Page 36 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

“We can talk if you want to?” I say it like a question.

I’d seen the online news coverage of the match, and Daisy and Lando had shown me what people were saying on social media.

Though I still reckon doing a public statement about our friendship would help flip some of their opinions and give those bastards some other story to sell their papers with, it’s not my call to make.

Hell, if our relationship wasn’t as temporary as it is, I’d be willing to go public with it.

Tell the world how into him I am. If I’ve forgiven him, so can they.

If Owen Bosley himself is sucking Mathias Jones’s dick, the least everyone else can do is not fucking boo him.

But Mathias obviously has other ideas than talking. He’s shirtless already and his hands cradle my face as he walks backwards through the cottage. He’s getting pretty good at remembering when to duck. “I don’t want to chat. I just want you to fuck the feelings out of me.”

“That can be arranged,” I respond.

He’s gentle with me as we climb the stairs, peppering my jaw with the lightest of kisses, his fingers soft as they whisper over the fabric of my shirt, teasing the buttons open. But there’s an edge to his movements, a bite, like he’s holding himself back. A wildcat ready to pounce on its prey.

The second we cross the threshold to the bedroom, Mathias slams me into the wall and hunches over me, burying his nose into the crook of my neck.

My shirt hangs open and Mathias drags his face down my bare chest, sucking in the scent of me like a diver coming to the surface.

He groans, and grinds his hips into mine.

Recently, I’ve been trying very, very hard not to fall in love with Mathias Jones.

He’ll be leaving in the summer and that’s that.

Playing for the Bengals again, or somewhere closer to his family and his life before Mudford-upon-Hooke.

Somewhere they don’t heckle him for playing the game he was born to play.

I’ve been trying, and in fairness, I’m actually doing pretty great.

Compare this to the Owen of twenty years ago and I’m doing fucking fantastic. I haven’t proposed to him yet. Haven’t declared my eternal love for him. Haven’t imagined us moving in together.

That would be kind of fun, though. Waking up with him every morning. Going to his games on the weekend. Buying our groceries together. Slow Sunday sex, or quickies before work, and . . .

Ah shit. Guess I need to cross that one off now. Fucking damn it.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t do it, Your Honour, you can’t make me.

But then he goes and says things like . . .

“Alexa, play sexy music.”

“Okay, playing music from your playlist Songs to Get Railed To,” a feminine, computerised voice says.

And it’s difficult—intensely, inordinately, achingly difficult—not to whisper those words inside my thoughts.

Don’t think them, Owen Patrick Bosley. Don’t you fucking dare.

Instead, I focus on the way his hot breath ripples over my skin, on the borderline painful way his fingers dig into the mounds of flesh over my hips, the desperate whimper he makes when he rolls his pelvis and the pressure catches exactly right on the head of his cock.

Actually, damn it, that might make it worse. The only thing I can think to do is to be rough with him. Treat it like a one-night deal. Like it’s the apocalypse and we’re both trying to get in one last fuck before the end of the world.

I push him off me, flip our positions so it’s him against the wall and my hips doing the pinning. I crush my mouth to his and shuck my shirt. One-handedly, I unbuckle my belt, undo my jeans.

The music filling the room is slow, bassy, dirty, raw. I don’t recognise the song, but in the back of my mind I know Mathias has curated this playlist from his collection of paid-for songs. Nope, nuh-uh, not letting that thought permeate. But damn, it’s cute, though.

Mathias reaches down into my boxers, and I step backwards. I can’t have him touch me before I fuck him. If my dick gets too much attention beforehand, I won’t last. I need to fuck him properly. Can’t risk it turning into lovemaking.

I cup my hand around his jaw and shove his head to the side.

Partly to give me better access to his neck as I drag my tongue and teeth down it, over his collarbone, and work my way down his smooth bare chest. And partly because I cannot have him looking at me any longer. Not with that damn perfect face of his.

He’s not wearing boxers. I crumple to my knees and tug his sweatpants down only to find myself eye level with his cock. It’s fucking beautiful. Thick and long and fully erect. Attention seeking at its finest. Mathias wraps his fingers around it and pumps himself slowly.

“At some point, before you go home to Wales,” I say, the words barely escaping through panted breaths. “We need to recreate this. I need to be down here in this position. On my knees. Watching . . . you can finish on my face.”

Mathias directs his groan to the ceiling. He arches his back, runs his other hand up his body, and pinches his nipple. “Oh god, that would be so fucking hot.” He breathes through the moment, then looks at me, raises an eyebrow. It’s a look at that says, “We could do it now if you want?”

