Page 32 of Brat on the Ball

George rubbed his hard cock up against mine again, and the feeling through the fabric sent shivers down my spine. “Me.”

Using one hand to prop himself up over my shoulder, George fumbled with our trousers with the other, and we both sprung free. With his rough, calloused hand, he gripped us both tight and stroked. His grip was so tight it hurt, but like everything with George, the pain never eclipsed the pleasure. He stroked roughly, and the feeling of his cock head rubbing up against mine was almost enough to make me cum straight away.

George normally liked to draw things out, so it was a surprise when he kept up the pace and leaned in to capture my mouth with his, his teeth briefly closing over my bottom lip and drawing out a groan. I couldn’t even tell him how close I was as my breaths came quicker. Every stroke, every swipe of his tongue over swollen lips brought me closer to ecstasy.

And then I was groaning into his mouth as I reached my climax, spilling all over his hand. He kept stroking me through the sensitivity until he was finishing too, cum coating his hand, my cock, stomach, and mixing with his.

“Mine,” said George, not moving away.

“Yours,” I agreed. I was. And he was mine. And God, I wished I knew how to make that work for us.

We got cleaned up in our usual way, and then George walked through the apartment and out onto the balcony like he owned the place. “You have a hot tub?” he asked.

“Yes, on a balcony that isvery visibleto the penthouse opposite,” I replied. George gave a rebellious little wiggle to show me how little he cared.

“You bringing the food?” he asked.

“Sure,” I rolled my eyes. He had really made himself at home. I didn’t mind. More George was never a bad thing. So I watched as he slipped naked into my hot tub, then I went to the fridge to fix us up some sandwiches. What had started as George offering me the odd glass of wine on arrival had turned to him preparing meals for the both of us, and now he was in my place I had to follow suit. I rustled up the most basic ham salad sandwiches in the world, grabbed a protein chocolate bar each and a can of Sprite and carried them out across the balcony, praying that the billionaire in the penthouse opposite wasn’t looking out the window at us. Not that I hadn’t seen him and his pretty little boyfriend getting up to enough through the windows.

“Wow, the gourmet shit,” said George as I placed the plate carefully on the side of the hot tub, then sank in beside him.

“Shut up,” I growled, then ripped a hole in the corner of a chocolate bar wrapper with my teeth. “Eat what you’re given. It’s good for you.”

“I made a spaghetti bolognese yesterday! And curry last week!”

“Sorry, Mr Continental, but they cook most of my meals for me at training. What you have here is the most sophisticated meal I have ever prepared.”

“I’ll take it,” said George, then leaned over to take a bite of my protein bar.

“Hey! You have your own!”

“I know, I’ll eat that too,” he grinned.

“Bastard.”

“You love it.”

We lounged in the hot tub for a bit longer, our legs crossed over in the bubbling water.

“Do you ever think about what you’d be if you weren’t a football player?” George asked.

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“Even after you’re done? You’ve got, what, ten years left of your career, and you don’t care what happens next?”

I closed my eyes and floated my toes up above the water so that the cold air chilled them. “I don’t need to,” I said. “I earn enough every year that even with this place, I can put some money aside. I’ll neverneedto work again, but I might like to. So I can worry about that later.”

“Yeah, you’re lucky,” said George. “I have enough saved after my career is done to take a year off, maybe two. But I don’t earn enough to have the luxury of waiting to find out what’s next. That’s why I’m working my arse off at rugby, and my degree, and my blog.”

I cracked one eye open, and we made eye contact. “You don’t seem to work all that hard right now,” I said. With one quick movement through the water, he splashed me with a mini tidal wave of water.

“Bastard,” I spluttered, splashing him back. George launched himself toward me and pushed me up against the edge of the tub.

“It’s not my fault you’re so fucking distracting,” he growled, licking a stripe up my neck that made me shudder.

“Am I now?” I grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t want to distract you too much from your very important work. If you fail, I can’t have you living the rest of your days here as an unemployed house-husband.”

Something changed in the atmosphere between us. “Life could be worse,” George said.

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