Page 53 of Match Point

He quirks a brow. ‘You’ll get a thrill from my international humiliation.’

‘No,’ I sigh. ‘It would be exciting to see you using this gift I personally gave you. I’ll know you’re… you’re…’

I trail off, his intense gaze wiping the entire English language from my brain.

‘You’ll know I’m thinking of you,’ he finishes for me, but his voice is uncertain and hopeful, as though he’s not sure that he’s got the correct answer.

There must be something in my eyes that tells him that’s exactly what I want, because suddenly his mouth is on mine. He’s kissing me as desperately as I’m kissing him, my back pushed up against the doorframe, one of his arms propped over my head, the other behind me, his hand pressing against the small of my back as I arch into him. My fingers slide into his hair and he lets out a low moan as his demanding tongue finds mine, heat pooling between my thighs at every stroke.

Oh God, he’s so hot, so fucking hot and everything about him sends me into a dizzying spin of desire. How solid and warm his body feels pressing into mine, the way he smells so clean and musky and masculine, the way he’s kissing me so roughly like he needs this as much as I do, maybe more. His hands are roaming everywhere, over my shoulders, splaying down my back, stroking the curve of my hips, teasing across my thighs, cupping my arse, back to my hips, his fingers digging into my skin.

‘You’re driving me insane,’ he says through ragged breaths, leaning into me and kissing a path along my jaw. He doesn’t need to tell me that. I can feel him hard and throbbing against my hip. I want him so much it makes every nerve ending tingle, every inch of me ache. But a small, niggling voice at the back of my mind fights back.

Pushing against every instinct in my body, I pull away from him. And it’s torture.

‘We shouldn’t,’ I whisper, hating myself as his nose nudges mine, looking for more. ‘Tomorrow is so important, Kieran. You’re playing in Wimbledon.’

‘Fuck Wimbledon,’ he growls, kissing me again.

He’s making this so difficult. It’s physically painful to bring this to a stop.

I force myself to turn my head away from his. ‘No, don’t say that. You’ve worked so hard for this. I’d never forgive myself if anything we did impacted how you play. Please, we have to stop. You need to be focused. And you have all those videos to watch.’

He exhales with frustration, his hands still gripping my hips, his fingers beneath my top, burning into my skin. Resting his forehead against mine, he swears under his breath.

‘I want to,’ I emphasise huskily, ‘but it’s important that you rest. We can’t risk it.’

I don’t know how but I find the will to step out of his grasp and he lets his hands drop to his sides, leaning back against the doorframe. He sighs, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, tucking my hair behind my ears.

He shakes his head. ‘No, you’re right. I need to be on top form tomorrow. Don’t want to wear myself out tonight. Besides, I’ve waited this long. I can wait a bit longer.’

I swallow, blushing. ‘I know. I’ve been thinking about this all day.’

‘That’s nothing,’ he says, bringing his eyes down to meet mine. ‘I’ve been thinking about this since the day we met.’

14

I have so many butterflies flitting around my stomach I can’t eat. I honestly don’t know how Kieran possibly handles these nerves – if I’m feeling like this when I’m not even a player, how must he be feeling when he’s the one about to step out on court any moment? The Wimbledon Championships just seem so DAUNTING. Seven rounds over two weeks: first, second, third, and fourth round, then quarter-finals, semi-finals, and lastly, the final. How are these players not completely exhausted by the time they get to the final?! They get, like, one day break between their matches during that first week. I’ve looked it up and, as Kieran is playing today, the first day of the tournament, if things go his way and he keeps knocking his opponents out, he’ll be playing Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday this week, and then Tuesday, Friday, and the final Sunday next week.

That is a LOT. I’m tired just thinking about it.

Also get this: you get paid £55,000 for reaching the first round of Wimbledon. Even if you get knocked out that first match, you get that money in your bank account. And it keeps going up from there; you get more prize money for each round you get to. That’s just one tennis tournament in the year.

WHY am I not a professional tennis player?!

Although, the nerves are enough to put me off. When Neil came to collect Kieran this morning, he told me that he would be playing on Court Seven, which isn’t being broadcast with the main coverage on BBC One, but I’m able to live-stream on iPlayer. That was pretty much the extent of our conversation while he waited in the living room for Kieran to get ready to leave. Neil is definitely suspicious of me. After I’d finished offering him every variety of drink available in the house – of which there are quite a few, thanks to Kieran’s nutritionist – and he’d politely declined all of them, he stood by the fireplace looking at his phone while I sat down and pretended to look at mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him glancing at me every now and then with his brow furrowed, as though he was trying to work me out.

Kieran and I had an awkward goodbye thanks to Neil’s presence. If Neil hadn’t been there, I would have hugged him or something, but because he was watching us like a hawk, all I could do was smile at Kieran and say, ‘You’ve got this,’ before he was ushered out the door. I hope he remembered to bring the bubbles in his tennis bag.

Perched now on the edge of the sofa, I take a deep breath as I watch him and his opponent walk out on court. I feel a swell of pride at knowing him. I can’t believe I’ve kissed this man. My heart sinks as Jonah’s voice flits across my brain, reminding me that there must be a few women who have felt like this when Kieran O’Sullivan walks onto the court.

You can’t think he’s genuinely serious about you.

This morning, I put on a Wimbledon podcast that had an Irish commentator on it while I made a cup of tea, and when Kieran’s name came up, I stopped what I was doing to listen, standing still in the middle of the kitchen floor. ‘Kieran O’Sullivan has talent, but he’s never quite lived up to his potential,’ the presenter was saying in exasperation. ‘If you want to win Wimbledon, you have to be controlled mentally, but he’s too volatile. He’s just not a level-headed guy out there. He’s had many chances and he’s always bottled it. But hey, he’s a lovely player to watch… when he controls his temper. Maybe he’ll surprise us this year. But honestly? I’m not holding my breath. John, what do you think?’

I switched it off.

---