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But oh, he gave it to her here.
He gasped and groaned and murmured in her ear that she was so fucking good. Then just as she felt as if she couldn’t take another sound—or even the simple sensation of his heated breath against her skin—he spoke into the stifling near silence. “Cover my eyes,” he said, and before she could ask, before she could even wonder, he blurted out the explanation. “I just can’t look at your lust-fucked face and your luscious body and not come my fucking brains out.”
And that was… she didn’t even know what that was. She’d never even remotely had anyone express such a thing. The last guy she’d been with hadn’t even enjoyed her moaning in bed. But apparently, Alfie found even the sight of her and the slightest hint that she was into this so completely overwhelming that it took him to the edge. It made him shudder and get all uncoordinated and sloppy, and then he gasped out aplease.
And so she did it. She put a hand over his eyes. Though honestly, she didn’t think it made things any better. Now they were fucking feverishly, with him sort of fuckingblindfolded. Like they were playing some very strange kinky sex game of the sort that definitely did not cool things down. It made things hotter, quite obviously. It got him groaning her name as he all but shoved into her, over and over. And she couldn’t help giving the same back. She lifted her hips to meet every one of his wild thrusts—and didn’t regret a single moment of it. How could she when it felt this incredible?
I’m going to come just like this, she thought.
Without so much as a single stroke over my clit.
Though somehow, it still shocked her when that pleasure hit. When the excitement and the pressure of that delicious cock combined and formed a tight fist between her legs. Then it simply unfurled the second he spilled words into her ear. “Ohhh god are you coming?” he gasped, and she was, she was. She was arching up into him and making sounds that she’d probably be ashamed of later and most of all—losing all control of what she was doing. Because somehow, her hands were on his back. Like she needed to hang on, maybe.
But of course that meant there was no blindfold anymore.
And the moment that happened—the moment he saw her saying his name, eyes searching for his amid this soul-shaking pleasure—he seemed to lose it himself. The sharp focus in his gaze sank down into something soft and hazy and vulnerable. As if he didn’t want to give in, but doing anything else wasn’t an option. Not when she was trembling and clinging to him and saying the things she was.
“God, nobody makes me feel the way you do,” she gasped out.
And that was it.
That was all it took.
Just the sense that he’d done this to her.
He’d made her this helpless, this beside herself with pleasure. And to the point where she’d confess something like that. Something that she should have held back but couldn’t with him over her and inside her and holding her, those eyes so full of feeling she didn’t know what to do with it all.
She just had to hold on as he went over.
So hard it almost looked like it hurt.
He seemed to actually grit his teeth against it.
His hands made fists in the sheets, in her hair.
And god, it just went on and on and on. In fact, he came so long and so hard she almost felt like she might go again. Those thick bursts of pleasure just seemed to bloom anew, from that place he was still rubbing over and against and god, god. She’d never known anything like this. It was almost too much.
Then somehow, somehow not enough, at the same time.
Because as she lay there by his side, in the aftermath, shell-shocked and breathless and still buzzing, he suddenly turned his head her way. Lazily, she thought, still drunk with it. But with a strangely determined gleam in his eyes. And then he just came out with it.
“Ready for more?” he murmured.
At which point, she realized: all this wasn’t her, having fun.
Or finally getting free of whatever was happening between them.
It was just dragging her down deeper, and deeper, until finally she knew:
She was definitely, 100 percent, going to fuckingdrown.
NOTES/DRAFTS
All right Mabel, so how about I talk about the 2010 World Cup? Because see the thing about this is, everybody just knows about the goals and when I ripped my shirt off and revealed exactly how hairy I am and how I was the one who bollocked Gordon for being hungover that time. But what people DON’T know is that all I remember about that time was pain.
Grinding, constant pain.
Mostly in the ankle, but other stuff was already starting to go by that point, too. And I suppose you might think—but you were still just a lad then, Alfie. You can’t possibly have been that bad then. Or maybe you see all the glory and think: you looked fine enough to me. But that’s the trick, you see. That’s the thing about the game. You have to operate at such a high level for such long stretches of time, and never let any weaknesses show, that the cracks start appearing long before they should. Long before what anyone would think was a normal time for it to happen.
