Page 126 of The Fly-Half and the Fling
I freeze, my hand on the door handle, my back to him. I can feel his eyes on me, tracking the line of my spine, the curve of my arse beneath the sheet. He’s probably remembering exactly how I looked in the moonlight with his dick inside me.
I could die. My soul could leave my fucking body. Right here and now.
“You’re leaving?” The bed creaks as he sits up.
“Rules are rules, Stringer.” I turn to face him—another mistake. He’s propped on his elbows, hair mussed, eyes dark and alert. Entirely too comfortable for a man who’s just broken every unspoken law of the bro code. “Last night was a lapse in judgment. Wedding adrenaline. Rum.”
His gaze sharpens, lazy warmth replaced by that focused stare he uses on the pitch. “Is that what we’re calling it?” He sits up fully, not bothering to cover himself, probably because the bedsheet is wrapped around my bare arse. “Because I remember you saying my name like it was a fucking prayer, Clee.”
Heat floods me as the memory of his fingers making me scream his name into the pillow ghosts across my skin.
A heavy knock slams into the door. “Stringer! You in there, mate?” Taranis’s voice booms from the hall. “Da’s here and losing his mind. Check-out time.”
My blood turns to ice. My brother is on the other side of that door.
Gareth glances at it, then back at me. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. He still doesn’t move to cover himself. Instead, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “You going to tell him? Or should I?”
