“Please.” I whine desperately.
“No need to beg,” he says, arrogance ringing through loud and clear.
“Oh, shut u?—”
He buries himself inside me. We both gasp at the sensation of his length filling me, of my walls stretching wide to grip him tight. It’s maddening and bliss in equal measure. He gives me a second to adjust, but before long, I’m starting to squirm against him, pleading with my body to start to move.
He chuckles, running his hand up my back and into my hair before wrapping it around his fist and pulling my head back to kiss me. The angle pushes him even deeper inside me, and we both groan into each other's mouth as he starts to move, setting pace with me arching back into him.
“Fuck, you feel like glory,” he grunts, pistoning his hips in and out of me in a punishing rhythm. We’ve barely just begun, and I already feel right at the edge of tipping.
I’m a music box in his hands, and I clench around him as his words wind me tighter and tighter, until my body is begging for the release of harmonies even while my head and my heart want to drag this out as long as possible.
“I—I’m already so close,” I gasp, unable to form a thought more coherent than that.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel he’s right there too, right on the edge of oblivion with me. His cock is thick, dragging against my walls, and his movements don’t halt when he reaches forward, settles his hand on my clit, and starts rubbing in steady circles while he pounds in and out of me. I’m no longer controlling how I sound, fairly certain everyone in the bar is able to hear what’s going on in here, but I can’t find it in me to care when I feel like I’m being transported to another realm.
My eyes close, and he tugs at my hair, pulling my head back so our eyes lock in the mirror’s reflection. Cheeks flushed, faces sweaty and lips swollen as my hips dig into the counter. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. My eyes have never been so wild, the singular spot of blue in my right iris flaring brighter around the amber encircling it. My mouth parts as he hits deep, causing me to release a guttural cry.
“Are you gonna come on it?” he asks, and the words make me clench around him. “Yeah, I think you are.” His movements start to go erratic, losing their rhythm when he adds more pressure to my clit, sending me right over the edge.
I detonate, muscles contracting around him so tightly, it sets off his own climax as he groans, biting down on my neck to muffle the sound. We watch every moment of our unraveling, and I silently thank him for putting us in this position, facing the mirror.
We’re both panting heavily, chests heaving while we come down from the rush, as he languorously laves at the pulse point hammering on my neck.
A loud clatter sounds outside, and reality crashes back in, reminding me where we are—of who I am. I’m the first to stand upright, prompting him to pull out of me, and we begin righting our clothes so we look somewhat presentable before stepping back out into the pub.
“Can I get my underwear?” I glance down at the red lace poking out of his pants pocket.
“Afraid I’ll have to say no to that,” he states with a smile, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s a bit serial killer-y of you, but whatever. Keep them, I guess,” I say, straightening my sweater and finger combing my hair.
“Can I get your number? Maybe we can hang out again before you leave.” He seems so earnest, and something in my chest pangs with regret. He wouldn’t want the real me; no one ever really has.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea, but thank you for tonight. I really needed it.” I stretch up to give him a final kiss goodbye. When I go to pull away, he grabs my hips and brings his mouth back to mine to extend the moment. It’s honestly nice, like some form of fucked up aftercare.
When we pull away, I kiss him on the cheek before exiting the small room.
Either we got lucky and no one was around to hear us, or they all scattered when they realized what we were doing, because the back room is nearly empty.
I settle my tab, checking the time on my phone only to see a new wave of emails and a calendar reminder for the meeting starting in twenty minutes. Escapism could only last so long, I suppose.
As I make my way back onto the cobblestone streets of London, the early summer air crisp and inviting, I feel grateful for a stranger in a pub who made my first night in London a little less lonely.
Cameras flashlike sparklers crackling in front of my eyes, uncomfortable and disorienting.
“Tieran! How do you feel coming back for a new season on the heels of last year’s embarrassing loss?”
“Do you feel like you failed in leading your team on the field?”
“Mr. Stone! Think your ex sleeping with Oliver Hughes from Newcastle had anything to do with your lackluster performance last season?”
Questions fire off from every direction like bullets, each one hitting me with a blow to the chest. I take the insults as they come; no fighting back, or they’ll just twist it and slap me across another headline. Months of having my name splashed through every paper, magazine, and gossip website—of being forced to look at the evidence of my mistakes in every food shop—I just wanted some peace.
I tear off my sunglasses and plaster a smile on my face. “Gentlemen, please. It’s nine in the morning. Let a man wake up before you twist his balls.”
My carefree attitude works, as all the sports reporters before me chuckle, easing their holds on their cameras.
