“Glad to hear that,” he says. “There’s another room for the opposing team. It’s probably open.” He reaches down and grabs my arm, pulling me to my feet. “By the way, tonight, Thierry, my good mate on the team, invited us to a pub. He wants to meet you. That all right?”
I’m totally flattered that his teammates even know about me. “Sure.”
“Good,” he says, kissing me softly on the lips and letting out an agreeable noise. “I want to show you off to everyone I’ve ever known and ever met,” he whispers against my mouth.
I practically melt and kiss him back eagerly, our lips and tongues hot, wanting him to feel just how he makes me feel. I’m not even sure how to describe just how he does me in.
He leads me down the stairs and across the field, toward the tunnel on the opposite end. I pause in the middle, looking around me, imagining what it would be like to be Lachlan, to step out here among thousands of fans staring down at me, cheering me on. I don’t know how he does it, he must get into some kind of zone.
I think he does that with me sometimes. It’s like he sees me and nothing else, like I’m his whole world, the only thing in his existence.
Even now, the way he’s glancing at me as he takes me into the darkened tunnel, I feel enslaved by his intensity. Fuck it. I’m enslaved by everything about him. His beauty, his darkness. His cock. Definitely his cock.
And definitely now.
He takes me toward a door and tries the knob but it won’t budge. He pushes me back a bit, looks both ways up and down the tunnel, then kicks the door in.
“Wow, are you sure this –” I start to say but the look in his eyes shuts me up and he practically throws me in the room. He closes the door behind him and flicks on the lights.
It looks pretty much like any locker room I’ve ever seen. Lockers, benches, showers at the end. And, thankfully, empty. I look back at Lachlan and he’s already peeling off his sweaty shirt and tossing it to the cement floor. His shoes, socks, shorts go next. Totally commando.
“I, uh, thought you always wore your underwear when you played,” I say to him, my eyes drawn to his massive erection that he’s holding in his fist, stroking it slowly, up and down and burning into me with dangerous eyes. “You know. Because of the shorts being pulled down thing...”
But my words are trailing off because the sight of him in the locker room, his rugby kit discarded on the floor beside him, all his gorgeous tattoos and primed muscles on full display, makes me stupid. God, the fact that I just saw all that his body can do on the field, and now he’s going to show me all he can do to me in here…I’m practically panting for it, and I know I’m wet as sin already.
“I like to mix it up,” he says unapologetically.
I unbutton my jeans, sliding them down my hips in front of him, about to step out.
“No,” he says hoarsely, a gleam in his eyes. “Leave them around your ankles.”
I tilt my head and blink at him. Just what does he have in mind?
His strides past me, cock in hand and goes all the way to the showers. He turns one of them on and steps in, letting the water stream over his massive body. His stroking increases and I watch, tantalized, as his fist slides from the thick base to his purple, swollen tip.
“Just watch,” he says through a groan, his head back, the beads of water pouring down his throat, down between the hard mounds of his chest, following the carved path of his stomach. “I want you to beg for it.”
“I am begging for it,” I tell him, feeling slightly ridiculous that I’m standing here, with my jeans and underwear around my feet, watching him jerk off in the shower. I want more than anything to get down on my knees, put that delicious dick in my mouth, let the water cascade over me. I don’t care if I get wet. I want to make him come. Preferably in my mouth, but I’ll take what I can get.
“Get on the bench, right there,” he commands, opening his eyes as the water runs over his head, flattening his hair, his mouth open with that puffy bottom lip just asking for trouble. The look on his face is absolutely hedonistic.