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her breath against my whiskered jaw, and it’s doing things to me. Things I should probably put a stop to. She’s clearly not in a good place, but what’s happening right now isn’t voluntary.
“Why are you so kind to me, Gareth?” she asks my lips. Her voice is deep and different than I’ve ever heard. “I don’t have many friends out here, and you’re one of the only ones who’s kind.”
My voice is like gravel when I reply, “I li-like you.”
Her gaze roves over my features, taking in every millimetre of my expression like she’s looking for a lie. It hurts to see her like this. Sloan is always so thoughtful and patient. So understanding. What kind of a sick bastard could make her doubt herself so much?
I would never make her feel this way. In fact, I would do literally anything to take away this pain she’s feeling. Seeing her falling apart feels dangerous, like she could break and disappear at any second.
I lean in toward her lips. The sugary scent wafting off of her makes my mouth water. I can practically taste the sweetness of her skin and we haven’t even touched yet. “Tell me what you want, Treacle.”
She sucks in a quick breath and tightens her grip on my biceps. “What does Treacle mean?”
My eyes close because I didn’t mean to say it out loud. It’s an East London word that an old trainer for Bethnal used a lot, and for some reason it stuck. “It’s a British term for sweet. Treacle is a type of sweet molasses.”
Her nose wrinkles with disgust. “Why would you call me molasses?”
I press my lips to fight the chuckle that is rising in my chest. “Because you smell sweet. You’ve always smelled sweet since the first time I met you. Like syrup.”
“Oh,” she says, looking down and thinking that over. “And you like that?” she asks, looking up at me with hope.
Not at first, is the reply that pops into my head. Instead, I press my nose to her neck. The skin is soft and puckers with goosebumps as I inhale deeply. Lightly touching my lips to her neck, I murmur against her flesh, “I do now.”
Sloan swallows slowly as I pull back and take in her flushed cheeks. “So it’s like a term of endearment?”
“You could call it that.”
Her eyes well with tears, and I fear that I’ve gone too far. A droplet slides down her cheek, so I reach out to cradle her delicate face in my hands. My thumb slowly slicks the moisture away. “I’m sorry if that was too much. I won’t say it again. I just really want to make this pain you have go away. I have to make these tears stop.”
“It’s not too much,” she croaks, leaning into me so our bodies are pressed against each other. I thought it was my lips on her neck that upset her, but now we’re so close I can feel every breath she takes. “I’ve never had a term of endearment.”
I’ve never been inspired to give one, is what I think. Instead, I reply, “You should have that and so much more, Sloan. Just tell me what you want and I will give it to you.” My body is roaring to life in a way I’ve never experienced, and it’s taking every ounce of my control to not ravage her on the spot. But that’s the last thing she needs. She’s come to me saying she feels out of control. I’m not about to enable that feeling.
“What do you mean?” she asks, watching my lips as she licks her tongue across her own.
“Tell me what to do. Give me an order. Whatever you want. You’re not out of control right now, Sloan. You are completely in control. With me. I give it all to you.”
A breath she had been holding escapes her lips in a garbled sort of moan, like the thought of me giving in to her is turning her on. God, I want to see her turned on. I want to see her let go so fucking badly I could roar.
She inhales and husks against my lips, “I…want a lot of things.” Her eyes drift down my body, and her chest rises and falls with deep, labourious breaths.
“Considering how badly I want you right now, I’m bloody well positive you could have anything from me.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and an ember burns in them that wasn’t there before. “Anything?”
I swallow slowly, a heavy, important weight pressing down on me with that single word. “Anything.”
Her voice is quick and brisk, like a flash of lightning. “I want to see you naked.”
Fuck. Me.
It has just been confirmed that the woman I’ve fantasised about nineteen different ways since the second I met her wants me naked. It’s not at all what I expected but more than I could have ever hoped for. I want to thrust my victorious fists in the air and hoot for joy, but I’m going to conceal my childish excitement.
She’s fragile right now. Raw. This needs to be about her desires. Not mine. It’s important for her to know I’m taking her seriously. And there’s no way in hell I want any of this to stop.
Releasing her cheeks, I step back and yank my shirt off over my head. Before my eyes open, she’s in my space, raking her fingers over my shoulders and through the short hairs on my chest. Her eyes watch the action as her nails bite into my flesh, leaving thin red lines as they go.
My grunt has her eyes back on mine. “Do you like that?” she asks nervously, trying to read my expression.
Swallowing and trying to maintain control of my impending erection, I nod slowly. I like it too much. I like it more than I’ve liked a woman’s hands on me in ages. My tone is guttural. “I like it a lot.”
