His nails raked across my back, raw streaks burning into my skin. I sank my teeth into his shoulder, hard enough to make him whimper. A distraught sound that enraged me further. Proof to show him he wasn’t the only bloke who could leave a mark. He shoved me back onto the mattress with that rabid look in his molten eyes, straddling my hips and opening his arse for me.
He sank down onto my cock, swallowing it whole. Riding my prick as though he was ordained in the position by a bishop. I remember the magical sensation of my dick sloshing through his insides for the first time—hungry, silky, and impossibly plush. An arse fit for the Gods. Every slide was pure ecstasy, a baptism into the kind of pleasure that sears itself into your memory.
Sweat poured between us, slick and endless, as we panted and heaved in cadence. His moans rattled my skull, groans of delightechoing in my eardrums as a sweet melody. We fucked and spilled ourselves dry, draining every drop our bodies could offer. Dehydrated, delirious, and drunk on the fury we felt for one another.
Fuck, I’d never tasted anybody or anything so handsome and sweet.
By the time dawn bled through the curtains, we were wrecked beyond sense. The reek of sex overwhelmed the air, sour and intoxicating. My thighs seized with cramps, his chest heaved, our lips refused to part. As if one breath away from each other would collapse the whole bloody world. Cum dried on our skin as war paint, smeared trophies from the war we’d waged. Together we almost broke the fucking bed frame, wood groaning, close to snapping under the weight of our frenzy.
We both knew it wouldn’t be a fling. That kind of passion isn’t random. Not some kind of weird accident.
It’s fated.
He's meant to be mine.
Every hair on his torso, every stray mole, every scratch from the turf. All for Charlie Evans.
The memory of it all makes me chuckle.
How far we’ve come. From an accidental hookup to the man of my dreams. Our relationship evolving into a sweet and tender affair, reminiscent of a rose bush. Thorny, yet so beautiful. Easy to be swiped by a sharp prick, but worth every graze for the bloom it gives. Soft and delicate petals, vibrant in their different colours. Opal, midnight black, or blood red. Fragile enough to crush in careless hands, but they will thrive when tended with devotion. A garden Inever thought I would be worthy of, yet here I am, on my knees in the dirt, tending to the rose bush with everything I’ve got.
The only menace that can steer us off course is my bastard of a twin. I know he'll try to come in as a blazing wildfire. To burn our precious rose bush to ashes, but I see you Drew. I'll hose you down. I'll be bloody fit to handle your shenanigans. Your arrogant arse, angry that I have something proper in my life while you are a miserable pile of horse fodder.
The kitchen burns hot from the mess that I've been cooking up. All of the simmering heat and the bubbling sauce making it feel like a sauna.
The stubborn red sauce refuses to cooperate. I swirl the pan, chasing tomatoes around the burner, the bright red lycopene streaking against the stainless steel—resembling the bright redness of fresh blood at a murder scene. Give me a sixty-yarder with a crosswind and I’m calm as a monk in the middle of a reading. Ask me to coax tomatoes into civility and I’m swearing at a saucepan as if it nicked my wallet.
Still, I keep at it. I promised Austin a proper homemade dinner. I should’ve just grabbed some takeaway, plated it, and let him think I’d gone domestic. That would have been loads easier. But he texted that he was staying late for an optional recovery stretch. Nora mentioned his hips were tight, he did seem wound up all bloody day. At practice, there was a tension running through him I couldn’t quite get to the bottom of.
The door buzzer goes off. I hit the intercom. “Up you come, love," I say as smooth as claret.
My chest warms with a joy reminiscent of Christmas morning, the excitement of magical gifts landing under the bright lights of the tree from Santa Claus. Except, right now, my gift is six-foot stud making his way upstairs with sinful eyes and a body that might as well be carved from the sculpted Cliffs of Dover—solid and jaw-dropping, and entirely mine to pillage.
He steps in with the post-practice droop, but he looks a bit more pooped than normal. Shoulders sagging, hair damp, and curling at the edges, brown eyes glowing brightly at his halos.
It’s always been difficult for me to restrain myself after seeing him. The moment he walks in a room, my breath is stolen, especially with that savoury post-practice scent. A zealous part of me aches to tear his clothes off and rail him right here in the kitchen. Spread his legs across the granite countertops. Let the neighbours passing in the hallway hear our moaning.
Maybe later…
I slide an arm around his waist, pull him in, and press a kiss to his cheek, catching the faint scent of dried salt and grass on his skin. Everything about him feels like home—cozy, enchanting, and the one thing in this world I never want to lose. Lucky bastard, me, to have landed him.
“How was practice?” I murmur, though what I really mean isI missed you.
He shrugs in his timid manner, his hair flopping in sync with his shoulders. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Had a good stretch session though. My hips are feeling much better than usual.”
I brush my thumb over his damp hair at his temple, “Mmmm, sounds brutal,” I say, nudging him toward the counter. “Good thing I’ve got dinner on. Don’t ask me if it’s edible, but it's hot and it’ll help you replenish some of those fluids you lost today and last night.”
He gives me his innocent smile, stubble stretching with it. Christ, he looks bloody irresistible. A damn buffet that I can’t wait to devour. However, the lad needs some proper nutrition first. Some caloric fuel after a long day of running routes.
Then maybe, once he’s fed and happy, I’ll have my own taste of him.
A different kind of pudding. One that’s only mine. A silky tiramisu with a cherry on top and a splash of heavy cream.
Part of Austin’s charm is that I can never tire of him. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve had the lad. Every moment together just amplifies my desire for him. Every glance into his irises sends me swooning. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I was buried inside him, but already I’m fiending to slide back in. To feel his ultimate warmth again. To see him vulnerable and begging for me. To show him that he’s mine, and I’m his.
We’re bloody perfect together. We're two of a kind. Might even call us soulmates if I’m being sappy about it.
“Try the sauce,” I say, handing him a spoon. “Do you think it needs more salt? More olive oil?”
