Page 63 of The Reluctant Billionaire
But my eyes aren’t on them.
Nope.
They’re on the man who’s coaching them. Who’s exhibiting best practice, and breaking down the stunt, and, if I’m being honest, who’s worked up such a heat in this west-facing inferno of dark tarmac that he’s lost the vest and trousers and is wearing only his socks, trainers, and a pair of Spurs shorts, all of which he must have brought along for the occasion.
And holyhelldoes he look fine.
I swooned alongside the rest of the world whenMaverickcame out and treated us all to that delicious dogfight football scene. But honestly, Rooster and Hangman and their waxed-chested cronies and their aviators and Californian sunlight can take a running jump, because I will take Aide Duffy with his chest hair and fucking incredible body and endless goodheartedness, on a shitty-ripped up piece of tarmac in West London.
Any. Day. Of. The. Week.
‘Bad luck, mate!’ he shouts to one little boy who’s inadvertently kicked his ball too hard, sending it away from himself. ‘Try catching the ball between every keepy-uppy for the moment, yeah? Means you won’t be running around as much.’
It’s lucky I’m wearing sunglasses, because I am eye-fucking that man so hard it’s indecent. Especially when there are so many kids around.
‘Here you go, honey,’ I say to a gangly girl with braces. I practically stuff the paper bag into her arms as I crane my neck to watch Aide doing keepy-uppies. The kids are standing around him, keeping a noisy count, but luckily I’m well positioned to watch him through the gap.
‘Sixty-eight!’ they chant. ‘Sixty-nine!Seventy!’
His movements are measured and seemingly effortless. He keeps the ball in the air with the lightest of flicks from his feet, but I notice, to my intense gratification, that with each kick, the corresponding pec flexes, and my pussy clenches in sync.
He’s sweating hard, and I’m not surprised. The heat’s been building all day, and it’s now sweltering. He rakes his damp hair off his forehead, and I swoon. Sweat glistens on his abs. His pecs. His biceps.
And I swoon. Again.
Every single thing this man does seems fated to make me swoon, basically.
Which is why I cannot wait till we get back to his place to show him how much he turns me on.
As soon as the last child has reluctantly left his impromptu football practice, I tell him I need him inside. Urgently. I lead the way into the office, which is stuffy but cooler than it is outside.
‘Fuck,’ he says, wiping his forearm across his forehead, ‘I’m sweating like a pig.’ He tilts his head back to take a swig from his water bottle, and I pause from my task of ramming the back of achair under the unlockable handle of the office door to watch his Adam’s apple work as he drinks.
The pure masculinity of it has me pressing my thighs together.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say, closing the distance between us. I touch my fingertips to the damp valley between his pecs and let them trail down his slick abs.
God.
He’s good enough to eat.
He pulls his water bottle away and looks down at me with interest. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘I’m showing my appreciation for how insanely sexy you look like this,’ I say. I turn my hand so my knuckles follow the damp path of his happy trail down past his waistband to graze lightly over his cock.
He inhales through his teeth. ‘I’m sweaty and disgusting,’ he says, but his eyes are already flicking to my boobs. He arches into my touch, probably unconsciously, and I stand there and palm him shamelessly, loving how he grows harder and heavier right there in my hand.
‘You’re sweaty anddelicious,’ I correct him. I stand back so I don’t take him out with a rogue elbow as I tug off my painting t-shirt and my hot-pinkBarbielogo-ed vest top. I’m in a matching pink bra today. It’s ridiculously cute and shows off a lot of nipple.
He groans out an anguishedfuck me, Lotts.
I sink to my knees in front of him.
‘You don’t have to do this, sweetheart,’ he pleads. ‘Seriously, I can wait till I’ve showered.’
‘Well that makes one of us,’ I say tartly, and I pull down his shorts. It seems he lost his briefs, too, when he changed, because his cock springs out, thick and far readier than he’s letting on.
I look up at him and flick my tongue lightly over his crown as I grip him hard, and he rewards me with a low rumble of approval. He’s damp everywhere, slick and hot beneath my fingers.
