Page 30 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

I’ve added yet more Owen facts to my Owen Rolodex.

He treats everyone like family. Doesn’t matter if you’re throwing up on him, or dropping biological weapons of mass destruction in the communal toilets with little regard for what you’re interrupting, he’s there for you.

He says wazzock unironically.

He’s an awful driver. Seriously, the worst. I didn’t even know it was possible to cause a tailback in a village with only ninety-nine residents, but Owen drives so slowly he accomplished that feat during the thirty minutes back to Orlando’s mansion.

No wonder we usually take the field route on foot.

He has no gag reflex.

He has no gag reflex!

I’ve thought about this one a lot. Literally any and every second I’m alone, and also a lot of time when I’ve not been alone too.

It’ll pop into my head without any warning.

I’ll be going about my day, doing my business, and bam!

—Owen is on his knees for me, tears streaming down his face, his whines vibrating against my cock, and just like that, I’m uncomfortably hard.

The remedy comes in the form of remembering Lando’s explosive diarrhoea, and then everything’s soft again.

It’s made training and showering with the other guys and sitting through team meetings . . . interesting. Like playing boner Russian roulette.

It’s a relief at the end of the day when I can hop back in my car and head home, and because I’ve been thinking about him nonstop for the twenty-five minute drive— “I want to choke on your cock. I want to not be able to breathe” —it takes thirty seconds at most to relieve the pent-up tension.

I don’t even have time to break out my toys or lube.

I just fuck my hand like I’m a seventeen-year-old cum factory again. Raw and desperate.

He’s made me like this. Owen Bosley.

And now he sits beside me at the desk in the study as we plot the Easter pub quiz together.

I’ve had a twenty-minute-turned-three-hour power nap to prepare for my all-nighter, but Owen is fresh from landlord duties.

He’s yawning, and despite his second double-caff Nespresso, he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Right, we’ve only got history, picture, and wild-card rounds left,” Owen says, ticking the other ones off on his fingers. “We could just google some history questions and—”

“That’s cheating!” I say, and Owen laughs. “Do you do that? Is that what quiz masters do?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. We’re busy people. I’ve got an entire pub to run, and a bunch of nitwit hungover sevens to coach, and . . . two kids. Okay, one of them is at uni and I don’t really have to do much there except chat on the phone, but . . . yeah, well, two kids if you include Lando.”

“My whole life is a lie,” I whinge. Owen playfully slaps my bicep.

“I mean, we could sit here all night and come up with history questions. Or we could cheat, just a teeny little bit . . .” He holds his thumb and forefinger apart by a millimetre, demonstrating how teeny the amount of cheating is. “And then we’d have some time for me to suck your cock again.”

My elbow slips from the desktop. “Ha! Wow, um . . .” I push the hair off my forehead.

“Sure, let’s go with that option . . . the second one.

” I cup my fingers around my silver cross.

“Jesus, please forgive me for the sins of duplicity I’m about to commit on this, the weekend of your resurrection, but Owen Bosley just offered to blow me again and I’m pretty certain it’s illegal to turn that kind of offer down. ”

“Good lad,” Owen says. Then he slides off his chair and plants his knees on the hard stone floor in front of me. “Damn, I wish I’d carpeted this room now.”

“Oh my god, here?” I don’t know why I’m trying to protest.

“I’ve not stopped thinking about doing this again,” he says. “Seriously, I could have written an entire ten question quiz round on the noises you made as you came.”

“Um?”

Owen’s face turns bright pink. “I should maybe not have admitted that.”

I palm the front of my shorts. “As much as I want a repeat of Sunday night, I think you should know that this needs to be switched around. I need to be the one on my knees for you.”

His eyes roll closed. “Oh god, yes, I’d like that too.”

“But I’m not smashing my knees up on the stone floor. Coach will kill me. So we’re gonna have to take this upstairs.”

He’s on his feet in seconds. “Lead the way,” he says, as though he’s never stepped foot in this house before and has no idea where to go.

I stand, slot my fingers between his, and pull him through the rooms downstairs and up to my bedroom.

I whip my T-shirt off as Owen closes the bedroom door.

An old-fashioned thumb latch clicks closed.

Instantly I’m on him, closing the space between us, crowding him into the ancient wooden door behind.

I claim his mouth with mine, and we kiss as though we’re running out of time.

It’s frantic, and urgent, and desperate.

Our teeth clash. His beard scratches my freshly shaved skin.

