His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1) (18 page)

She came easily the first time, an appetizer. It coursed through her, and she bit down on her own wrist to quiet her response. Patrick stayed right where he was, immersed in her lust and after covering her thighs with kisses, he began again. This time he moved slowly, languidly, exploring her sex. Teasing her toward the brink, then easing away. Her orgasm was just out of reach, a billowing cloud of vapor. She could see it, a thick and fluffy cloud, but could not touch it. It was maddening.

Patrick couldn’t get enough of her flavor, her writhing, and her soft whimpers. She was desperate now, her hips rising from the bed each time he changed his point of attack.

When he could sense her frustration, had her near tears, he locked eyes with her, closed his lips around her clit, and began to suck. This was a runaway train, full throttle, and cataclysm was inevitable.

When the release finally arrived, it began as a tremble. Ellie found herself so quickly overwhelmed that she barely pulled a pillow over her face in time. She shrieked into it at a volume and pitch she knew would have had hotel security in full emergency response mode had the pillow not absorbed most of her fury.

Patrick had managed to divest himself of all his remaining clothing while administering to Ellie and like a panther he slid up her body, sinewy and smooth, his cock entering her easily, the violent clenching in the walls of her pussy thrilled to have something firm to close around as the aftershocks of her second orgasm rippled through her body.

Patrick intended to start slowly, to build up to full-force fucking, but it all felt too good. Ellie’s flushed face, her gasping, everything she did was an aphrodisiac to him.

He piled into her with abandon and the rippling finish of her second orgasm never really ceased, his searing hot cock seeking, finding, and drilling out a third, striking a rich vein of precious vaginal fluid, her orgasm soaking him, her, and the sheets in the process.

He slowed his pace, fearful that the sound of flesh slapping together, whimpers and groans might be enough to give them away. Regaining his faculties, he began to fuck her in a controlled, purposeful manner, kissing her hard on the mouth. The scent of her first two orgasms was fresh on his face, the flavor all over his lips and tongue.

The rhythm now was like a relaxing springtime drive through the country, in a convertible, with a favorite playlist pouring from the speakers. Unhurried, all senses engaged and stimulated, the journey more important than the destination. Hours seeming like minutes.

Ellie’s and Patrick’s hands caressed each other’s bodies, his muscles and her soft curves matching advances and retreats, kisses becoming whispered “Oh Gods” and “mmmms,” their bodies flowing through the dance of their sex.

Out of nowhere, and at first Ellie unsure she’d heard it, Patrick spoke the words that completed her. Mid-thrust, with the back of a hand on her cheek, the other at her hip, his eyes locked on hers.

“I love you.”

Her heart stopped. Just for a moment, as her ears transmitted and translated the sound waves to conscious thought, sent the signals to her soul, to her pelvis.

“I love you, Ellie.”

The second time he said it, it emphasized his deepest thrust, a slow, irresistible slide into her core, a rolling, grinding thrust that he struggled to send through and into her innermost sanctuary.

She tried to reply in kind to his spoken words, but her answer was swallowed up by the implosion occurring inside her vagina.

Patrick reached her A-spot, her anterior fornix, in time with saying her name at the end of the second “I love you,” and suddenly nothing mattered, nothing existed, but his cock lodged inside her as if it had been created to fit perfectly there. It was pulsing, throbbing, and every muscle from her knees to her chest was contracting, collapsing, and crushing down into, onto, and around his manhood, trying to pull it into her forever, pressure enough to turn coal to diamond, the word
orgasm
woefully insufficient to describe what she was feeling.

In turn, the power of her climax scooped out a chunk of his soul and pulled it through the end of his cock. He erupted inside her, frantically kissing her mouth to stifle their combined growlinggroaningscreamingcoming.

He thrust twice more, summoning all his strength to withdraw from the vise inside her for two quick trembling pumps.

Their kisses became slower, longer, and more passionate, as they cautiously rappelled down the side of the mountain they’d ascended hand in hand. Eventually, they lay side by side, facing each other, their kisses more playful, Ellie wrapped up in Patrick’s arms.

He turned serious, locking eyes with her once more.

“Ellie, what I said—,” he started.

She interrupted him, fearing what he might say now that sobriety had replaced their sexual stupor.

