Chapter 14: Shirtless Interruption
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the credits of the second film were scrolling silently. Roz was adrift in that warm, weightless space between sleep and waking, her body molded to the solid contour of Ally’s side, her fingers loosely curled in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. The flat was dark save for the orange pulse of the hearth and the faint blue wash from a streetlamp filtering through the blinds.
She felt him shift, his chest expanding with a deep, waking breath beneath her cheek. His hand, which had been resting on her hip, slid up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading into her hair.
“You’re awake,” she murmured, her voice sleep-rough.
“Aye. Been awake a while.” His own voice was a low rumble in the dark. “Just… watching you sleep.”
She tilted her head back to see his face. In the dim, fragmented light, his expression was unguarded, the usual easy charm replaced by a somber tenderness that made her breath catch. “Everything okay?”
“More than okay.” He brushed a thumb over her temple. “Just thinking. About how he made you feel in your own space. I don’t want you to ever feel like that here. This is a sanctuary. For both of us.”
The word was deliberate. She knew it held weight for him, the bookish boy who played a violent sport. A place of safety, of quiet.
“It already feels like one,” she whispered.
He bent and kissed her, a slow, sealing kiss that tasted of sleep and safety. It began softly, a reaffirmation, but the atmosphere in the dark room was charged with the residue of the evening’s adrenaline, the closeness of their bodies on the sofa, the profound relief of being shut away from the world. The kiss deepened, turning searching, hungry.
Her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat. It was a sound of casting off, of wanting to be consumed by the present, by him, to burn away the last cold shadow of the past.
He heard it. He responded with a guttural murmur against her lips, his hands becoming more urgent. He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her skin. “Tell me what you need, Roz. Right now. Tell me.”
“You,” she said, the word stark and complete. “I need to feel you. All of you. I need to not think.”
That was all the permission he required.
In one fluid motion, he sat up, bringing her with him, then stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her from the living room, down a short hallway, into the deeper dark of his bedroom. It smelled overwhelmingly of him—clean linen, that cedar soap, the faint, musky scent of his skin.
He laid her on the bed, following her down without breaking contact, his weight a welcome anchor. They kissed again, a frantic tangle of tongues and teeth, all softness gone, replaced by a raw, driving need. His hands were everywhere, pushing the oversized pyjama top from her shoulders, palming her breast through the thin fabric of her bra. She arched into his touch, her own hands pulling at his t-shirt until he reared back, yanking it over his head and tossing it into the shadows.
The sight of him, half-lit in the ambient light, made her mouth go dry. The powerful, sculpted torso of an athlete, all defined muscle and sweeping lines, but she saw the poet in the slope of his shoulders, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he looked down at her.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, and the profanity was a prayer.
He unhooked her bra with a practiced flick, and his mouth found her nipple, hot and wet. He sucked, hard, and the sensation was a lightning bolt straight to her core, making her cry out. His other hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of the borrowed pyjama bottoms, cupping her through the cotton. She was already soaking wet, the fabric damp under his palm.
“Christ, Roz,” he groaned into her skin. “You’re dripping for me.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged both her trousers and panties down in one fierce pull. The cool air hit her heated skin, then was replaced by the scorching heat of his hand, his fingers sliding through her folds with no preamble. He found her clit, circling it with a ruthless, perfect pressure that had her bucking off the bed.
“Is this what you need?” he asked, his voice dark, rough with want. He drove one finger, then two, deep inside her, curling them. “To feel so full of me you can’t remember your own name?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her hips matching the rhythm of his hand. “God, yes, Ally.”
He fucked her with his fingers, his thumb working her clit, his eyes locked on hers, watching her come apart. The orgasm built quickly, a devastating wave fueled by emotional catharsis and pure physical want. It crashed over her, wringing a shattered cry from her lips, her inner muscles clamping around his fingers.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving, stripping off his own jeans and boxers, his erection springing free, thick and veined and urgent. He knelt between her legs, his hands pushing her thighs wider apart, opening her completely to his gaze and the faint light.
