Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (6 page)

He solved this issue by rolling them over, putting Fergus on top. Fergus sat up, straddling him, his eyes dark with desire. He took John’s hands and lifted one to his mouth, slipping one finger into his mouth as he pressed John’s other hand to the front of his trousers. John’s focus returned in an instant as he stroked Fergus’s cock through the thin tan cotton, up and up and—
Good God
—up, finally sliding his thumb under and around the bulging head.

“Mmmm.” Fergus squirmed atop him, abs flexing and releasing. “I need you inside me, John Burns.”

Oh aye.
John started to sit up, but Fergus pressed him back down.

“Stay. I’ll get this.” He unfastened John’s trousers and dragged them off, along with his shoes and socks, disappearing for a moment beyond the horizon of the bed.

John propped himself up on his elbows to watch as Fergus reappeared, then moved up until his mouth was poised over the significant tent in John’s blue silk boxers.

Fuck, they’re Rangers’ royal blue,
John realized.
What if he notices?

Fergus didn’t notice. Instead he wrapped his lips around the underside of John’s shaft, through the silk of the boxers, and…just…breathed.

That moist heat, exhaled from deep within Fergus, flowed out to fill every cell of John’s body. He could feel the hunger in that mouth as it worked its way down to the base of his cock, then over his balls, filling them with an exquisite ache. Until now, he’d never fully appreciated the sensation of silk.

Fergus slipped John’s cock free through the slit in his boxers, then promptly stopped being coy. He took him deep in one swift gulp.

The pleasure was so sudden and blinding, John’s cry was strangled in his throat. Fergus lifted his head, then lowered it, devouring him ruthlessly, ravenously. He did it again and again, fast enough to make John nearly beg for mercy, but slowly enough to slither his tongue around the head with each pass.

God, he was so good, so fucking good. As John arched his hips to meet Fergus’s throat, it seemed he’d never been so hard. He knew if Fergus used his hands, or even a single finger, it would be all over. But he used only his tight, wet lips and his firm, impossibly flexible tongue.

At last Fergus released him and looked up into John’s eyes. Mouth flushed with friction, he licked his lips and said, “Fuck me.”

They stood to shed the rest of their clothes, their progress slowed by the fact they could not stop kissing, or stop grasping at each new inch of bared skin. John’s hands were trembling, he was so turned on.

Fergus tapped the drawer of the antique-looking bedside table. “Everything we need’s in here.” Then he stretched out on the bed on his back, putting one leg on either side of John.

John turned to look at him, and There It Was Again. That stupid Celtic blanket.

His condoms had better not be green.

Thankfully, they were the standard color. John quickly rolled one on, noting with dismay that he was significantly softer than he’d been a minute ago.

This is not happening.

Uncapping the bottle of lube, he made himself look at Fergus, tried to see
only
him. The lean, toned body without an ounce of extraneous fat or muscle. Abs defined but not artificially sculpted, arms taut but not bulging. A body built for function, not form, which only made the form that much sexier.

And Christ, his footballer’s legs, built for speed and strength. Thighs that looked like they could go all night. Soon they’d be wrapped around John, holding him steady while he drove deep into that perfect arse.

He slipped one hand beneath it now, lifting and spreading Fergus’s cheeks. He teased the pink, puckered hole with the lube-soaked middle finger of his other hand, making Fergus pant and squirm with anticipation. “Yes. John. Please.”

John slid a finger inside. Fergus’s breath hitched, then released in a long, shuddering exhale. “Ahhh,” he sighed. “More.”

John gave him more. He watched Fergus’s face contort with pleasure, felt the greedy grip of his tight, slick corridor, and imagined the moment in the very near future when he would be balls-deep inside him. They would wrestle and kiss and groan each other’s names, and when it was over, they would start again from the beginning.

Then his thoughts rebelled with this announcement:
You’re about to fuck a Catholic on a Celtic fleece.

It sounded like the punch line to his joke of a life thus far.

But the real punch line came when John looked down to discover the condom hanging off his limp, lifeless prick.

This is ABSOLUTELY not happening.

“Fuck.”

Fergus opened his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” He turned away. “Just a wee technical difficulty.”

