Chapter 5: A Tease Under the Table
The team meeting room was a refrigerated tomb of focused ambition. Polished mahogany reflected the grim, determined faces of England’s best. Coach Derek stood before a large digital screen, laser pointer slicing through the gloom as he dissected Australian batting weaknesses with the zeal of a surgeon.
Josh sat in the middle of the long table, his spine straight, hands folded on the cool wood. He was a model of attention, his eyes fixed on a freeze-frame of their opponent’s star batsman playing a reckless cover drive. He saw none of it. In his mind, he saw steam on marble, water sluicing down the dip of a waist, the desperate clutch of thighs.
His phone, set to silent, buzzed against his thigh.
A tremor, faint but seismic. He ignored it.
Derek’s voice was a drone. “...exploit his footwork early, bring third man up, he’ll get frustrated and play the rash shot...”
Another buzz. Then another in quick succession. A persistent, digital itch.
Sweat prickled at the back of Josh’s neck. He shifted minutely, the stiff fabric of his tailored trousers suddenly a prison. With a glance that felt furtive, he slid his hand into his pocket. The screen glowed in the dark space.
Three notifications. All from Mia.
The first was a photo. His breath hitched. It was his hotel room, his bed. She was laid back against the pillows he’d slept on alone the night before. Naked. Her sun-kissed caramel hair fanned out. One hand was draped above her head, the other was between her legs, fingers parted, offering a blunt, explicit view of her pink, glistening cunt. Her expression was pure, challenging seduction.
The second was a closer shot, a detailed portrait of slick folds, swollen and ready. The caption read: ‘Wish this was your tongue, not my fingers. Tastes like you.’
The third was a video. He tapped it, the sound blessedly off. The clip was ten seconds of pure, visual torment. Her head thrown back, mouth forming a silent ‘O’, her hand a furious blur between her legs. She was clearly moaning. He could hear the ghost of it in his skull. The video ended with her looking directly at the camera, lips forming his name: Josh.
His cock hardened with a painful, immediate surge. It was a full, relentless throbbing that strained against his zipper, demanding attention. Heat flooded his face. He pressed his palm hard against his groin, willing it down, praying the table hid his predicament.
“You alright, mate?” Liam’s whisper was a low rumble from his right. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a particularly nasty googly.”
“Fine,” Josh gritted out, his voice tight. “Just… warm.”
Liam’s eyes flicked down to Josh’s lap, then back to his face. A knowing, shit-eating grin spread across his features. He gave a barely perceptible nod and turned back to Derek, the picture of innocence.
Josh’s mind was a riot. The sterile meeting room, the dry tactics, Derek’s monotone—it all melted into a sensory memory of her: the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the coconut scent of her hair, the choked, desperate sounds she made when he was buried to the hilt inside her. He could almost feel her warmth, the incredible tightness.
He fumbled with the phone, thumbs clumsy.
> Josh: Fuck, Mia. I’m in a meeting.
The reply was instantaneous.
> Mia: I know. That’s what makes it hot. They talking about swing? I’m swinging my legs open for you. Come back to the room. I’m waiting. Dripping for you.
A fresh wave of desire, sharp and urgent, stabbed through him. He shoved the phone deep into his pocket as if it were burning him. But the damage was done. The thick, persistent erection would not subside. Every slight movement, the brush of fabric, was agony and ecstasy. He was painfully aware of the bulge in his trousers, a blatant secret in a room of disciplined men.
Derek was pointing at him. “Josh. This is your match-up. You keep it tight on fourth stump, nothing loose. His ego does the rest. Understood?”
All Josh could think about was the fourth stump being something else entirely. “Understood, Coach,” he managed, his voice strangely hollow.
The meeting dragged on for another forty interminable minutes. Josh absorbed nothing. He constructed a fantasy in vivid detail: leaving the room, taking the elevator, the walk down the plush corridor. The key card. The door opening. Her, on the bed, exactly as pictured.
