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It’s almost ten at night and Roy is pleasantly buzzed when the doorbell rings. He assumes it’s probably Keeley and grins as he gets up to let her in. She was with Rebecca this evening, doing whatever the adult woman equivalent of a teenage girl sleepover is, but maybe they wrapped up early, which would put an excellent cap on an already great day.
It really has been good. They trounced the Spurs, and while technically it was Tartt’s doing, Roy is more than happy to take the credit. He’s the one who’d realized what Tartt needs, who talked the other coaches into it, and he’d been entirely right. Tartt had turned on the prickish persona, and won the whole game. They’d all celebrated after – the team is probably still out now, but the coaches called it a night early to let them all go have fun.
So yeah, a good day. Roy loves being right.
He opens the door without checking and says, “Hey, babe.”
Jamie Tartt smirks back at him. “If I’d known you’d be so nice, I’d have been a bigger prick.”
“Like you even could. The fuck are you doing here?” He’s not as annoyed as he should be, though. Disappointed it’s not Keeley – he’d like to get laid – but Tartt’s tolerable now that he’s decided to do as Roy tells him. Frankly, if Tartt had always been so eager to listen to Roy, they’d have got on from the beginning.
Roy tries not to think that. It makes him itch under his skin, and he has no way to get that itch scratched. Keeley isn’t in to that sort of thing. Not that Roy has asked, but it’s pretty obvious. She’d probably let Roy spank her, giggle about being naughty, and the whole thing would just be a lark. Roy wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do the kinds of things he really wants to, not with her. Which is fine. He loves her, he doesn’t need to unleash that particular side of himself. He just doesn’t want to start to itch if he can’t scratch it.
Tartt says, “Just wanted to thank you, Coach. Haven’t felt like that on the pitch in ages, and it was really fucking good.”
Roy smirks a bit. Yeah, it was, and good on Tartt for knowing who’s responsible for it. So, feeling magnanimous, he says, “Come in, then. You want a beer?”
“What?” Tartt seems genuinely surprised for a moment, but when Roy pushes the door wider he trots on in, looking around in awe. He’s never been here before; Roy isn’t even sure how Tartt has his address. “Yeah, sure. I had a few already, though.”
So has Roy, though probably not as many as Tartt, if he was out with the lads, which Roy is certain he was. He leads the way to his kitchen and Tartt claims a stool at the island. Roy grabs them each a beer and opens them, hands one to Tartt, who clinks it in a toast.
“Here’s to you,” Tartt offers, then, giving Roy his prickiest grin, “Now you toast me for how fucking beautiful that goal was.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Roy can’t bring himself to deny it. It was a beautiful goal.
“Oh, come on, Coach.” Tartt’s grin is fishing for something.
Roy suspects he knows what. There was that moment between them, a few days ago, in the hallway. Tartt panting for his attention, and Roy giving it – briefly, on his own terms, wondering how far he could push. He doesn’t have an answer yet, not really, beyond being certain that he can push a lot further here in his house than he could in the hallway at work.
So he says it: “Beautiful goal. Still an ugly boy.”
Tartt’s face goes red immediately, a little blotchy. When he says, “Arsehole,” there’s no sting to it, no anger behind it. Like a line in a script – Roy insults him, he insults back. But Roy likes it better when he gets to write the script.
“What are you really doing here, Tartt?” he asks, and pauses to take a long, easy pull from his beer. Tartt’s eyes never leave his face, his own drink seemingly forgotten. “You want me to insult you some more, is that it?”
“I… no,” Tartt says, and now he does look away. He’s flustered, that’s obvious, his chest heaves like it does when he’s running down the pitch.
“Look at me,” Roy says – Roy orders, and is delighted when Tartt obeys him. The lad is coachable, after all. “If you can’t say what you want, you can’t have it. So say it or get out.”