“It’s OK, Patrick, you don’t have to—”

Patrick placed a single finger to her lips to quiet her.

“I wanted to say that I meant it. That I apologize if it’s inappropriate to say it, if you weren’t ready to hear it, but it’s true. I love you, Ellie. Madly. I can’t stop thinking about you. All the time.”

A tear fell down Ellie’s right cheek as she nuzzled into Patrick’s neck, and he worried for a moment that he’d overstepped some boundary in their relationship. But when she pulled back from him, face wet with tears on both sides, he could see that she was smiling, and when she found her voice, she responded.

“I love you, too, Patrick. It seems so crazy, it all seems to have happened so fast, but I love you, too. I do. You’re so good to me. All I want is this moment, to be right here, to be held by you, to kiss you, to love you.”

They spent a good, long while like that just holding each other, smiling, his hands running through her hair, her hands on his bare chest and they briefly fell asleep like that. Ellie came to her senses long enough to regretfully opine that Patrick should probably leave lest they both fall into a catatonic post-sex slumber from which neither would awaken until her father had to pound on the door to get her up.

Patrick agreed, for the sake of propriety he’d exit quietly and return in the morning to see the Peaveys off.

Ellie was asleep before Patrick reached the lobby, humming to herself as she drifted off.

“Only one Patrick Sievert . . . there’s only one Patrick Sievert . . .”

The next morning bags were packed and farewells shared all around. Al was wearing a white Celtic polo with green team crest and Ellie wondered if her dad was joining her in transitioning to an all-green wardrobe.

Ellie and Patrick both fought back tears at curbside and kissed for the first time in front of Al, a real kiss, a meaningful kiss that would have to tide them over until she could visit again. Neither thought it appropriate to profess their love aloud in front of Al, but they each whispered it upon breaking the kiss.

The better part of a day later, Ellie was sitting on her sectional with Meg, spilling the details of her tryst with Patrick and his revelation.

Al joined Pamela, Alex, and the rest of the family the next day in Charlotte, giving breathless accounts of Scotland: the scenery, the food, the “football,” and Patrick himself. His report to Ellie’s mother made it clear that he gave Patrick two thumbs way up, that he had nothing bad to say about Amanda’s suitor.

Patrick, for his part, settled back into his routine. Football and fitness, training and matches coming in quick succession.

Ellie and Patrick spoke, chatted, texted, e-mailed, and snail-mailed their way through the next few weeks, both trying to work out a scenario in which she’d relocate to the UK.

“I know I’m the last person you’d expect to be the voice of reason. I mean I went halfway across the country chasing a guy once and dropped out of college for a different boy. I’m all about following your heart,” Meg explained. “But just think about it, Els. You’ve got this cool job—well, not ‘cool’ necessarily, but the money’s good and you get to travel, you just got promoted—and you’re thinking about giving it all up to go be part of Patrick’s harem in England?”

Ellie shot Meg an annoyed look. “For the millionth time, there’s no ‘harem.’ It’s just me. Patrick and I have a connection that goes way beyond sex. I trust him. He’s offered, I haven’t accepted, but God, I’m itching in my bones to see him again, to just be there, you know? Not visiting, or just spending a few days, but
living
there with him. Day after day. Really building something. He gets me, I get him, and it’s just so easy with him. I know you don’t get it. Most people probably wouldn’t. I’ve never been someone who takes chances, but Patrick is worth the risk. I don’t even think it’s a risk. I know he would never break my heart.”

“What’s there to get?” Meg held up her phone with a picture of Patrick standing on the beach in Trinidad, droplets of water beading on his chest from just having left the ocean. Left arm reaching over his head to scratch an itch between his shoulder blades, right hand pressing down on his left elbow, all the muscles in his chest and arms flexed at once. “Look at him! Or, on second thought, don’t look at him. I don’t think I can stand another rendition of ‘there’s only one’ without throwing up. Or another story about how great he is in bed, without strangling you. So, no, don’t look at him. I just think it would be crazy to drop your entire life here on such a lark. And besides, I can’t have my best friend living on another continent. And I’m not letting you take Maisie anywhere!” Meg reached down to the floor and picked up Ellie’s beagle, rocking her in her lap like a baby.

