Page 23 of The Fly-Half

In all the years I’d known Devon, I’d always known he was attractive but that was an objective statement of fact. Even playing rugby, the sport known for broken noses, lost teeth, cauliflower ears, and split lips, hadn’t changed how handsome his features were. His dark eyes with long lashes, the ever-so-slightly crooked nose where he’d broken it at sixteen and it hadn’t quite set straight, the tiny scar on his bottom lip where he’d taken a boot stud to the face, the gentle curve of his jaw, and the thick, dark eyebrows that were always perfectly shaped because he plucked them in front of a mirror.

And that wasn’t even considering his body.

He was shorter than me by about seven inches because he’d topped out at five foot nine and stayed there while I’d kept growing until I was twenty-one and finally hit six four. But I’d always liked the height difference between us even if I couldn’t explain why. There was just something about being able to throw my arm comfortably around his shoulders or the way he looked up at me when he smiled.

But none of that meant I was attracted to him.

Even if the idea of watching him make out with Peaches made me want to rip the pillows apart with my bare hands until they exploded all over the bed.

“It was just a dream,” I said into the stillness, rolling over onto my side and tugging the duvet up over my head. It was a dream, nothing more. It wasn’t real and neither were the emotions I was feeling. It was like the time I’d dreamt about playing in the Premiership final at Wembley and realised I’d forgotten my boots and then jogged out onto the pitch naked—just my brain playing tricks on me with things it had dredged up from my subconscious.

“It’s not real,” I said stubbornly into the duvet. “None of it is real.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I wasn’t going to let myself dwell on it. Not now.

Nothing good happened at this time of night—whatever time it was—and getting lost in thoughts about Devon, or my emotions, or anything that wasn’t going back to sleep wasn’t going to help. We had a match today and being tired would mean I played like shit, and I didn’t want to be the reason we lost.

Sleep first. Then rugby. Everything else could come later.

Even so it took me a long time to get back to sleep, and it wasn’t long before I was disturbed again, this time by the feeling of the bed dipping and a hand sliding around my waist.

I frowned and rolled over, wondering who the hell was climbing into my bed in the middle of the night. But when I saw Devon’s head resting on the pillow, a pretty, sleepy smile on his face, I somehow wasn’t surprised at all. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re fine,” I said, wrapping my arm around him and pulling him flush against my chest, his head tucked under mine and his hands resting against my chest. He smelt the same way he always did, like French lavender and vanilla, and I took a deep breath as I buried my nose in his fluffy dark hair. “Go back to sleep.”

Devon nodded slightly and sighed. “I missed you.”

“You went to the toilet. It’s not like you went far.”

“I know, but I always miss you when we’re apart.” He snuggled deeper into me and tilted his head back, his breath ghosting over my skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of my throat, right at the bottom just above my collarbone. My breath caught awkwardly, my body suddenly as taut as a bowstring.

Devon kissed my neck again and again, moving his mouth slightly higher with every touch until his lips found the bottom of my ear. I gasped, my arms tightening around him as fire crackled under my skin like magma under the surface of a volcano. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“No,” I said, running my hands down his back. I’d never heard myself sound so certain. Sex had always been something I’d done but never really desired. Like, it was fine, but I could take it or leave it. I’d never needed it in the same way that so many of my friends and teammates obviously did. But the feeling of Devon’s mouth on my neck and the press of his open hands against my pecs had ignited a spark inside my chest. I didn’t know whether to be shocked or confused or just fuckingweirded out. But I wanted to roll with it, follow the rabbit and see where it led.

I trusted Devon.

More than I even trusted myself.

“You can tell me to stop at any time,” he said, his fingers drawing circles across my bare chest.

“I know, but I don’t want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I leant my head back slightly so I could look down at him, and even in the darkness his face was still visible. He was so beautiful. The most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

Everything inside me was so tight, like I was nothing more than an elastic band stretched to breaking point. I brought one hand around to his face and gently traced my fingers along it, feeling the prickle of stubble against my skin where he hadn’t shaved for a day or two.

How had I ever let anyone else kiss him? He was too perfect to be anyone else’s but mine.

Slowly I lowered my mouth and brought our lips together in a kiss that felt too familiar for it to be the first time we’d done this.

And just like that, the band inside me snapped.

Devon groaned, making the fire inside me burst into a raging inferno. I grasped his face, my other hand pressed to his back as I kissed him again, pushing my tongue into his mouth and claiming him. I wanted to remind him who he belonged to. Possession burned inside my chest as Devon melted against me, his lips so sweet I couldn’t stop tasting them.

I rolled him over, pinning him underneath me and smirking as he moaned and squirmed, bucking his hips up as he desperately sought some sort of relief. His hard cock rubbed against my hip and I was dimly aware that we were both naked, but we always slept naked, even in the middle of winter, so it wasn’t a surprise.

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