My chest begins rising and falling quicker the longer she looks at me, eyeing me with renewed strength. “Can we really do this?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply automatically, needful for more. “We can do whatever you want.” And I seriously mean whatever she wants.
“Unbutton your jeans,” she whispers tremulously and takes a step back to watch my reaction.
Her eyes are strong and full of passion. They look confident, no longer crazed and out of control. Giving her this control is a turn-on like I’ve never felt before.
Reaching down, I unbutton the snap of my jeans, pulling apart the zipper seam with a simple bend of my wrist. Sloan’s eyes travel down the line of hair running from my navel to my groin. She bites her lip and her head lolls back like she’s trying to maintain control of herself.
Fuck me. I’m not even touching her and she’s reacting this strongly. Don’t fucking stop, Treacle.
“Tell me more,” I croak, my voice deep and gravelly as I stare at the beautiful flesh on her neck. “Tell me everything you want me to do.”
She nods, her shoulders rising with this newfound empowerment she’s trying so hard to embrace. Her hands slide up her body to the back of her neck. “Rub yourself,” she states. “Over your jeans.”
My brows lift. God, why am I so proud of her in this moment? She’s fucking stunning, that’s why.
I press the heat of my palm over the crotch of my denim, careful not to do anything more than what she’s requested. My dick is hardening from watching her watch me. She’s a fucking vision.
My forearm flexes as I begin to massage my groin, my dick pressing against the seam of my jeans and growing by the second.
“Go inside your jeans. Rub your bare…cock.” She hesitates on the last word and pulls her lip into her mouth, clearly unsure of herself.
“Anything,” I whisper, my voice quaking because my level of arousal is a bit terrifying.
My reply gives her confidence. She licks her lips and eyes the veins running up my arm as I slide my hand into my tight jeans. I’m rock-hard now, but there’s no room to play. Regardless, I’m following orders and everything feels so fucking good.
“I want to see you, Gareth,” she all but moans. “Take off your jeans.”
Thank fuck, I think to myself as I slide the jeans down my legs and kick them out of the way. She’s asked me to take off my jeans for a million different fittings, but I usually remember to put underwear on when she comes by. Perhaps it was destiny that I forgot tonight.
I’m completely naked while she remains completely clothed. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced with a woman. There’s a shift in the room. In the universe. A change in our axis. The power she has over me as I stand in front of her naked and vulnerable is a heady, sexy sensation. A strange desire to fall to my knees and worship her overcomes me, but I remain on my feet, slowly stroking my cock for her half-lidded eyes.
“Will you drop to your knees?” she asks, wringing her hands together in front of her.
I look at her like she’s reading my fucking mind. “Will you demand it?” I want to hear the order. I crave it.
Her jaw tightens. “Drop to your knees.”
The conviction in her voice is like a defibrillator to my chest, shocking the last remaining control I’ve lived with my entire fucking life out of my body. I’ve entered into some sexy as fuck fantasy world where she’s the queen and I’m her servant. And, bloody hell, it’s just like my fucking dreams. My mind has clicked off and is uninhibited. Ready to listen, to respond, to please. I’m prepared and waiting for more orders because, for once in my life, I’m not in control. I’m not the celebrity footballer. I’m not the big brother. I’m not the support system, the mediator, the protector. I don’t have to solve things or play a certain role. I can just be myself without expectations. I’m…free.
The feeling is completely liberating. I don’t want to challenge her. I want to make her happy. I want to keep that confidence in her voice. I want to follow her commands, praying like fuck she’ll reward me with her body.
My grip tightens around my cock, and I close my eyes briefly to concentrate so I don’t come like a fucking teenager.
“Eyes on me,” she states.
My eyes snap to hers.
She’s in another place, too. Her voice is different. The emotional sponge she once was has vanished. She’s controlling the feelings in the room. The atmosphere. The pleasure. She’s found me hiding in that faraway fantasy land where she’s the queen and I’m hers. All hers. We have hit a point of no return, and everything around us will crumble if we don’t give in to our desires.
I stare at her strength and grow harder as every muscle and vein stretches and tightens along the length of my cock. I want her so fucking badly.
She lets out a moan and says, “Stand up. Take my clothes off. Right now. Fast…Please.”
I rise, eliminating the few feet between us and reach down for the bottom of her dress. There’s a faint sound of fabric tearing as I yank it over her head, but I can’t help myself. A frenzy has taken over. And as much as I want to glance down at her black lace bra and her tiny slip of knickers, I can’t look away from her gaze.
“I want you to grab my hair and fuck me against that dresser as hard as you can. Don’t hold back. Don’t take it easy on me. Make me scream.” Her muscles twitch beneath her skin. She’s struggling so hard to maintain control, yet she’s still a vision.
