There’s a lock on the old lice room door, but it’s the type you need a proper key to use, and though nobody ever comes down this way, Pi likes the extra precaution of barricading it shut with a rickety old metal shelving unit. His reasoning is that it’s so clunky and clanky, we’d hear someone entering before we’d see them, like a reverse canary in the mines.
I tug the cabinet in front of the entryway, steady my breath, and gather my words. It’s now or never. Tell him I’ve broken up with Megan. That I did it all for him, and that I’m sorry it took me so long to realise, and would he please,pleasecome to Cornwall with me for the summer . . .
I open my mouth and . . . “We need to speak to the lads today about the dance routine, so we can start planning stuff and practicing.”
Shit, fuck, bollocks, hell.
“No, we’re not doing a dance routine.” He doesn’t seem to register my turmoil. He’s already reaching a hand around my face, sliding it into the back of my hair, and bringing his lips down to my throat.
“It’ll be brilliant, and you know it,” I say to the ceiling.
The old lice room is dark and incredibly dusty for somewhere that only ever sees fresh skin particles twice a month at most. It has a strange smell, which I can only describe as part bin stink, part stale Coke, and part industrial bleach. Still, because it’s now our secret liaising spot, I’ve kinda grown accustomed to the smell. Maybe I even like it. It reminds me of these stolen moments together.
“Eggs, please don’t make me dance in front of everyone at the awards ceremony.” Pi’s hand is already in my sweatpants,cupping my ass cheek, his middle finger stretching over and brushing my hole as he kisses my neck. “I will die of embarrassment.”
It’s almost impossible to think about anything other than how much I want him to slip it inside and curl it. Thoughts of Megan and Cornwall are being erased as quickly as a dry-wipe marker on a whiteboard.
“Everything in life worth doing is embarrassing,” I tell him, trying to keep my focus on the things that matter right now. Megan is a distant smudge on that board. “Everything’s fucking embarrassing. Singing’s embarrassing. What if I fuck up all the lyrics and miss all the notes? Eating a custard slice is embarrassing. What if it gets all over my T-shirt again? Swimming in the sea. Coming in front of someone. Giving someone a gift. Playing ruggers in front of twenty thousand people is fucking embarrassing. Princess, if you can do that, you can dance in front of the coaches.”
He removes his hand, and I whine in frustration, but he pushes my T-shirt up and kisses down my belly, slowly dropping to his knees. His hands hover at the waistband of my joggers, and he looks up at me.
“But I won’t force you to dance if you really don’t want to,” I say, because right now I’d cut out my organs and gift them to him on a plate if he asked me.
I’ve seen his face and those eyes thousands of times, and every single time he robs me of the ability to breathe properly, but when he’s like this, on his knees for me, and I’m seconds away from fucking his mouth, it’s another level of beauty all together.
“If you can last longer than five minutes, I’ll do the dance,” he says.
“Five minutes?! That’s fucking ages.”
“Two and a half minutes, then.” He’s grinning like the Joker. He knows he can only win this bet.
In all fairness, I know it too. “Okay, and what do you get if I come before the two and a half minutes are up?”
“We have to figure out an ‘on the pitch’ way to show Eksteen and Dan how cohesive we can be as captains.”
“Okay, deal.” It’s a stupid thing to agree to, I’ve already lost, but I’m pulling my cock out and tapping it against his pretty face. I haven’t the foggiest idea how we’ll figure this out on the pitch when we haven’t already done so yet, but I guess that’s a problem for Tuesday’s Eggo.
“Put a timer on.” Maybe if I think about other things, like the time I blocked the disabled toilet at the training grounds and they had to jackhammer the car park open to clear the pipes, I might be able to eke out my orgasm.
Pi pulls his phone out of his back pocket, fiddles with the screen, and places it down on the floor.
“Is the timer already going?” I ask.
He smirks at me, like he’s in absolutely no hurry. “Yep,” he says, and then licks up my shaft and wraps his lips around me.
Instant alleviation and warmth and wetness envelop me. The first blow jobs we ever gave each other were messy, toothy, and weird, but we’ve had a lot of practice since then, and Pi is, as always, the model student, picking up new tricks in record time. I’m already sagging against the wall, my hands in my hair, my stomach muscles spasming, as he works his mouth up and down on me.
I won’t look down. I won’t look down.
I actually do look down, but not at Pi. I look at the screen of his phone. It’s just out of view.
Fuck, he’s so good at this, but I’m not close yet, and I must have ages, so I sneak a peek at him.
Terrible decision. Holy fuck, was that a bad decision. He has his own cock in one hand and is pumping his fist.
Those yellow eyes of his crinkle at the corners as they make contact with mine, and I slam my eyes shut so I don’t make the same mistake again, but I’m already replaying the image like a lingering camera flash behind my lids.
Then two things happen in quick succession, and I know I’m a goner. Pi snakes his hand from the base of my cock to my ass, parts my cheeks, and lightly, teasingly presses his middle finger to my hole. And he whines. Pi, who’s ordinarily inaudible while we fuck, moans onto my cock. The vibrations work their way through deep tissue and muscle to my spine.