He figures, that should do it. If Tartt’s fishing around for something kinky, well, Roy’s been around the block more than a few times, and the thought of getting Tartt to shut the hell up and do exactly as he’s told is appealing. That itch that’s been building since earlier in the week…
He shouldn’t, though. He’s with Keeley now, and this may not be her thing, but she’s the best woman he’s ever dated, the sexiest and kindest. He adores her.
But then Tartt looks at him and says, “It’s not about what I want, though, is it? It’s what you want.”
Roy raises his eyebrows, implying not good enough. Tartt talks fast.
“That is, I want to do what you want. Anything you want. And I think you want me to. That’s why I’m here.” Then he downs the rest of his beer in one go, clearly horribly desperate not to have to say anything else about it. When he sets it down he stares at Roy again, eyes wide and imploring. A little pathetic.
Roy is going to make him cry.
“Anything I want,” Roy repeats carefully. He doubts Tartt really knows what he’s in for.
Tartt nods eagerly. “Yeah. That’s what makes it hot, that it’s what you want.” His smile turns a little sly, the prick in him shining through. “Don’t pretend you don’t have a list of kinky shit you want to do to me.” Then, voice smug and knowing, “Coach.”
That goes to Roy’s cock, and he laughs. Maybe Tartt does know, after all. Either way, he’s agreed, so it’s not really Roy’s problem, is it?
“Alright, then. Anything I want. Follow me.” He leaves his empty on the kitchen island and leads the way back to the living room. He heads for the couch, only pausing for a moment to reach for his phone on the coffee table and flip it upside down. He doesn’t want anything interrupting this.
Tartt makes for the couch too but stops when Roy holds up a hand. He looks around the room and says, sounding somewhere between joking and being a completely prick, “I didn’t know there was a catalogue for old people’s homes, you must have bought it out.”
It’s obvious bait. Roy raises his eyebrows.
“You know, an old mail catalogue because I’m not sure you know how to use the internet to buy things, the algorithm or whatever would have suggested a couch from this century, probably.”
Roy’s couch is fine. It’s leather, which is classic, and comfortable, and a stylist picked it out for him so it’s not like it’s his taste being insulted. Still, it is an insult. Roy cocks his head slightly, waiting.
“Because you’re old. Not sure if your hearing’s gone?” Tartt finally tacks on.
It’s adorable, actually, a desperate and frankly kind of pathetic bid for Roy to respond, but then, Roy doesn’t object to Tartt being a bit pathetic. It’s almost sort of cute. He finally snorts and says, “Stop angling for a punishment, I’m already going to give you exactly what you deserve. Coming around here begging for attention, offering yourself up like a slut. If I’d said no, would you just have gone to the next house down?”
The flush on Tartt’s face is back, and from this angle – Roy lounging on the couch, Tartt standing awkwardly next to the coffee table – it’s pretty obvious that his trousers are tenting. He sounds a little less sure of himself when he says, “Not sure if they like football as much in the next house down.”
Roy laughs at that, genuinely. “Maybe I’ll strip you down and march you over there to find out.”
“Jesus, Coach.” His eyes have gone a bit dark.
“Yeah, alright. Strip.” He waves a hand in Tartt’s direction, and Tartt jumps to. He’s down to his pants in only a moment, hoodie and t-shirt and trousers in a messy heap on the floor, his socks and shoes kicked off next to them.
Roy schools his expression, aiming for boredom, though he’s not sure he succeeds. Tartt is fit. Obnoxiously fit. Roy may have hate watched Lust Conquers All but he’s seen it all there: the abs, the pecs, the obvious waxing. The camera didn’t pick up the way his neck goes slightly pink, though, or the way he sort of wriggles his fingers in the air when he can’t shove them into a pocket or a sleeve. Tartt bites his lip for a moment, waiting.
“I said strip,” Roy repeats.
Tartt nods, pushes his boxers down and steps out of them. This wasn’t on LCA. Not uncensored, anyway. Tartt’s dick is pretty, long and cut, and definitely interested in having Roy look at it. Too bad for Tartt, Roy’s planning to spend the rest of the evening ignoring it.