I’m getting pictures in my head of not following her orders and being punished. The sight is everything I never knew I wanted.
I grip her by the waist and pull her against my body, walking her backwards to the dresser. I stare at her lips and move in just as she states, “Don’t kiss me. Don’t you dare kiss me.”
I all but growl with agitation and swirl her around so fast on her heels, she loses her balance and falls onto the dresser. She’s bent over the furniture with her arse perched toward me, like a delicious buffet that I can’t touch without permission.
“Rip my panties off and bury your cock inside of me. And you better have a condom, so help me God.”
Her voice is a cry at the end as I grip the strip of fabric lining her crack and jerk them off of her in one strong tug. I fist her knickers in my hand and stride over to my nightstand. I drop the material into the drawer and grab a foiled packet.
Moving back to her, I tear the condom open with my teeth.
“I didn’t say you could open it!” she exclaims, watching me over her shoulder and staring at my bobbing cock. “Bring it here.”
I do as I’m told, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done with a woman and I haven’t even penetrated her yet. She silently takes the condom and pulls the rubbery object out of the wrapper.
“You gave me control, so I’m taking it.” Her gaze is a powerful pool of copper, twinkling in the dim light of my room. She grabs my cock and tugs it. “I want to put this on you.”
I grunt and stifle a moan as she holds a death grip on me. My pain makes her smile in awe. God, she is beautiful.
“I like your voice,” she says. It sounds like the old Sloan, but she clears her throat and adds, “It’s really sexy. I want to hear it when you drive into me, okay?”
“You got it, Treacle,” I reply.
With a pleased smirk, she drops down on her knees and rolls the slippery condom over me. I’m so turned on, I could probably ejaculate this second. It’s been way too fucking long. But I’m certain that would end badly for me, so I focus on her commands and release my mind to her desires again.
“Now, grab my ponytail and fuck me hard. Really fucking hard. So hard I forget everything.” Her voice is a bit manic, but the neediness calls to me.
Her command is my wish, I think to myself. I wrap her thick chestnut hair around my fist and jerk her around so she’s bent over the dresser, her arse level with my cock. It’s a good thing she still has her boots on or we would not match up. I bend at the knees and position my tip between her folds. My fingertips brush her entry to prepare her, and the wetness between them makes me want to roar with pride.
“Speak, Gareth!” she demands as I press my forehead between her shoulder blades.
“You’re fucking soaked, and it’s making me crazy,” I growl.
“More!” she cries.
“You’re so soaked that all I want is to lick every drop coming from you because I’ve been thinking about your wet little pussy since the second I met you.”
“Oh my God,” she moans and splays her hands out on the dresser top. “I want you to lick me, too. I want you to do about ninety different things with your tongue. But right now, you have to fuck me. I need to be filled, Gareth. I want to feel your big dick stretch me.”
I ram inside of her with all my strength, and she screams in response. Fuck me, she’s tight. Why is she so tight? If I was married to her, we would be fucking every bloody day and twice on Sundays. What’s the matter with her husband? Why am I thinking of another man right now?
“Gareth!” she screams, begging for more with just the sound of my name.
“You’re so fucking tight. Your husband is a bloody idiot.”
“Don’t bring him up!” She reaches back with one hand and digs her nails into my arse.
I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut to stop myself from coming. Fuck me. Pain and pleasure is a fine line indeed. I tug her ponytail and her grip on my arse loosens. “Your tight, wet pussy likes my big cock, so brace yourself because I’m not holding back.”
My arse and thighs flex as I thrust up into her and reach around with my fingers to squeeze her clit at the same time.
She screams. She screams so bloody loud, I hesitate.
“Don’t you fucking stop!” She slams her palms against the mirror attached to the dresser. I find her face in the reflection and she pins me with a threat. “You stop and I’m out of here faster than you can get that condom off your dick.”
“Fucking tease,” I murmur, yanking back on her ponytail so her head is thrust up toward the ceiling as I pound into her so fast, I knock over all the decorative shit on the dresser. The mirror shifts as she props herself on it, trying to find purchase against the onslaught, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I’m following orders and she’s praising me with the sexiest fucking sounds I’ve ever heard from a woman. The whole scene is the freest and most aroused I’ve ever felt in my entire fucked-up life. This strong, sexy, confident woman said I needed to fuck her and, somehow, obeying her is just as hot as the fucking.
When I feel her pussy clench around me, she lets out a loud, ear-piercing cry. My teeth grind together as I pray to Christ she tells me to come soon because I don’t think I can hold out a second longer.