Our hands wander everywhere. Gone are the tentative touches from the other night, when I’d lingered my fingers near the hem of his shirt, wondering if I’d be taking it too far by sliding them underneath, whether I’d be making a mistake.

Now my hands are under his Henley, grabbing fistfuls of his flesh as I dry hump him like a desperate animal.

We pause only to remove clothing, and to pant into each other’s mouths as we grind our hips and ride out the sensation, stealing whatever friction we can. As soon as we’ve caught even half a breath, our lips are reunited.

“On the bed,” I tell him, and Owen obeys.

I tug his boxers off and soak up every single detail of Owen Bosley’s naked body—his round hairy belly, robust chest and shoulders, hard cock.

Shit, he’s beautiful, lying on his back, staring up at me.

Cheeks all pink, hazel eyes unfocused. I’ve already decided tonight will end when I paint him with my cum.

“Do you want some music?” I ask. Music always makes it less awkward to be naked in front of someone else.

“Sure,” Owen says.

I collect my phone from the pocket of my discarded shorts and select a playlist, sending the tunes via Bluetooth to the Echo in the bedroom.

Too late, I realise Alexa is going to throw me under the bus.

Its feminine voice speaks. “Playing music from your playlist Songs to Get Railed To .”

I slap a hand over my face before I can clock Owen’s reaction. “Good fucking Lord. Why am I like this?”

“It’s adorable,” he says. I peer between my fingers at him. He’s casually stroking his cock, and raises an eyebrow. Now, I know eyebrows do not have personalities, but this one does. It’s cheeky as fuck. “Say, Wild Card? What’s in your bottom drawer? ”

I drop my hand all the way and gape at him. He does that famous Owen Bosley laugh where he throws his head back to project as much sound as possible.

“The other night, when you were pissed, you told me not to look inside it—”

“Did I?” Fuck.

“Just wondering what you were hiding.”

I purse my lips together, glance at the ceiling, and gather my strength or courage or I dunno, whatever it is I need to be honest with Owen and show him that part of myself, or make up a last-second lie.

Only, I’ve never been great at lying. Lies come out clunky and weird and I’m convinced the other person can see right through them.

“Actually, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to tell me,” he says, obviously sensing my hesitation.

“It’s fine, I guess. You already found out about my fucking playlist.” I walk over to the bottom drawer and open it. Owen sits up on the mattress and peers over. “I like gadgets,” I say in my own defence.

“Wow, I don’t . . .” He’s on his feet, creeping closer to me. “I don’t even know what half of those things are for.”

“Really?” I can’t not be touching him any more, especially since he’s so close to me and naked and hard, so I curve my hand over his hip, tug him closer still.

“From left to right you have fleshlights, cock rings, dildos, P-spot massagers, and butt plugs. I’m not into pain,” I say, as though explaining why there aren’t any restraints or paddles or anything belonging to those equipment types.

“And that pointy thing on the end right there is a heating rod .

. . to, uh . . . warm things up before I stick . . . things inside.

“They all look so . . . high tech. I guess I had an idea of what sex toys look like, but . . . yeah, it wasn’t this.” His fingers idly trace up my chest. “Which is your favourite.”

“That’s like asking me to choose my favourite kind of potato. Depends on my mood. But generally this is my go-to aid.” I kneel and pick up a compact, L-shaped prostate massager. I switch the vibrate function on and it buzzes .

“It’s . . . so small,” Owen says. I place the device in his hand. “So . . . you just put this up your bum?” That sentence should not have been as cute as it was.

“Pretty much. I have an app on my phone that can control the vibrations. You can even set it to pulsate in time with music.”

Now Owen’s laughing. “And there’s me thinking of giant wobbly rubber cocks and that’s about it.”

“Wanna try it?” I ask.

He thinks about it for a second, then shakes his head. “I’m too scared.” He laughs. “Plus I’ve got the old . . .” He flicks his eyes downwards. “But—and I can’t stress this enough—I need to watch you use it.”

“Fuck,” I whisper. “That’s hot. That’s fucking hot. Okay, here,” I swap the items in our hands—take the P-spot massager off him and hand him my phone after bringing up the correct app. “You’re in control.”

He kisses me again. Walks me backwards to the bed.

I grab the lube from my bedside table and squeeze some onto the toy. Owen sits in the middle of the bed, half propped up against the headboard, and I kneel over him, squat a little, and slip the massager inside.

It already feels incredible, and it’s not even switched on.

“Will it fall out?” he asks.