When Derek finally dismissed them with a final, stern warning about curfews and media commitments, Josh was the first to stand, using his folder as a strategic shield. He moved quickly for the door.
“Off to the nets, are we?” Liam fell into step beside him, his voice laden with mock sincerity.
“Something like that.”
“Right. Well, tell ‘the nets’ I said hello.” Liam clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. “Just be smart, yeah? Derek’s got his beady eyes on you.”
Josh didn’t answer. He was already striding toward the bank of elevators, his pulse hammering in his throat. The ride to his floor was an eternity. The corridor seemed to stretch. He fumbled with the key card, the green light finally blinking. He pushed the door open.
The room was dim, curtains drawn. She was there.
Not on the bed. She was standing by the window, silhouetted against the sliver of city light. She’d put the black dress back on, or one just like it. It was a slash of darkness against her skin.
“You’re late,” she said, without turning.
“The meeting ran long.”
She finally turned. The dress was cut so low her cleavage was a deep, shadowed valley. She walked toward him, each step a study in controlled provocation. “Did you think about it? While he was talking?” She stopped inches from him. “Did you think about my pussy?”
“Yes.” The word was ripped from him.
“Show me.”
He didn’t need further prompting. His hands went to her hips, spinning her around to face the window. He pushed her forward gently until her palms were flat on the cool glass, her reflection a smudge of want in the dark pane. He gathered the silken material of her dress, hiking it up over her hips in one rough motion. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Her arse was pale and perfect in the gloom. He ran a hand over the curve of it, then lower, his fingers sliding through the wet heat already gathered there. She gasped, pressing back against his touch.
“You are dripping,” he murmured, his voice rough.
“Told you,” she breathed.
He unzipped his trousers, freeing his aching cock. He was already slick at the tip from his own anticipation. He didn’t tease. He positioned himself at her entrance and drove forward in one long, unyielding thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that echoed in the quiet room. Her forehead thumped against the glass. He was sheathed completely in her hot, tight clasp, deeper than he’d been in the shower. He held there for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation, by the filthy, perfect rightness of it.
Then he moved.
He fucked her against the window with a hard, driving rhythm that had none of the earlier playfulness. This was pure, raw need. Each snap of his hips slammed her body against the glass. The world was out there, Sydney glittering, unaware. In here, there was only this: the slap of skin, their ragged breaths fogging the window, the primal, musky scent of sex filling the air.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard, holding her in place for his pounding. “While I was supposed to be learning about fucking field placements?”
“Yes! God, yes!” she moaned, pushing back to meet him thrust for thrust. “Fuck me like you don’t care! Like you’ll get in trouble!”
Her words were a catalyst. He cared. He cared so much it was a knot in his chest, and this was the only way to tear it loose. He plunged into her, over and over, the angle hitting a spot that made her legs shake. One of his hands snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. She was swollen, slippery. He circled it, hard and fast.
“I’m gonna come,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Josh, I’m gonna—”
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, his own control fraying. “Do it. Now.”
Her climax ripped through her. Her inner walls clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses, a wet, tight massage that pulled a guttural roar from his throat. He drove into her through her convulsions, three, four more frantic strokes, and then he was coming too, his release flooding into her as he slumped forward, his chest against her back, both of them braced against the trembling glass.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their struggling breath. The city lights blinked, indifferent.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rested his forehead between her shoulder blades, the sweat cooling on his skin. Her dress was ruined, crumpled around her waist. She turned in his arms, her face flushed, eyes dark and satisfied.
She kissed him, slow and deep. Then she pulled back, her expression shifting into something more calculating.
“They’ll be looking for you soon,” she said softly, tracing his jawline. “Your team.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
Before he could answer, his phone rang from his discarded trousers. Not a text. A call. The screen lit up on the carpet, illuminating the room with a cold, blue light.
The caller ID read: DEREK.
The afterglow evaporated, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. The device buzzed against the floor, insistent and accusatory. It was a sound from the other world, the one of rules and consequences, and it had just found him, here in the dark.