WE FUCKED. WE ate. Then we almost fucked again, but managed to drag ourselves to the gym first, although only I was training hard since Miles was recovering from his previous day’s match ready to play again tomorrow. He biked and stretched and did some resistance band work, but for the most part he kept me company and made horny comments about my arse.
After that, shower and lunch and rest became shower and lunch and jerk one another off, questing touches hastily becoming an unspoken competition as to who could make the other come first. It was stupid and horny and joyful, the awkwardness of the previous night wholly absent as we laughed and trash-talked our way to climaxes that had no business being that good.
The desire to stay in and just keep fucking him was strong, but I’d booked a court and would kick myself later if I didn’t keep up with my schedule, especially when I had Miles to hit with – a great improvement over a ball machine. So, we made our way out into the sunshine, carrying our tennis bags and our idiotic grins and thesure knowledge that the moment we got back we’d be shoving each other against the walls and being dicks about it until we were once more fucking like bunnies.
“You know, the weather this week has been uncommonly good for London,” he said as we pushed through the gate onto our court. “It’s suspicious.”
“Saving all the rain for Wimbledon.”
“I’d say don’t jinx it, but what’s Wimbledon without rain?”
He chose a racquet and jogged to the other end of the court to warm-up, the strangeness of the situation nipping at my attention. I was still coming to terms with having fucked him twice, and now here he stood at the other end of the court, making it impossible to ignore that he wasn’t just Miles Callahan, new fuck buddy, but Miles Callahan, the world number four. The man who’d beaten me at Roland Garros.
I tried to focus, telling myself I could have a crisis about it later.
Having warmed up, we started with a light hit, more conversation than battle. From there he set up balls for me to smash and laid out volleys for me to chase, getting me running around the court until I had sweated through my shirt. It was so much better than working with a ball machine, better even, I had to admit, than working with Katie who, for all her skill, couldn’t hit as hard or as heavy or from such an angle as Miles. She also lacked a desire to punish me, which he put to good use with that bright gleam in his eyes.
“Is there anything you want to work on?” I asked when we took a break. “I know you’re enjoying making me suffer, but I can return the favour.”
“Serve at me.”
I towelled the sweat off my face. “Because you think it’s hot when I do, or . . .?”
He shoved my shoulder. “It’s not serving that’s hot, idiot. You giving no shits and smashing the ball with confidence is hot. But no, Kozel might have gotten better, but his serve is still his biggest weapon.” Miles pointed to a spot inside the court. “Stand here and serve at me.”
“Insidethe baseline? How weak do you think my serve is?”
“Your serve is nasty, but his is more powerful, so stand there and be a dick at me.”
Trying to hide how much I was preening at having my serve called nasty, I shrugged. “If you like. I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to torture you for a change.”
I took the basket of balls and dropped it inside the baseline, while at the other end Miles prepared to receive, bending over ready such that his silver necklace hung down, catching the sunlight.
Not having to watch a score or worry about his response, I cheerfully set aside all thought of tactics and started launching bitchy serves at him, all kick and slice and perfect placement. He lunged for the first few only to miss, and the glee I felt watching him scramble made it even more fun.
“Fuck!” he snapped as he was pulled wide again, reaching the ball with only the top of his racquet frame.
“You said you wanted it hard and nasty,” I said. “So, I’m giving it to you hard and nasty.”
His glare took on a glitter of heat, and he called out, “That had better be a promise!”
I groaned, and adjusted myself in my shorts – a win I happily let him have.
After a few more serves, he started getting used to the speed and the angles but still seemed unable to guess where each was going, and after ten minutes his expression was fighting itself – half grin, half scowl.
“Goddamn it,” he said. “All right, I take it back. Just hard and less nasty for a bit because thankfully Kozel isnotyou.”
“Are you asking me to go easy on you?”
“You’re standing two steps inside the baseline!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes! Fuck!” He laughed. “Go easy on me.”
“Aw, poor baby,” I crooned, and held up another ball. “Ready?”
Miles said nothing, just prepared to receive again, eyes fixed on me as I launched into my service motion. This time, I kept it simple, focussing on placement and speed, and soon he was ripping almost all of them back like they had personally insulted him.