“I’m just saying I’m thinking about it. He’s got a place; I could find a job there, I’m sure. He can sponsor me for a visa as a guest of his; he’s already talked to the legal department at Celtic about it. It would be so weird to be away from you, from my family, but how can I not consider it?”

“If it goes to a vote, Maisie and I are two against. She’s my girl, and we’re sticking together!” Meg said, grabbing Maisie’s paw to give her a high five.

Patrick sat on the veranda adjacent to his Glasgow flat in Parkhead, Celtic Park looming a few blocks away.

He set down the Dylan Thomas book he’d been reading and picked up the stack of newspapers he’d been avoiding.

The season that had started so promisingly six weeks ago, for both Patrick and Celtic, had gone into a tailspin. Injury and suspension to teammates in the Celtic defense had forced Patrick into full-time duty, starting and playing ninety minutes in every match since the Champions League qualifier in Sweden the week before Ellie visited.

At thirty-four, he was the elder statesman among field players for the Scottish champion, and his legs didn’t always answer when he asked them for just that last little burst of speed or to jump that extra inch to win a header.

He was in a slump. There was no denying it, and the tabloids were circling like sharks.

“Celtic Lose Again.” “Hoops Defense Shaky, Is American the Right Fit?” “Celtic Park No Longer a Fortress.” The headlines were dismaying, but it was an editorial that was most troubling:

Sievert Neither Mad nor Monk

The story was accompanied by pictures of Patrick escorting Ellie into the Bothy and even one of him kissing her good-bye at the airport. He was usually cognizant of the paparazzi, but Ellie distracted him. Maybe that was it. Maybe Ellie had become a distraction; maybe she was the cause of his poor form, he thought.

He skimmed the article, the author arguing that Patrick had allowed himself to be distracted by a woman, likening her effect on Patrick to that of Samson’s hair being shorn:

Celtic centre-back Patrick Sievert, renowned at Chelsea for his intensity, bordering on lunacy, and relentless commitment, has shown none of the same qualities since putting on the green shirt at Parkhead.

The fearlessness Celtic we were expecting to see on the pitch has instead shown up only in back alleys, as Sievert played Batman back in June, rescuing victims—now thought to number among them his American love interest—from a pair of muggers.

Patrick wadded up the paper in his fist and tossed it in the direction of the small wastebasket in the corner before stomping back inside.

“Fuck me. I hope Ellie doesn’t catch wind of this rubbish,” Patrick muttered to himself.

It was bad enough he was playing poorly, the team was leaking goals, but now his personal life was being called into question.

Ellie and Meg, both clad in Celtic jerseys, arrived at the Green Terrier just before kickoff of the Celtic vs. Dundee United match. It was only 7:00 a.m. Atlanta time, but the pub was already bustling. After the Celtic match, several games from England would be shown, and people were jostling for the best tables and spots at the bar.

Ellie knew Celtic had been struggling, but Dundee was at the bottom of the standings, and the match was being played in Glasgow. As the camera panned the starters for both teams, Meg swooned, “Ohhhhh, Paaaatrick.” Both hands on her heart, when he appeared on screen.

Ellie stuck out her tongue at Meg, settling in to watch the game as Meg settled in to scan the room for a Patrick of her own. Accents ranging from Glaswegian to a drawl that could only be from Alabama to London cockney filled the room as suburban Atlanta’s soccer enthusiasts got ready to drink, sing, and drink some more.

Patrick looked sharp early, snuffing out the Dundee attack wherever it germinated. He’d redoubled his efforts in training, and he seemed to have rediscovered the Mad in his game.

By halftime, the game was scoreless, Celtic dominating possession but unable to score. Meg was well on her way to being completely hammered, despite the clock not having hit 8:00 a.m. yet. She somehow wound up on the lap of a strapping blond guy from Edinburgh who claimed to be in a graduate degree program at Georgia Tech, and she seemed quite pleased by the arrangement.

Just before halftime, Ellie felt a tap on the shoulder and turned to face a grizzled-looking man waving a newspaper in her face.

“This is you, isn’t it? Eh? You’re the one getting under the Monk’s kilt, eh? Ruin the whole fucking season, why don’t you?”