“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself. “All fucked out and ready for more. My greedy, perfect girl.”
He leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm, the head of his cock nudging against her sensitive entrance. He didn’t push in. He just rubbed himself through her slickness, coating himself in her, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back.
“Tell me you want it,” he commanded, his breath ragged.
“I want it. I want you inside me. Now.”
With a low growl, he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust.
The fullness was breathtaking, a stunning reclamation of her own body. She gasped, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. He was so deep, stretching her exquisitely, blotting out every other thought, every memory.
“Fuck,” he choked out, going perfectly still, his forehead dropping to hers. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”
Then he began to move.
It was not love-making. It was fucking, pure and simple—a physical exorcism, a celebration of survival. His hips pistoned, driving into her with a powerful, rhythmic force that shook the bedframe. Each thrust was a promise, a claim, a negation of every ghost that had ever haunted her.
The sound was obscene, wet and slapping, filling the dark room. He shifted the angle, and on the next deep plunge, he hit a spot that made her see stars.
“Right there!” she cried out. “Oh God, Ally, right there!”
“I know, baby,” he grunted, nailing the same spot again and again, his control fraying. “I know. Come on. Come around my cock. Let me feel you.”
His filthy, desperate words were the final trigger. Her second orgasm tore through her, violent and consuming, a white-hot detonation that clenched around him, milking his length. With a roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he followed her over, his thrusts becoming ragged, frantic jerks as he emptied himself deep inside her, pulsing, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing and delicious, his hot breath gusting against her neck. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken unison. The room came back in fragments—the sound of a distant siren, the rustle of the duvet, the frantic hammering of their hearts slowly settling into a synchronized rhythm.
After a long while, he rolled to the side, gathering her against him, her back to his chest. He didn’t withdraw, staying softly lodged within her, a final, intimate connection. His arm wrapped around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her lower belly.
“Sanctuary,” he whispered into her hair, his voice thick with sleep and satiation.
She placed her hand over his, lacing their fingers together. No ghosts could reach her here. In the dark, in the silence, surrounded by him, she felt something she had rarely allowed herself to feel: utterly, unequivocally safe. And, for the first time, powerfully, unashamedly desired. Not for what she could do, or how she fit, but for the sheer, wild reality of her.
Sleep pulled at her, deep and velvety. The last thing she felt was the faint, contented pressure of his lips against her shoulder, and the steady, solid beat of his heart against her spine.
She woke to the grey, pearlescent light of a drizzly Edinburgh morning filtering through the blinds. Ally was already awake, propped on an elbow, watching her with an expression so naked it made her chest ache. The solid weight of his arm was still draped over her waist, his skin hot against hers.
“Morning,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“Hi.” She stretched, a luxuriant, cat-like movement that made him smile. The sheets smelled of sex and sweat and them, a primal, comforting scent. His hand slid from her waist to the curve of her hip, his thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin.
“You okay?” he asked. The question held layers, referencing the shattered glass, the raised voices, the frantic way they had come together in the dark.
“Better than okay.” She turned onto her back to look at him fully. In the cold morning light, the bruise on his cheekbone from last weekend’s match was a faint yellow shadow, a testament to the other, more accepted violence in his life. She reached up and traced it. “Does this hurt?”
“Nothing hurts right now.” He caught her fingers, kissed her palm, then her wrist. His mouth traveled slowly up the sensitive skin of her inner arm, a trail of fire. “You’re here.”
His lips found hers, a soft, lingering kiss that quickly deepened. The embers from last night ignited, flaring back into a hungry flame. He rolled on top of her, the hard length of his morning erection pressing against her thigh. She wrapped her legs around his hips, arching up to meet him.
“I need a shower,” she murmured against his mouth, even as her hands slid down the powerful slope of his back.
“Later.” He kissed her neck, sucking the skin just below her ear until she moaned. His hand slipped between them, his fingers parting her folds, finding her wet and ready. “Fuck, you’re always so ready for me.”