For just a moment, Tartt looks awkward, even embarrassed, but then he looks at Roy, chews his lip for a moment, and poses. It isn’t anything obvious, just going from slack and awkward to upright and intentional, muscles clenching slightly so everything bulges and looks its best. His chin up, defiant. Daring Roy to insult him.
That would be stupid. The both know Tartt is hot. Roy’s not going to pretend otherwise, but he’s also not going to feed Tartt’s already oversized ego. So he just leans back, admiring, until Tartt starts squirming and his red face goes more crimson.
“What, are you just going to fucking… stare at me?” Tartt finally demands.
“Maybe. You said anything I want. Not my fault if you’re an impatient brat. Turn around.”
Tartt pouts with those stupidly plush lips of his, but does as he’s told and puts his back to Roy. He poses, a hand on his hip. Fuck, he’s gorgeous from every angle, but especially like this, with those broad shoulders and his strong back, and then that pert, perfect, stupidly appealing arse. Roy’s hand twitches with an urge to slap it, but Tartt’s hovering a few feet away and Roy’s not going to get up for him.
Tartt looks back over his shoulder. “Well?”
It makes Roy want to make him wait longer. Maybe put him on his hands and knees and use him as a footstool while he reads for a bit, make him stay there silent and still and not even look at him. Maybe next time.
Not that there will be a next time. There shouldn’t be a this time. It’s just –
He’s with Keeley and he adores her more than anything, but he could never bring himself to treat her like this, to mock her and strip her bare and hurt her. He doesn’t ever want to see Keeley cry, or to choke her or degrade her. She likes sex and she doesn’t mind it a bit rough, but Roy still has to hold back with her. She’s delicate, beautiful. Tartt, though – he can imaging fucking Tartt he can, and Tart taking it, Tartt wanting it. Begging him for it.
He shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s better he gets this out of his system with Tartt. It’ll just be this one time.
With Tartt’s eyes still on him, he moves with deliberate slowness to unbuckle his belt. Tartt’s mouth opens a little. Roy raises an eyebrow at him as he slides the belt free. He loops it around his hand, holding the buckle and the end together, and snaps the loop hard. It makes a loud slapping noise and Tartt jumps.
“Gonna belt me, granddad?” Tartt asks, but his voice is trembling just slightly. Roy can’t tell if that’s with fear or desire, but either way is fine with him. That isn’t what he has in mind, though.
He says, “Tired of your lip, actually. Come here. On your knees.” He spreads his legs to indicate where, and as Tartt moves, he adds, “Facing away from me.”
That gets a look of confusion before Tartt does it, turning away and dropping to his knees. Roy takes a second to enjoy that. He runs his fingers through Tartt’s hair with his free hand. It’s gelled back, which looks fucking ridiculous, and it isn’t pleasant under his fingers, either. Roy takes great joy in messing it up, knowing it’ll irritate the twat, and once he’s got some of that fucking gel softened he takes a handful and yanks.
Tartt lets out a yelp. There’s no dignity to it, just surprise.
“What, did you think I was just playing with your hair, princess?” He pulls it again. “If I want that, I’ve got Keeley. And you know what I think of your hair.” Another tug. Maybe this one is more playful. It still makes Tartt gasp and squirm, though probably not with pain.
“Fuck you,” Tartt manages, but it’s a weak comeback.
“Now now, watch your fucking language. Actually, open your mouth.”
Tartt’s facing away from him but it’s still easy to see that he complies. Roy reaches around, shoves two fingers into his mouth. Tartt squirms again and tongues around them, then sucks. Good boy. Roy’s going to enjoy that instinct – in a bit. But not yet.
He uses those fingers to tug Tartt’s mouth further open, as wide as he can, makes an approving noise and then goes for the belt. He slides it into Tartt’s mouth – the edges biting into his teeth and lips, his tongue stuck behind it. Tartt makes a noise of objection, not that Roy cares. Once it’s wedged in, he slides the end through the buckle and tightens it. It’s not as if there are any notches that would let it get tight enough behind Tartt’s head to hold it tight, but for now it works fine to just slide the leather all the way through. He pulls it and it tugs Tartt’s head back. It’s not the most elegant gag, but it has the twin advantages of turning anything Tartt tries to say into garbled gibberish, and probably leaving his jaw aching. A win all around.
