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Gabriel grasps the base of my cock and, while maintaining eye contact, directs it back into his mouth. I watch as his eyes roll back, dark eyelashes fluttering.
‘Holy fuck,’ I grunt. I drop one hand onto Gabriel’s head, smoothing his wet curls, more to ground myself than to direct his movements. For all his talk ofnot being good at this, Gabriel is toe-curlingly amazing. He’s enthusiastic, using his hands where his mouth can’t reach, all tongue and lips and heat—
I gasp as everything narrows down to a single point, and everything feels both molten liquid and rigid stiff at the same time. I begin to shake. I think I cry out, but I have no idea what I say.
‘Gabriel,’ I breathe, suddenly lurching forward. ‘Gabriel, stop, I’m—’
Gabriel’s hand grabs my thigh, pinning me against the cold tile as I come down his throat. Slumping back against the wall, I try desperately to piece together some rational thought. ‘Th-thanks,’ I manage.
Gabriel smiles, rising to his feet. ‘It was good?’
I blink up at the roof. ‘I think you sucked my soul out of my body.’
Goosebumps erupt over my skin, so Gabriel turns the water back on. He rinses out his mouth and spits into the drain in a way that’s both lewd and so fucking hot.
When I finally regain control of my body, I kiss him, soapy, sloppy and happy. Shower sex might be awkward as fuck, but shower head is simply divine, and I’m eager to return the favour. ‘Want me to . . .?’ I glance pointedly down and then meet his gaze again.
His eyes light up. ‘I’ve never—’
I stand back, flabbergasted. ‘You’ve never had a blow job?’
Gabriel shakes his head but won’t look me in the eye. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. Maybe I said it in the wrong tone. He’s clearly embarrassed about it and now I feel like a bit of a dick. Of course. If he’d never given one, the chances were high he’d never received one.
‘Baby, I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘It’s fine,’ Gabriel replies, even though I can tell it’s not.
I grasp his shoulders, angling my body against his, and slide my hands up either side of his neck until I’m cupping his jawline. He looks up at me from beneath wet lashes. ‘I was being a prick. Can I please suck you?’
Gabriel smiles. ‘Since you ask so nicely.’
‘I can be nice.’
I turn off the spray and Gabriel hands me a fluffy towel from his pack. I wipe myself down, then fold the towel on the ground by the bench seating and drop to my knees.
Gabriel’s hand runs through my hair as I swallow him, taking him as deep as possible. He swears, in French, then in English, and then language leaves him altogether and he groans, fingers holding my scalp so tight it almost hurts. His massive thighs tremble, and all I can think about is how incredible it’d feel to have them wrapped around my waist.
Gabriel gasps, shudders with his release, and when he goes still I pull away. Above me, he pants, his dark eyes wild and staring off into the middle distance. I grin, wiping the taste of him from my lips.
‘I—’ he tries, but words seem to escape him.
Somewhere deep in the pockets of his tennis bag, his phone rings. I quirk a brow in its direction. ‘Let it go to voicemail.’
22
Gabriel
Alanzo Ruiz knocked out fifteenth seed Dylan Foster in three sets—a strong demonstration. Ruiz is five-foot-seven, stocky, with a killer backhand and a defence that’s hard to break. The media have dubbed him ‘The Wall’. As far as media nicknames go, it’s pretty flattering. And very accurate.
Ruiz’s entire game plan is to tire out his opponent with strong defence and strong returns. It’s a simple strategy and it’s worked well for him over his career. He loves to outlast other players, slowly gaining points and creating momentum, even if it means he drops a set along the way. He’s the master of the five-setter. When his opponent is sufficiently drained, Ruiz swoops in and closes out the match.
It’s a quarter past twelve and there’s a women’s game being played on Rod Laver Arena: Helen Taylor from the US and Uma Aziz-Azir from the UAE are trapped in a tense stand-off as they both eye a place in the finals.
I set up camp on a stationary bike in the player training room, keeping my muscles warm until Aziz-Azir finally closes the match 6–4, 2–6, 4–6. The roar of the crowd vibrates through the skeleton of the arena. I can imagine the relief on Aziz-Azir’s face now, the sheer joy of triumph that only comes with the final point.
I climb off the bike and change into my match kit, lacing up my sneakers. Grabbing my phone from my bag, I notice a message from Noah.
NoAgenda:Good luck today. I don’t know what else to say but please don’t lose.