He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance. He didn’t enter her. He just rubbed himself through her slickness, back and forth, a slow, maddening tease that made her whimper.
“Ally, please.”
“Please what?” He was breathing heavily, his control a thin veneer. “Use your words, Roz. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me.” The vulgarity, so raw on her tongue, sent a shock through her own system. “Hard. I want to feel it all day.”
A dark, approving sound rumbled from his chest. He shoved a pillow under her hips, angling her up, and then he drove into her in one long, brutal thrust.
She cried out, the delicious stretch bordering on pain, the sheer fullness stealing her breath. He set a punishing pace immediately, each snap of his hips jolting the bed, his grip on her thighs fierce. The sound was lewd, a wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
“Look at you taking it,” he grunted, his eyes glued to where their bodies joined. “Taking every fucking inch. Your perfect little cunt is swallowing me whole.”
His words, filthy and reverent, unraveled her. She felt her climax coiling, a tight, hot spring in her belly. He shifted, hooking her legs over his shoulders, bending her almost in half, and the new angle made her see white.
“There! Right there, don’t stop!”
“I’m not stopping until you come,” he promised, his voice strained. He pistoned into her, relentless, the muscles in his neck corded. “Come on my cock. Show me.”
She shattered, a raw, screaming release that tore through her with violent, convulsing waves. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, rhythmically milking his length, and with a guttural shout, he followed. He plunged deep, holding himself there as he pulsed, hot and endless inside her, his entire body shaking with the force of his orgasm.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his forearms, his forehead damp against hers. Their panting breaths mingled in the quiet room, the only sound besides the distant patter of rain on the window.
After long minutes, he softened and slipped out of her. He didn’t move away. He just kissed her, softly, a world away from the frantic coupling of moments before.
“Shower,” he stated, finally rolling off the bed and pulling her up with him.
The bathroom was small, steam quickly fogging the mirror. He washed her with a surprising tenderness, his big hands smoothing soap over her shoulders, her breasts, between her legs. She returned the favor, tracing the map of old scars on his knuckles, the newer scrapes on his ribs. She knelt, the warm water sluicing over them both, and took his soft cock into her mouth, tasting their mixed essences.
He groaned, his hands cradling her head. “Christ, Roz.”
She worked him until he grew hard again under her tongue, until his thighs trembled. Then he lifted her, pressed her against the cool tiles, and entered her once more, a slow, water-slicked rhythm that felt like a vow. This time, there was no frenzy, just a deep, rolling culmination that left them both breathless and clean.
Wrapped in towels, they made coffee in his small kitchen. He stood at the counter in just a pair of grey sweatpants, and she studied the landscape of his back—the faded tattoo of a quote she didn’t recognize, the powerful shoulders that carried a nation’s hopes on Saturdays.
“It’s Yeats,” he said without turning, as if feeling her gaze. “‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’ Got it after my first senior cap. Felt like a fraud.”
She walked over, pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not a fraud.”
He turned, pulling her into a hug, her cheek against his chest. “With you, I don’t feel like one.” He paused. “I have training this afternoon. A media session. They’ll ask about the bruise.”
“I know.” She understood the separation of their worlds, the contract he had with the public.
“I want you here tonight. I want to make you dinner. Properly.” He pulled back to look at her. “But I also need to know… what are we doing? After last night, after Leo… I need to know what this is.”
The question hung in the steam-filled air. Her shyness wanted to retreat, to offer a vague, safe answer. But she thought of the sanctuary, of his fingers laced with hers in the dark.
“It’s everything,” she said, the words simple and absolute.
He exhaled, a release of tension he’d been holding. “Okay.” He kissed her forehead. “Everything.”
Her phone, charging on the counter, buzzed. A notification from her medical school timetable. A reminder of a practical exam, of the other life where she was just a student, not a man’s sanctuary. Ally’s own phone rang then, the ringtone the aggressive chants of a stadium crowd.
The real world, in all its demanding, complicated glory, was calling them back.