“Is it the condom? I’m pretty sure they’ve not expired.”

“It’s not the condom.” John slipped it off, facing away from Fergus, and tried to coax back some semblance of an erection. But his panic was feeding itself, so the harder he tried, the less hard he got. It seemed his cock would’ve gladly retreated inside his body, were it an anatomical possibility.

“Are you okay?” Fergus asked.

“It’s not working. I don’t know why.”

“What’s not working?”

“My penis!” God, now he was using the clinical term. Could he get any more ridiculous?

“Oh,” Fergus said, then rushed to add, “It’s all right. It happens to everyone.”

Brilliant
, John thought,
I’m
that
guy
. He didn’t bother saying “It’s never happened to me,” even though it was true.

“If you want,” Fergus said, “I could take over. I don’t mind.”

“No!” John’s voice pitched up in alarm. “I cannae—I have to go. I’m sorry.” He scrambled for his trousers and shoes, avoiding Fergus’s eyes. “Do you see my socks anywhere?”

“John, you don’t need to—”

“Forget the socks.” He found his shirt by the wall nearest the door. Which he was now opening. “I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

“Please don’t go.”

John stopped, clutching the doorknob. Fergus’s voice held neither a plea nor a command, but rather a simply stated wish. Those three words paralyzed him, because despite his shame and fear, John’s own wish was the same.

Fergus approached and spoke softly behind him. “Listen, we don’t have to do anything. We can just talk.” He took a step closer. “I just want to know you better. Not tomorrow or next week. I want to know you better now.”

John stared at the pewter doorknob he was still clinging to.
You
don’t
want to know me.

Fergus’s fingers brushed John’s arm with a touch as soft as breath. “Will you stay?” he whispered.

John’s fists clenched as the rational part of his mind begged him to fight the gravity of this room and this man beside him.

“If you want,” Fergus said, “we could even get dressed.”

“No.” John dropped his clothes in surrender. “I don’t want that.”

F
ERGUS
WISHED
HE
’
D
taken the left side of the bed, with his back to the lamp, so he could see John’s face better. It was charming and animated, like the man it belonged to, but that wasn’t why Fergus wanted to view it clearly. He hoped to discover the reason behind John’s bizarre meltdown.

Rather than scaring John off by probing directly for answers, Fergus kept the conversation light, which also served to lift his own perilously teetering mood. At the moment, he felt he’d do anything to keep another man from walking out on him.

Currently they were discussing their favorite TV talent shows, a subject that seemed to relax John back into his effusive persona.

“My dad and I got hooked on
Strictly Come Dancing
last year after my mom left,” John said. “Bruno Tonioli is my spirit animal.” Lying on his back, he imitated the Italian-born judge’s flamboyant flourishes. “Ssssssscott.” His tongue savored the
t
like a dry wine. “You tango beast. Always your eye on the prey, cos you know you’re gonna get it.”

Fergus laughed at John’s flirtatious lip purse. “Your construction-manager dad fancies a ballroom dancing show?”

“It was his idea. He probably thought it a good way to bond with his gay son. Now we’re streaming the older series while we wait for the new one to start. We’re watching number ten now.”

“Is that the one with the Olympic gymnast?”

“Aye, Louis Smith. He’s—wait, why do you remember him? Is he going to win?”

“‘Going to’? You’re speaking in the future tense about something that already happened.”

“Then he does win!” John smacked him in the chest. “Hello, spoiler?”

“Did I ruin it for you?”

“Nothing could ruin Louis Smith. Christ, the arms on that man.” John mimed wrapping all ten fingers around them.

“Yours aren’t so bad.” Fergus caressed John’s right biceps, relishing the way it bulged under his touch. “Do you lift?”

“No, I popped out of my mummy looking this way,” John said with a grin. “Of course I lift. Don’t you?”

“Rarely. Strength training in football’s mostly dynamic, like pushups and lunges and such. You’ve got to stay lean to stay fast. We need upper-body strength to fight each other for the ball, but officially we don’t use our arms.” He put on a mock patronizing tone. “That’s one of the rules, did you know that? We can’t touch the ball with our hands.”

John’s eyes popped wide. “Then however do you score touchdowns?”

