I really did. I liked the weight of him and the heat and the fullness, a sensation impossible to simulate with fingers or even toys. Liked the way he gripped my hips and moved me how he wanted, as though I existed only to give him pleasure – a passive act of service that thrilled because it wasmehe wanted. I liked, too, that having proved I truly did enjoy this, he stopped being so gentle and gave in to the need that had brought us there.
He sped his pace, fingers digging into my hips as he built to a rhythm not intended to drag this out. Fast and furious did indeed seem to be his goal and I was happy to play my part, letting out moans and begging him for more and harder.
“God. You. Are. Everything,” he said, each word punctuated with a thrust. His breath was coming fast and, wondering how close he was, I reached for my cock only for Miles to grab my hand and lift it above my head, pinning it to the pillow. “No, that’s my job,” he said, breathlessly edging toward climax. “So, you have to wait. Unless . . . you askverynicely.”
“Arsehole,” I said, and presented my other wrist for him to hold captive. He gathered it into the same hand with an appreciative bite of his lip, and in that moment, being pinned beneath him and enjoyed was everything I had ever wanted. The hungry appreciation as he watched me. The sensation of being both possessed and exposed. The way every hard thrust made my rock-hard cock bounce, desperate for release. I was so close, but I wasn’t going to let him win by begging just yet.
When he realised I wasn’t giving in, Miles grinned. And taking it for the challenge it was, he dropped his lips to the side of my neck. I was plenty sensitive there, but it was the glorious view down his muscular back to his arse that was my undoing. His arse was always a beautiful sight, though it was the way it moved now that sent a shock of pleasure through me, the way he was rolling his hips, spine curving as he thrust into me again and again with rhythmic grace.
“Oh, fuck. Miles!”
He lifted his head as I arched back, his expression full of smug, self-satisfaction, and while I had refused to let him win, letting him see just how good he felt was not the same. So, instead of biting my lip and swallowing my cries, I let the ragged sounds tear up my throat as I came.
Holding himself over me, Miles had an excellent view and his eyes widened. His rhythm faltered. He slammed into me only to stay there a full second, two, before thrusting again with a thwarted groan as annoyed as it was exultant.
“Damn it!” he said as he rode the tail of his orgasm with a few final thrusts. “I was going to tease you for longer, but that was too fucking hot. You came without me even touching you!”
“Told you I was versatile.”
“Versatile? You mean impossible to predict.” Still holding my wrists pinned, he gave a rueful laugh. “Who would have thought that fucking you would be like playing you. Goddamn. You are going to ruin me, Matteo.”
As I looked up into dark eyes now owning a bemused little frown, my heart thudded into my throat. “What do you mean?”
He let my wrists go. “Mean? Only that that will be hard to beat.” Rolling off, he dropped onto the bed beside me with a sigh. “I needed that though. Good thing you showed up.”
Easy to forget that I’d come over to check on him. That when he’d started touching me, his father had been berating him. I made to rise.
“No, don’t go yet.”
He caught me before I reached the edge of the bed and pulled me back against his chest, both arms locked around me.
“If I don’t clean up, I’m going to drip both our loads on your bedcovers,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. I was going to shower and change the bedding anyway.”
I gave in, relaxing against him despite the mess. He hummed a satisfied, sleepy sound into my hair, as though the call with his dad had never happened. I’d wanted to shout at the man, but Miles had listened blank-faced like it had been nothing, the wordslazyandsloppyandembarrassingleft to echo through my head alone.
“Well, that was all . . . a lot,” I said, because I had to ask but ‘what the fuck is wrong with your dad?’ seemed a poor opener.
Miles groaned against the back of my neck and pressed his softening cock to my arse. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant that conversation with your dad.”
“Conversation seems like the wrong word. I can’t remember the last time we had an actual conversation. Though that was much better than usual.”
Unsure what to say, I stared at the sunlight cutting across the vase on the desk, its flowers as bright and cheerful as the ones by the TV. It shouldn’t have been surprising that people sent Miles flowers, and I certainly had no business feeling weird about it. It probably happened all the time.
Miles shifted the arm I had been crushing beneath my shoulder so it lay under my head, giving me a bicep pillow. “Intense families aren’t exactly new in tennis.”
“I guess not,” I said, looking at his hand lying in front of me now, all long, strong fingers and delicate bones. “Though I don’t recall ever seeing your parents at a match.”
“Oh no, they never come. They just manage the business.”
He said it like it was nothing, barely an interesting fact, yet my ill-ease was back. Even beneath the cocky façade, the real Miles was confident, a man who saw people clearly and seemed to know all there was to know about himself. Now, a hint of brittleness was intruding upon that picture, a suggestion that this Miles was like the reflection in a mirror – true yet fragile, like he might shatter into a thousand sharp pieces at any moment.
Better to speak or remain silent? Impossible to know, but my curiosity made me ask, “Do they manage everything?”
“Pretty much. My career is the family business, you see. Always has been.”