“There we fucking go,” Roy says, and just for fun he pulls the belt a bit harder. It forces Tartt to expose his neck, and Roy rests his other hand on it, fingers curled just slightly around it. Tartt shudders and makes a desperate noise that comes out as a sort of choked whine. It’s glorious.
Now that Tartt can’t talk, Roy finds he wants to. He tugs the belt again, upwards this time, and says, “Up now, over my lap. I promised to give you what you deserved. Don’t pretend you weren’t desperate for a spanking, showing up here and acting like the little prick you are.”
The noise Tartt makes does not sound like an objection. He scrambles to his feet without his usual grace, nearly bangs into the coffee table. Roy lets the end of the belt go so he doesn’t accidentally injure his star player. He spreads his hands over the back of the couch and waits as Tartt lays himself down.
He stays still for a moment, enjoying it. Tartt was careful spreading himself out, positioned just so – just so that his cock is rubbing against Roy’s thigh, his arse not quite centered above Roy’s lap. Which is fine, actually, gives Roy’s hand easier access. He lets it rest on Tartt’s arse, fingers spread, possessive. Tartt makes a sloppy noise into the gag as Roy squeezes a little. Roy takes the end of the belt up and tugs, pulling Tartt’s head back, making him arch it upwards a bit. God, that’s gorgeous.
Tartt wriggles against him. It isn’t quite a full humping motion, but it draws Roy’s eyes back to his perfect arse. He squeezes one more time before lifting his hand – which is all the warning Tartt gets before he strikes, bringing it down sharp and hard.
Tartt’s whole body jerks, stiff, and he shouts something into the gag. It doesn’t sound like stop, and Roy can’t imagine he’d tap out this early. Not after showing up gagging for it, tossing out insults that were begging to end up exactly here. Really, this is a reward for him, more than anything. So Roy hits him again, on the other cheek, and then again, and again. It isn’t full force, not yet, but they aren’t playful little taps, either. It makes Tartt writhe and his skin pinkens under Roy’s palm.
His hand goes warm and almost tingly after a few more smacks, but he’s nowhere near done yet. Tartt’s squirming has calmed down, though he shudders with each blow, and the choked noises he’s making have gone lower and sloppier, too. Roy lets go of the belt.
Roy varies where he strikes. Further down on Tartt’s thighs gets him another sudden shriek. He does that a few times, then back to Tartt’s arse, now harder – as hard as he dares. It leaves a handprint on the skin, red and white.
“Fuck, you look better like this, all spread out and bruised up.” He rests his hand on the cheek he just struck. Then, not able to help himself, gives it a nasty pinch. Tartt shrieks into the gag, practically seizing up from the shock of it, such a different sensation after all those slaps, but the shriek gives way to a gurgled moan. The motion was just enough to jostle his cock against Roy’s thigh.
Roy waits. Sure enough, Tartt must be feeling bold, because he rubs again. Roy lets him, a few times. He’s almost tempted to let it continue, to let Tartt get off like that and mock him after – but then again, he doesn’t need to let Tartt come to humiliate him a bit, does he?
He pulls the end of the belt to yank Tartt’s head back, and gives his arse another hearty slap. “Now, now, none of that. Humping my leg like a dog, is that what you are, Tartt? Just some desperate puppy?”
The pathetic noise that seeps through the gag is amazing. Pet play has never particularly been Roy’s thing, but it doesn’t sound like Tartt would object if it was.
Though, just as surely as he can feel Tartt hard against his leg, probably smearing pre-come against his jeans, Tartt can feel him, too. He keeps spanking, slower now, harder and more deliberate, as he considers. Tart’s yowls have given way to tiny mewls, and he’s slumped, only jerking up when Roy pulls on the belt. Roy recognizes the body language as he’s had enough, but that doesn’t mean he has to stop.