“Come, Gareth. Fucking come with me!” she bellows, her voice broken and high-pitched, out of breath and panting.
Instantly, hot liquid spurts out of me and encompasses the tip of my cock as I ejaculate into the condom, still thrusting into her as I blow. The pressure of her tight pussy tremoring around me as I move is like a vibrating vice-grip of complete ecstasy.
“Holy freaking shit,” she cries, her voice sounding more like her again.
I open my mouth to reply, but the buzz from my security panel stops me mid-breath.
“What the hell?” she squeaks. “Are you…Are you expecting someone?” She shoves me off of her and yanks away from me like she’s been infected.
“No!” I exclaim, annoyed as she begins covering her body with her hands.
“Oh my God, you’re an athlete. Of course you are!” She pulls up the strap of her bra that slipped down her shoulder and squats down in her boots to scoop up her dress.
“I said I’m not expecting anyone!”
“I don’t believe you!” she barks.
“You have no reason not to!”
This brings her up short, but she’s clearly not convinced.
“Except for the fact that you soccer players are the biggest sluts in Manchester. That’s what everyone says.”
“I haven’t fucked anyone in a bloody year!” I roar but instantly feel bad for shouting in her face. I take a step back and soften my tone. “I have no idea who the fuck could be here at this time of night.”
Still only wearing a condom, I rush over to the screen and tap the button to see who’s in the white Mercedes. A bearded, man-bun freak stares back at me. “Christ, it’s Tanner.”
“Who’s Tanner?” Sloan asks, clutching her dress to her chest.
“My brother,” I growl through clenched teeth. “He’s here to watch the match tomorrow, but he wasn’t supposed to be here until the morning.”
I press the admittance button without a word, and Sloan and I begin scrambling for our clothes. I pop into the loo and yank off the condom that has to contain my biggest load to date. When I stride out, Sloan approaches.
“What are you doing?” I ask, glancing down at her fully dressed state.
“I need a minute!” she snaps, moving toward the loo. “Just go down and stall!”
I shake my head and slide back into my jeans, still feeling semen seep out of my tip and into the denim. The texture is bone-chilling, but I’ll probably be leaking for days after that epic fuck. I yank my shirt down over my head and make my way downstairs, barefoot, trembling, and exhilarated beyond belief.
Euphoria overcomes me as I swing open the door just as Tanner strides up the steps with bags in hand. A curvy, dark-haired woman stands beside him, frowning at something behind me in the house.
“Tanner!” My voice booms, deep and throaty, maybe even a bit hoarse from all the dirty talk I just did. I nervously smooth my hair and adjust my shirt over my groin as my eyes dart back and forth between him and the entryway behind me, unsure what the fuck Sloan is doing. I cough out an uncomfortable noise and say, “Surprised to see you tonight.”
The girl frowns at Tanner. “Didn’t you tell him you decided to come early?”
Tanner shrugs. “Didn’t occur to me.”
The girl looks like she’s about to apologise for my brother’s rudeness when Sloan’s hand touches my arm to move me out of her way to exit. The sensation is like needles.
“It’s fine. We’re all done here,” she states, smooth and confident, like she didn’t dominate me upstairs five minutes ago. She throws an empty garment bag over her shoulder and smiles.
“Who’s this?” Tanner smirks, amazement on his face.
“This is no one,” I answer quickly, wanting to knock the look off his face before Sloan bolts. Her eyes look to mine with barely contained fury. “I mean, she’s someone, but…Sloan is my personal shopper.”
“Personal shopper?” Tanner’s curious tone gets right up my nose.
“I prefer celebrity fashion stylist,” Sloan corrects, her tone crisp and unforgiving as she moves past us. I stare wistfully at her retreating frame, hating that whatever just happened has ended so abruptly. “And I really need to be going. I only did this late call as a favour. Good luck at your event tomorrow, Mr. Harris.”
Without a glance back, she strides toward her car. Tanner’s friend frowns as she watches Sloan leave. I wonder if she notices the messy appearance of Sloan’s ponytail.
“Who the fuck was that really?” Tanner asks, placing a hand on my shoulder and waggling his brows at me. “Cam and I thought you were fucking celibate!”
I roll my eyes. I pretty much was until a few minutes ago.
While standing in the kitchen with my brother and Belle—the woman he’s fake dating for the next month to get out of some salacious media scandal—my phone vibrates from where it’s plugged in on the counter. The two of them are busy making googly eyes at each other, so I unlock it and read the text that came in.
Sloan: That WILL NOT be happening again. Ever.
My brow furrows, disappointment clouding my buzz. Begrudgingly, I type back.
Me: You’re the boss.
And a fine boss at that.