Fergus laughed so hard, he snorted. He covered his nose and mouth. “Oh, that was attractive.”

“It was. Gonnae do it again, maybe I’ll get my stauner back.” He gave a self-deprecating smile as he cupped his own crotch.

I hope so.
Fergus let his palm slide up over John’s thick, solid shoulder. “So how long must one lift weights to get these muscles?”

“Day or two. Week at the most.” John grinned again, then let it fade. “Okay, seriously. I started when I was fourteen. My older brother made me do it, once it became obvious I’d never be as tall as he was, or as straight. At least I could be strong.” His lashes lowered, and a tightness formed between his dark brows. “He wanted to protect me himself, but he couldn’t be everywhere, and of course now he’s…” John pressed his lips together. “He’s actually in prison. That’s why I was dressed like that Monday. I’d just come from his sentencing.”

“God…how awful.” Fergus couldn’t think of a single person he knew who was incarcerated. “It must be hard for you.”

“Don’t you want to know what he did?”

Of course, and I want to know if it runs in the family.
Perhaps he should have let John flee after all.

He put his hand over John’s. “Only if you want to tell me.”

“There was a pub fight. Turns out they’re not like in films, where chairs break apart when smashed over someone’s head.”

“Were you there?”

“I was home, but I heard about it fast enough to run there and see what he’d done. The guy, he was lying on the ground.” John ran his thumbnail along the side of Fergus’s hand, almost hard enough to hurt. “You hear the phrase ‘pool of blood’ and think it’s just a figure of speech. But the pavement outside the pub was a bit sunken, so it made an actual pool of blood, deep enough to drown a mouse. The man was lucky to live.”

A row in an Ibrox pub. Fergus knew it could’ve been over anything, but he’d heard so many stories of sectarian violence masquerading as football fandom. One night when he was six, he’d wandered downstairs after bedtime, unable to sleep, and heard his parents sobbing in front of the TV. He’d watched through the banister as the news told the story of Mark Scott, a Glaswegian teenager who’d been murdered for walking past a Rangers pub wearing a Celtic shirt. Scott’s murderer had shouted “Ya Fenian bastard!” before slashing his throat in front of shoppers and pedestrians. Fergus had had nightmares for weeks.

“What’s your brother’s name?” he asked.

John let go of his hand. “Why, you want to Google him?”

“No!” Fergus glanced away. “If I wanted to Google him, I could just use keywords.”

“His name’s Keith,” John said with venom. “The victim was Rory Callahan. He walked into the pub already steamin’ drunk, wearing Celtic colors, blethering how Rangers had been relegated because they were criminals, and how their ‘Proddy scum Hun’ fans were all criminals too. Then a minute later, my brother, who had a spotless record, did, in fact, become a criminal when he beat the brains out of that Celtic supporter.” He glared at Fergus. “Is that enough information or should I scan and email you the arrest report?”

Fergus’s face flamed with shame. John was being perfectly open, yet Fergus had stayed in spy mode, hoping to glean enough information to do his own investigating.
I used to be so trusting
, he thought.
What happened to that person?

“I’m sorry,” he told John. “Truly. And that Celtic fan was an idiot. Everyone in Glasgow knows you have to be careful. My mate Liam—the other ginger on the Warriors?—he tends bar at a Celtic pub. If a Rangers fan spouted that rubbish there, he’d leave in a body bag.”

John rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You probably hate me now.”

“You’re not your brother. Fuck’s sake, John, you volunteer with that New Shores charity. You’re working to
fight
bigotry.”

“Technically it’s an internship, not a volunteer gig.”

“An unpaid internship.”

“Okay, but—” John dropped his hand and stared at the ceiling. “It’s true I’m not my brother. But family is…complicated.”

“There’s a truth.” Fergus straightened the covers, for something to do, and realized with horror why John had reacted so strongly to the Celtic blanket on his bed. No doubt it reminded him of the man covered in blood at his brother’s feet. “I’ll take this off. It’s too warm a night for it.”

John nodded, his face softening at the gesture.

Fergus sat up and folded the blanket, smoothing the edges so it would make a neat rectangle.

“You do that so reverently,” John said with a teasing tone. “Like it’s priestly vestments or something.”