Chapter 3: Victory and a Reckless Invitation
The champagne tasted like tin on his tongue. Every slap on his back, every roar of laughter that swelled around the long table, felt like it was happening through thick glass. The private dining room at The Langham was a blur of golden light and grinning faces. Coach Derek, usually a stone monument of disapproval, had actually gripped his shoulder and said, “You bowled like a fucking demon out there, son.” The words should have been a sunburst in his chest. Instead, they landed like lead pellets.
He’d taken five wickets. They’d retained the Ashes. It was the pinnacle. It was everything.
And all he could think about was the phantom sting on his lower lip and the way she’d disappeared into the dark.
“Josh! Another one, mate!” Charlie, the wicketkeeper, sloshed vintage Dom Pérignon into his already full glass. The foam spilled over, cold on his knuckles.
“Cheers,” Josh muttered, forcing a smile that made his face ache. He took a dutiful sip. The bubbles were anaesthetic. He scanned the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Sydney’s glittering victory lap, and felt a claustrophobic panic begin to simmer in his gut. This was the cage. Gilded, triumphant, but a cage all the same. The rules had just gotten heavier.
He excused himself, claiming a sudden, roiling nausea from the rich food. No one questioned it; they were too drunk on victory and booze. He wove through the tables, the cacophony fading behind him with each step down the plush hallway.
His hotel room was a tomb of silence. He shrugged off his jacket, the tailored fabric suddenly oppressive. He stood in the centre of the room, his breathing loud in the quiet. The bed was neatly made. The cityscape twinkled, indifferent.
He pulled the dead phone from his pocket. He stared at it. A tiny, black rectangle containing all his tethers—team group chats, management emails, reminders from the nutritionist. And one possibility.
He powered it on.
It buzzed and chimed violently, a pent-up orchestra of notifications. Dozens of messages flooded the screen. He ignored them all. His thumb, slick with a nervous sweat, went straight to his contacts. He didn’t have her number. Of course he didn’t.
He opened his call log. The last received call, from a private number three nights ago, when he’d been in the bar. That had been her, checking if he’d stood her up. He pressed ‘call’.
It rang once. Twice.
His heart was a hammer against his ribs.
“You’re alive.” Her voice was exactly as he remembered. A low, textured purr that went straight to his groin. There was no surprise in it. Just a knowing, casual acknowledgement.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “We won.”
“I saw. Front page stuff. You looked very serious holding that little urn.”
“Celebrations are… ongoing.”
“But you’re not there.”
“No.”
A beat of silence, filled with the static hum of the connection. “Where are you, then?”
“In my room. At The Langham.” He closed his eyes. “I feel… hollow.”
He heard the soft scratch of something—fabric, maybe—and a faint exhalation. “Hollow champions are the most interesting kind,” she said. “What do you want, Josh?”
The question was blunt. It stripped away the pretense. “I want to see you. Now.”
“Now?” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Bit past your bedtime, isn’t it?”
“Fuck my bedtime.”
She laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “Alright. Suite number?”
He gave it to her. His mouth was dry.
“Half an hour,” she said, and the line went dead.
The next twenty-nine minutes were an agony of suspended animation. He showered, the scalding water doing nothing to calm the electric current under his skin. He changed into grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, then tore them off, dressing again in dark jeans and a plain black shirt. He was overthinking. He pulled the shirt back off. He stood, half-dressed, in the middle of the room, a coiled spring of pure need.
The soft knock, when it came, was almost silent.
He wrenched the door open.
She was there. The hallway’s muted light carved her out of the shadows. A sleek, tight black dress that ended mid-thigh, fabric like a second skin over the generous swell of her breasts, the cinch of her waist, the curve of her hips. Her hair was down, a sun-kissed cascade over her shoulders. Her green eyes glinted with unspoken challenge. She held a small clutch and smelled of night air and expensive, citrus perfume.
No words. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her inside, and slammed the door shut with a force that shook the frame.
The second it clicked, he had her pinned against it. His mouth crashed down on hers. This wasn’t like the rooftop. This was starvation. A raw, claiming desperation. She moaned into him, her clutch dropping to the floor with a thud. Her hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling and pulling, sharp and delicious.
His own hands were everywhere. Sliding down her back, gripping her arse through the thin dress, hauling her up against the rigid line of his erection. She ground against him, a soft, frantic cry escaping her throat.
“Fuck, Josh,” she breathed, breaking the kiss to pant against his jaw.
He didn’t answer. He rucked the hem of her dress up in frantic handfuls, past her thighs, her hips. His fingers found the edge of her lace underwear. He didn’t tease. He hooked his fingers into the side and yanked, hard. The delicate material tore with a faint, ripping sound.
She gasped, her eyes wide and dark.
He got his hand between her legs, cupping her. She was soaking wet, hot silk. He pressed a finger inside her, and her head fell back against the door with a thump.