He decides to change things up. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, then brings them down to Tartt’s arse, slipping them between his cheeks. Tartt shudders, makes a more desperate noise, as Roy presses them to the rim of his hole. Spit doesn’t make for the best lube, and despite his disdain he doesn’t actually want to injure Tartt beyond some bruising. He only dips his fingers in slightly, feels the muscle clenching and fluttering. Tartt makes a blissed out sound and squirms, trying to buck against his hand and thrust against his thigh all at once.
It's fun to play with, to tease with the idea of more, especially since Roy isn’t going to give it to him. Not now, at any rate. Maybe next time, with proper lube.
Not that there’s going to be a next time.
He keeps it up, waits until Tartt seems to adjust and relax a bit, and then startles him with another sound slap against his cheeks. He yelps into the belt, then whines, wriggling unhappily. Roy laughs. He is like a fucking puppy, eager and squirming and whining for attention. Roy’s tired of giving him what he wants, though – it’s time to collect for himself.
He reaches over, slides the belt loose and pulls. Tartt has to open even wider to release it, and no sooner than he has does Roy shove, dumping him off his lap. He shouts “Hey!” and lands in an awkward sprawl. He glares up at Roy. There are marks on either side of his mouth where the belt bit into his skin, drool down his chin. He pushes up to sit and wipes at his mouth.
“Don’t pretend that wasn’t exactly what you were hoping for when you showed up here. In fact…” He takes a moment to laugh at himself. “Go on. Tell me what a slut you are and how much you enjoyed that.”
Tartt swallows, his throat moving slowly. Roy waits expectantly. Tartt squirms, then, “I… I enjoyed that.”
“Enjoyed what?”
“I enjoyed you… I enjoyed you spanking me.” He looks away. “Like a slut.”
“Don’t be ashamed now, sweetheart. I know exactly what you are. Look me in the eye and say it again. Make it sound pretty enough and maybe I’ll let you suck my cock.”
He leans back on the couch, legs still spread, and Tartt’s gaze flicks down. Roy doesn’t try to hide how hard he is. If Tartt’s smart, he’ll realize Roy wants this just as much as he does, though from what he can tell, Tartt’s never been much for using his brain. He does seem to want Roy’s cock, though, and after another long, awkward moment, he takes a breath, looks up at Roy’s face.
“I showed up here acting like a total slut, hoping you’d treat me like one. Thank you for spanking me. It was exactly what I wanted and I fucking loved it. ‘Cause that’s what I am, yeah? Just a slut for you.”
It’s a pretty speech, surprisingly coherent for a man who was just choking on a gag. Roy smiles despite himself. “You must really want to suck my cock.”
“Yeah. I really do.” Tartt’s eyes are wide and dark. His face is red and a mess – the marks from the belt, chin and cheeks all shiny from spit, and the slight imprint of the arm of the couch, where his face was smashed against it. He’s naked and looks good in the low light of Roy’s living room, and his cock is hard and red and dripping now.
Roy reaches down and unzips his flies. He shifts enough to pull his cock out, strokes it a few times, watches Tartt. Tartt’s just staring, his lips parted slightly, panting. Roy beckons.
“Come on, then.”
Tartt all but dives for, it moving to his knees and in as close as he can between Roy’s legs. He reaches for Roy’s cock and he looks downright reverent, like maybe this is what he was hoping for. That’s actually fucking flattering, and really fucking hot.
Still, Roy can have a bit of fun. “Hands behind your back.”
Tartt moans. Now that it’s not muffled by the belt it’s fucking gorgeous. He makes a show of it, removing his hands and getting them behind him. He straightens his back for a moment, posing there on his knees, looking up at Roy with a smirk. He knows exactly what he looks like, that’s obvious, and he must know exactly how much Roy likes it.
