Chapter 25: Replay
The walk home from the training ground was conducted in a silence so profound it felt like a third presence between them. Their joined hands were the only point of contact, a burning, steady circuit. The neighborhood streets were dark and still, pools of amber light from the streetlamps marking their passage. Aurora’s mind, usually a chorus of competing thoughts, was quiet. There was only the feel of his palm against hers, the faint click of a distant sprinkler, the memory of his mouth.
He led her not to her own front door, but to his. He released her hand only to dig his keys from his pocket, the metallic scrape loud in the hush. The lock turned with a solid thunk. He pushed the door open and stepped back, letting her enter first.
The hallway was dark. He followed her in, closing the door behind them, sealing them in. A single security light from the back garden bled through the kitchen window, casting long, angular shadows. She could make out the shape of the living room archway, the deeper darkness within.
He didn’t turn on the lights.
In the dimness, his hands found her hips, turning her gently to face him. She could barely see his expression, just the gleam of his eyes. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers again, as it had on the pitch. Their breaths synced. The air between them was charged, a live wire trembling with unsaid things.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper against her lips.
Her answer was to kiss him. It was softer than before, slower, a deliberate ignition. He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding up her sides, under the thin cotton of her t-shirt. His fingers were warm, slightly rough as they traced the line of her ribs, the swell of her breasts still confined by her sports bra. He broke the kiss to pull the shirt over her head, tossing it aside into the shadows.
The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. He stared at her, his gaze a physical weight. Then he bent his head, his mouth finding the curve of her neck, his lips and tongue tracing a hot, wet path to her collarbone. One hand went to the clasp of her bra between her shoulder blades. With a practiced flick, it came undone. He peeled the damp fabric away, letting it fall.
She gasped as the air, and then his gaze, touched her bare skin. He didn’t move for a long moment, just looked his fill in the semi-darkness, his breathing ragged.
“Fuck, Aurora,” he breathed, the words full of awe and hunger.
He bent and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the peak. The sensation was a bolt of pure lightning straight to her core. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his damp hair, holding him to her. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until she was panting, her knees weak. His hands were everywhere, learning her—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the backs of her thighs.
“Callum,” she gasped, pushing at his shoulders.“Now. I need you now. Not here in the hall.”
He straightened, his eyes blazing. Without a word, he took her hand again and led her into the living room.
The room was a monument to his other life. A large, framed club jersey hung on one wall. A glass trophy case glimmered in the weak light from the window, the silverware inside looking like ancient relics. The big screen TV was a dark void. The scent was him—clean sweat, leather from the couch, something indefinably masculine.
He guided her to the center of the room, then stopped, his hands on her shoulders. “Wait.”
He moved away, a shadow detaching itself. She heard a click, and then a soft, warm glow filled one corner of the room—a floor lamp with a dimmer switch. It threw just enough light to see by, painting the room in deep golds and long shadows. It illuminated the couch, a large, worn leather thing, and him.
He came back to her, his expression stark in the low light. He cupped her face. “I want to see you.”
Then he kissed her, deeply, as his hands went to the button of her jeans. He popped it open, dragged the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud. He pushed the denim and her cotton underwear down her hips in one motion. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside, standing naked before him except for her socks.
His eyes darkened, his gaze traveling over her with an intensity that made her feel both worshipped and utterly devoured. He let out a shuddering breath. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Her hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants. She pushed them down, along with his briefs, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and already fully hard, the tip glistening. She wrapped her fingers around him, marveling at the heat, the smooth skin over iron-hard flesh. He hissed, his head falling back.
“Your turn,” she whispered, pushing him backward.
He let her guide him until his knees hit the edge of the couch and he sat down heavily. He was a sculpture in the lamplight—the defined planes of his abdomen, the powerful sweep of his thighs, the proud, desperate jut of his erection. She stood before him for a moment, letting him look. Then she climbed onto the couch, straddling his lap.
The feeling of his cock pressed against her stomach, the coarse hair of his thighs against her inner skin, was almost too much. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, and guided her up until she was positioned over him. His eyes locked on hers, green and fierce.
“Do it,” he growled. “Take me.”
She lowered herself slowly, the broad head of his cock nudging against her entrance. She was wet, had been since the moment he pinned her on the grass, but he was big. She sank down an inch, a breathless stretch, and paused, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.
She opened her eyes. He was watching her face, every flicker of sensation. She lowered herself further, taking him deeper, a slow, exquisite invasion that made her gasp. He filled her completely, a perfect, shocking fullness. She sat still, impaled, adjusting to the feel of him buried inside her.
“Jesus Christ,” he choked out, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk upward.
It broke the stillness. She began to move, rising up until just the tip remained inside her, then sinking back down, setting a slow, deep rhythm. His hands slid from her hips to her ass, gripping her, helping her, encouraging a faster pace. The slick, wet sound of their joining filled the quiet room, a filthy counterpoint to their ragged breaths.
“Faster,” he grunted, his control fraying. “Ride me, Aurora. Come on.”
She obeyed, bouncing on his lap, taking him harder, deeper. The angle was perfect, the base of his cock rubbing against her clit with every downstroke. Pleasure coiled tight and hot in her belly, a spring winding to its breaking point. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her head thrown back, her platinum hair a tangled curtain down her back.
He leaned forward and captured a nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard as she rode him. The dual sensation—the deep, internal friction and the sharp, pulling pleasure at her breast—shattered her. Her climax hit her suddenly, a convulsive wave that ripped a raw, screaming cry from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched around him, pulsing wildly.
The feel of her coming undone around him was his undoing. With a roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he gripped her ass hard and drove up into her, once, twice, three more times, his body going rigid beneath hers. She felt the hot, liquid surge of his release inside her, each pulse echoing her own fading contractions.
They collapsed together in a heap on the wide couch, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. He was still inside her, both of them breathing in shattered, syncopated gasps. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator in the distant kitchen and the hammering of their hearts.
After a long while, he shifted, sliding out of her. The loss made her whimper softly. He rearranged them, pulling her back against his chest, wrapping a thick woollen throw from the back of the couch over them both. His arms came around her, holding her tight. His lips pressed against the damp skin of her shoulder.
The quiet settled around them, different now. Softer. The trophies in the case across the room caught the light, meaningless trinkets. The framed jersey was just a shirt. This, the feel of his heartbeat against her spine, the smell of their sex on the air, the solid weight of his arm across her ribs—this was the only real trophy in the room.
She felt his breathing deepen, slow. Just as she thought he might be drifting off, his voice rumbled against her back, low and quiet.
“Stay.”
It wasn't a command from a superstar. It was a request, rough-edged and vulnerable.
She shifted in his arms, turning to face him. In the dim light, his famous face was stripped bare. There was no smirk, no performance. Just a wary, open hope that mirrored the strange, fragile thing unfurling in her own chest.
She didn’t answer with words. She just nodded, her forehead coming to rest against his. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer into his heat, into the shelter of his body. Outside, the world—the cameras, the fans, her unfinished novel, his next match—waited. But in the quiet dark of his living room, for now, there was only this. And it was enough.