I freeze for a microsecond because I don’t think I am supposed to hear that. But I think subconsciously I’ve been waiting to hear it because my body responds immediately, my orgasm crashing through me. He thrusts us together for just a few more times, and we come together, our cum landing on my stomach and mixing in a slick, hot layer that leaves my skin feeling sensitive.
It is, without question, the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. Nothing even comes close.
I lie there, letting the aftershocks ripple through me, the pulse in my cock fading slowly, sweat cooling on my skin in little patches, and the faint smell of sex hanging in the air. When Ifinally become aware that we need to clean up before the cum dries, I shift and tap Coker. “We need to get up.”
There’s no reply from him, so I look down towards where his head is resting on my chest, expecting him to groan or murmur something. But his breathing is even and I realise he has fallen asleep. I let my hand brush over his hair once, and take a long, slow breath.
9
AUSTIN
—No Roots
by Alice Merton
Being on the road,hopping from one city to the next, is officially not fun anymore. I feel scammed, don’t ask me how. This was supposed to be a time for me to make wild memories that I can turn into cool stories later. Instead, I’m living out of a suitcase and eating English breakfast in different hotel rooms that all look exactly the same.
The Nigerian government can’t even splurge and get a stand-by caterer that can make usasunor pounded yam or something. This would all be way more tolerable if I were still sharing room with Johnson. And the fact that it has not happened again is driving me insane.
Ever since I got a taste of him, my brain has been stuck on repeat. I still can’t believe he let go of all control that night and let me take care of him. I would’ve thought he would want to be the one to call the shots, not the one begging. And now my body seems to think he’s a necessity. Not a want, but a need. Like how I need food or sleep.
For the first time since we got on the road, things between us are not awkward. I can actually relax around him. I swear he flirts with me sometimes, even if he has no clue that’s what he’s doing. Or maybe I’m the one shamelessly flirting and he’s just going with it because he finds me entertaining. Which, fair. Either way, I don’t feel like I have to disappear when he shows up in the same space as me.
Sometimes, we even end up sitting beside each other on the team bus, shoulders pressed together. He even goes as far as to lean in to hear me over the noise, or to glance at me with a quick grin, and my chest does this stupid flip every time.
I am extremely close to hunting down whoever is in charge of assigning rooms and ask them to put Johnson and me together. The problem is, there are more staff members on this World Cup trip than players, and they seem to multiply when I’m not looking. It’s like every time I turn around there’s another official-looking person with a green-white-green badge and zero explanation for why they are here. I’m not even surprised because that’s the Nigerian factor in full force. You don’t question it, you accept it and move on.
And since I have no clue who’s actually in charge of the rooms, my brilliant plan dies before it starts. And even if I did, I would have to tread carefully. A lot of these people give off strong close-minded energy, meaning I’d have to keep certain parts of my life locked down tight. I am not in a rush to test exactly how backwards they can get.
It has never come up in our conversations, but I know some of the guys who play in Europe are way more progressive. You can just tell by the way they talk and the things they don’t make a big deal out of. Still, there is no universe where I’m walking up to whoever Johnson is rooming with and asking to swap so I can have my wicked way with him. I may not have a lot of dignity, but I have enough to stop me from doing that.
We fought like our lives depended on it against Japan in the group stage and barely scraped out a one nil win. It was the kind of match you thought would end in penalty, but towards the end of the second half, Mfon had sank one in and the stadium exploded. Johnson was exceptional as usual, turning into a wall and making sure nothing got past him. Shot after shot smacked into his gloves or got punched away, and each save cranked the noise of the fans higher.
By the time we had filed out of Pride Park Stadium in Derby, we were riding that high hard, convinced that this World Cup is already halfway ours.
“We’re here, finally,” Akintola announces as the bus glides into the car park of the Leonardo Hotel in Southampton.
A cheer ripples throughout as people start standing up before the bus even stops. Johnson stands up beside Akintola and stretches, his arms lifting over his head in a lazy arc, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. He looks back and catches me staring. The smile he gives me is small but lethal, and it slams straight into my chest.
My throat dries out. I swallow, throw him a wink, and pretend I’m smooth about it. I am not. I used to be able to keep my attraction to him contained, especially since I had to hide it from Sandra, but now my first instinct is to grab him by his shirt and grind against him.
The corner of his mouth tilts up and he gives me a tiny shake of his head. If Johnson could blush, I swear his cheeks would be on fire right now. And the fact that I might be the reason sends a smug little thrill through me. I should be embarrassed by how proud I am. Again, I am not.
I have no idea why he hasn’t initiated a repeat yet, but one thing is obvious. He wants me. I might have to retire my cool and casual act and make a move, pursue him properly. I’m ninetyper cent sure he’ll fold under my charm, and that’s me being humble.
Ugh, if only we get paired today, it would make things so easy for me. I can’t believe I’m already addicted to someone I’ve only pinned under me once. Who am I kidding? I’ve been gone for this man for years. It’s a miracle Sandra didn’t clock it during their entire marriage.
I step off the bus, welcoming the evening air on my face after the stuffy heat inside. My boots thud against the pavement as I walk towards the compartment to carry my bag. I straighten after picking it up and Johnson is right there, falling into step beside me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his arm brushing mine.
I glance up at him, before having to look away because it’s offensive how good he looks after spending hours on a bus.
“Like I just sat in the bus for three hours,” I say.
He laughs. “That means you’ll crash as soon as you set foot in your room.”
“It happened one time,” I protest, punching his arm lightly.