Roy thinks about next time before he can stop himself – thinks about tying Tartt’s hands behind his back, laying down and having Tartt ride him. He’d let Tartt do all the work with those powerful legs of his, consider it his workout for the day. Maybe he’d gag Tartt, too, a ballgag that leaves him drooling slightly, moaning as he works himself on Roy’s cock, not getting the gag out or untied until he’s made Roy come…
Fuck, the image is so good. Roy wants that. He wants everything and he knows Tartt will give it to him. Roy can’t, though. He loves Keeley.
But this, right now – he needs this too.
He can’t help it. He lets himself stroke Tartt’s cheek, push the now-soft hair out of his face. Tartt all but rubs up into is hand, a puppy desperate for petting, and Roy lets him. He shouldn’t. There’s not supposed to be any affection here – he doesn’t like Tartt, doesn’t care about him, just wants this urge out of his system. He reminds himself of that, reminds them both of that, by yanking Tartt’s hair again, hard enough that a few strands pull loose.
“Fucking hell, arsehole,” Tartt mutters, but any further complaints die on his lips when Roy slides his hand around to cup the back of his head, to pull him forward.
Tartt doesn’t need instruction for this. He opens his mouth and lets Roy do the rest, pushing him down on his cock. Roy pushes too hard, too far, deliberately, and Tartt chokes a little. Good lad, though, he doesn’t try to pull away, just keeps his teeth out of it and lets Roy do as he pleases.
The pace Roy sets is punishing, cruel, his fingers tangled in Tartt’s hair, pushing and pulling to control him. Each shove down gets a little deeper, a little longer, and Tartt’s breath comes in quick gasps when he pulls up. He adjusts, though, opening up to it, and fuck, that feels good. Tartt starts sucking, not just taking it, tonguing at Roy’s shaft as it slides through his mouth.
“Fuck, you are a slut. How many men have you sucked off like this? Don’t pretend I’m the first, you’re too good at it for that. Do you do it in – fuck – in toilet cubicles at those fucking clubs you’re always at? Back alleys? Fuck.” The mental image is doing it for him, or at least, that combined with Tartt’s lips taut around his dick, the suction and the heat of it all. Tartt makes a desperate noise. “Is this what you were like at City? Sucking off teammates in the, the fucking dressing room in front of everyone? How you got cast on that fucking show, a producer’s cock down your throat?”
The noise Tartt makes at that is so incredible that Roy wonders if he’s stumbled onto something true. Casting couches work that way, don’t they? But then, a show like that, they’d have been begging for someone as famous and fit as Tartt, so he doubts it was needed.
Maybe it wasn’t needed. Maybe Tartt just wanted to. Because it’s clear, beyond clear, that he wants this. He wants Roy to insult him and call him a whore and treat him like it, he wants to be hurt and pushed around and fucked. He’s been panting for it since last year, even if Roy didn’t recognize it at the time, but now he does and he’s never going to not know it. And now – now Roy has to live with knowing that, and that this is a one-time thing, he absolutely can not do this again, not while he’s with Keeley.
He shoves Tartt down on his dick hard, holds him there, thrusts up. Tartt just fucking takes it, lets Roy into his throat, and then he fucking swallows. It takes all of Roy’s willpower not to come right then, into that perfect heat, but fuck, he wants something else. One of those things he would never, ever do with Keeley – she might let him but that’s all it would be, letting him, rolling her eyes and scoffing because nice girls don’t like to get that messy.
He pulls Tartt back by the hair, much further this time, tips his head back so he’s looking up at Roy. His eyes glisten with tears he hasn’t quite shed, though whether it’s pain or overwhelm Roy doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He smirks, though, puffy red lips in a smug grin because he knows what’s coming, he wants it as much as Roy does.
Roy comes on that perfect, pretty face. All over it, painting those cheekbones, spilling against his lips, up into his eyebrows and hairline. He’s a proper fucking mess when Roy is finally done and lets him go. Tartt settles back on his heels, rolls his neck a bit, and then licks the come off his lips.