“Christ, you’re drenched,” he growled, working the finger in and out.
“For you,” she gasped, writhing. “All for you. Been thinking about this. Your hands. Your fucking mouth.”
It was all the permission he needed. He withdrew his hand, fumbled with the button of his jeans, shoved them and his boxers down just enough. He lifted her leg, hooking it over his hip. She was tall, but he was taller, stronger. He positioned himself at her entrance, the swollen head of his cock nudging through her slick folds.
He looked her in the eyes. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. The challenge was gone, replaced by pure, wanting need.
He drove into her. One brutal, deep, sheathing thrust.
The air left her lungs in a shocked, ragged sob. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, biting into his shoulders. He was buried to the hilt, enveloped in her tight, clutching heat. For a second, he just held there, trembling, overwhelmed by the visceral reality of her.
Then he began to move.
It was a hard, fast, punishing rhythm. He fucked her against the door, his hips pistoning, the impact shaking the wood in its frame. Each thrust was a grunt of effort, a release of the furious, hollow tension that had been eating him alive. There was no finesse. This was raw claiming. Animal need.
“Yes… fuck… just like that,” she chanted, her voice broken. “Harder. God, yes.”
Her words fueled him. He slid a hand between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, urgent circles. She cried out, her whole body tensing, her inner muscles clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. He felt her come, a hot, fluttering convulsion that milked his cock.
It pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself and let go. A guttural roar was torn from his throat as he spilled into her, hot and pulsing, his vision whiting out at the edges. He collapsed against her, his forehead on the door beside her head, both of them slick with sweat, lungs heaving.
The room came back in fragments. The hum of the mini-bar. The distant wail of a siren. The feel of her warm body, still impaled on him, her breath hot on his neck.
Slowly, gently, he slipped out of her. She winced, a slight tremor running through her. He kept his arms around her, holding her up as her legs threatened to buckle.
Without a word, he bent and lifted her. She was a solid, warm weight in his arms. He carried her to the bed, laid her down on the crisp white duvet. The black dress was ruined, rucked up around her waist. Her torn underwear was a dark scrap against her thigh.
He stripped off his own clothes, then carefully peeled the dress from her body. She lay naked before him, a breathtaking landscape of curves and long limbs, her skin flushed, her breasts full and heavy. He just looked for a long moment, drinking her in.
He lay down beside her, pulling her close. Their skin stuck together with sweat. He traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist.
“I thought about that bite for three days,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She turned her head on the pillow. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. She leaned over and nipped the same spot on his lip, gentler this time. “Good.”
Then she kissed him, deep and slow and searching. It was a different kind of possession. He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. She straddled his hips, her hair forming a curtain around their faces. She reached between them, guiding him back inside her with a slow, excruciating slide.
This time, it was different. It was a deep, rolling fuck, a slow-burning exploration. She rode him with a fluid, powerful grace, her head thrown back, breasts swaying. He watched her, mesmerized, his hands gripping her waist, then sliding up to cup the heavy weight of her tits, thumbs brushing over her nipples. She moaned, the pace increasing.
He flipped her over, pressing her into the mattress. He wrapped her legs around his back and sank into her again, going deep, holding each stroke until she whimpered. He could feel another climax building in her, in the tension of her thighs, the sharp catch of her breath. He drove into her, again and again, the bedframe knocking a soft, persistent rhythm against the wall.
“I’m gonna come,” she choked out, her eyes squeezed shut. “Josh, please…”
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice thick.
She shattered, a sharp, beautiful cry tearing from her throat as her body convulsed under his. The sight of her, lost in pure sensation, undid him completely. He followed her over, his release a wave that left him boneless and spent.
They collapsed in a tangled, sweaty heap, limbs intertwined. The room smelled of sex and salt. He pulled the duvet over them. Her breath gradually slowed against his chest. His own body felt utterly drained, the hollow feeling temporarily filled with a heavy, sated peace.
He woke hours later to the first grey light of dawn seeping around the edges of the blackout curtains. Mia was asleep, her back to him, the sheets draped low over the generous curve of her hip. He propped himself up on an elbow, just watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
The phone on the nightstand began to vibrate. Insistent. Relentless. He saw the screen light up with the team manager’s name.
He reached over Mia, his arm brushing her warm skin. He picked up the phone, stared at the name for three vibrating pulses, and rejected the call. He powered the phone off again.
The silence that followed was profound. He lay back down, fitting his body against the curve of hers, his arm draped over her waist. She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent in her sleep, and pressed back against him.
Outside, the city was waking up. His team would be looking for him. The consequences were gathering like storm clouds on the horizon.
But here, in the warm, silent dark, with her skin against his, he didn’t care. For the first time in years, the only thing that felt real was the weight of her in his arms and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that he had well and truly burned the map.