“Now that is quite a fucking sight,” Roy muses. He can’t even pretend Tartt is ugly now. He’s fucking gorgeous, and right now, he also looks like he belongs fully to Roy.
Tartt stretches a bit more, arching his back opposite from the way Roy had been pulling him down, raising an arm across his chest to stretch his shoulder, but he keeps looking up at Roy from beneath those long fucking eyelashes of his. Roy just takes it all in.
Finally, Tartt says, “Well? Do I get to come now?”
“Fuck no, that wasn’t part of the deal. You’re here to do what I want, not the other way around.” The denial is automatic. It’s mean but that feels right – and judging by the way Tartt’s face goes pink under all the white gobs, it hits exactly perfect.
“What do you want, then?”
Roy wants a million things. He wants to tie Tartt up with black ropes into impossible positions that will make him cry. He wants to pour hot wax onto Tartt’s naked skin and hear him hiss with pain, then press ice to it to make him gasp. He wants to fuck Tartt so hard he can’t walk, so hard the headboard leaves permanent marks where it slams against the wall. He wants to use a belt, or a cane, or a whip. He wants to hear Tartt scream, really scream, in agony, and then to come untouched when Roy tells him he takes pain perfectly. He wants—
He wants everything, every filthy thought he’s ever had, every nasty, cruel idea he’s never dared do with a partner. Not even the kinky ones. He wants it all and he’s certain Tartt does, too. Tartt will do anything he wants.
But Roy can’t. He loves Keeley.
He lets out an annoyed growl and offers a choice. “Alright, then, you want to get off, you can get out and do it at home. You’ll probably spend the rest of your life jerking off about this, won’t you? About what a good, filthy little whore you were for Roy Kent for one night.”
Judging by the moan, he’s not wrong.
“Or,” he continues, and Tartt’s eyes go wide. “Or you can get cleaned up and spend the night here, but you’re not fucking touching yourself, you’re not going to come.”
He knows which would be easier. If Tartt stands up and laughs at him, gets dressed and wipes his face off on his shirt or something, and leaves. He probably wouldn’t even get all the way home before pulling over somewhere to wank. He got exactly what he wanted from all this, after all. Then when they see each other at the clubhouse they’ll pretend it didn’t happen. Roy will coach him, Tartt will score goals, and they’ll never speak of it again. It could be so fucking easy, if Tartt takes that option.
But Roy knows he won’t, and sure enough, Tartt gasps, like it’s a shock. He was sure enough of himself to show up here, offer Roy anything and everything, but apparently he didn’t think he’d have a chance to stay.
“Yeah, alright then, where’s your bathroom? If I promise not to wank, can I take a shower?”
“Yeah. Get your clothes, I’ll show you the way.” He tucks his dick away as Tartt snatches up his things, not bothering to put any of them on. Roy peels himself off the couch, trying not to let the jarring pain in his knee show, grabs his phone from the coffee table, and leads the way upstairs. He pushes Tartt through his bedroom and into the ensuite, waits to hear the water come on, and then sits on his bed and checks his phone.
There’s a message from Keeley – we’re celebrating the win, rebecca says good job!! xx see you tomorrow?? xx
He sends back, Lets meet somewhere for lunch. If they’re meeting out somewhere, then there’s less chance of her surprising him by showing up with coffee before he kicks Tartt out. He moves to plug his phone in and puts it screen down again and looks at the bed. The bed he shares with Keeley when she sleeps over, where he’s lucky enough to have sex with her, to get to worship her beautiful body and show how much he loves her. She’s an incredible woman, who took care of him when he didn’t know what to do with himself, who’s beautiful and clever and supportive. He’d be a fool to let anything ruin that relationship.
The water shuts off. In a few seconds, Jamie Tartt will walk back into the bedroom in nothing but a towel, because he’d rather spend the night in Roy’s bed than have the best orgasm of his life. Plus, just because Tartt’s not going to get off doesn’t mean Roy can’t come again. After all, tonight he’s been offered anything he wants, and for this one night, well, what Keeley doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Tartt opens the door.
Roy smiles.