I shake my head, rub my hands up his thighs, and drag my thumb over his hole. He’s wearing a plug. “Next time. I’m not wasting all this prep.”

Again, I’m mentally telling myself it doesn’t mean anything. He’d have spent this much effort getting ready for any guy. It’s no big deal. It’s just Mathias, he’s a perfectionist, and he cares more than he should about what other people think. He’s not doing it especially for me.

I press against the base of the plug and his eyes roll closed.

“Right, Wild Card, on the bed.” I can’t handle much more. I need to be inside him.

Together we stumble to the bed, kicking off what’s left of our clothing. I have a lot more on than him, including my shoes and socks, but they’re off in no time and abandoned wherever they land. I don’t even spare them a second glance.

Mathias kisses me and climbs backwards onto the mattress. His kiss is still ferocious, urgent, desperate. It’s not a lovemaking kiss, it’s a “fuck me until I forget things” kiss. He lies back, pulling me with him.

“Don’t be gentle,” he huffs.

“I won’t. I promise.”

I can’t afford to be.

He reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a condom. “Front or behind?”

I’m going to regret this. It’s the stupidest, most costly mistake in the history of shockingly bad mistakes, but I still find myself saying, “Front. I need to watch you break. ”

I need to see the soul leave his body and gradually float back into him. I need to know that for those few seconds when the little death claims him, his soul belongs to me.

He settles onto his back, legs apart, and I need a moment to take stock of everything I’m seeing. I’m not dreaming. Mathias Jones is naked on my—his bed, legs open, waiting for me to fill him.

Everything about him is unapologetically perfect.

He’s like a caricature of the perfect man.

His abdominal muscles climb up in precise, mesmeric rows, his hair falls neatly over his forehead in a way that suggests it could easily be corrupted, his silver cross gleams against his smooth olive skin, and his cock lies fat and hard against his stomach.

Mathias doesn’t reach for it, or in any way attempt to steal friction.

He simply leans back on his elbows and stares at me.

I want to kiss him before I get locked into a torrent of sheer selfishness and forget how, so I lean over, lick across his mouth, demand entry.

For a moment in time, our cocks slide together.

His precum rubs onto my belly, and vice versa.

Just as quickly, I’m on my knees between his legs again.

I roll the condom on, throw the wrapper wherever, and grab the bottle of lube, which is .

. . frankly ridiculous. Laughably humongous.

Two litres with a pump at the top. It’s the same size as an original bottle of Coke before the sugar tax ruined everything. I stifle my laugh.

“What? It makes financial sense to bulk-buy items that have a long shelf life,” he says, completely earnestly, and honestly, it’s shit like this that makes it so hard not to tumble head over heels for him.

“That’s the filthiest thing anyone has ever said to me in the bedroom,” I say.

It takes him a few seconds to locate the sarcasm in my comment. He rolls his eyes and laughs. “I have travel-sized bottles for on-the-go fun times.”

I’m gonna need him to stop saying things like that—stop speaking in general—or I’m done for.

I lube up and run my fingers over Mathias’s ass, grab the base of the plug and ease it out. He’s pre-lubed for me. It dribbles out onto the bedspread, and I’ve never seen anything more inviting in my life .

Like every other part of him, Mathias’s hole is perfect. It’s hairless, wet, and looks tight as fuck. I’m not going to be winning any stamina contests in there. I sink my finger in and we both moan. Mathias bucks onto my finger, fucking it.

“You are going to be the end of me,” I say. He’s so warm. I add another finger and work him open a little more.

I can’t wait any longer. I need him, need his wet heat wrapped around my cock. I line the head up to his entrance.

“Fuck me, Owen Bosley,” he says before I can ask if he’s ready.

So I do. I drive in, only an inch or two, and pause for a few seconds to catch myself before sliding all the way in. I don’t ease in, don’t do it bit by bit, don’t give him—and me—any time to brace ourselves. But I do hold it there, at the hilt.

Mathias’s mouth opens in an O, though no sound comes out.

“Oh my god. Yep. Yeah, that’s the good stuff,” I say.

He snort-laughs. “No. No more words. I need you to shut up and fuck me, Owen Bosley.”

And I mean, I try. I try to fuck him, but he feels so damn good, looks so fucking incredible, that when I speed up it’s too much. His eyes sweep my body, as though he’s trying to look at everything all at once.

I’m pistoning.

I slow my pace.

I flip flop between the two because one feels too incredible and the other is too close to lovemaking.

“You’re doing so great,” I tell him, as he brings his knees up higher, squeezing me tighter.

He preens. I’d forgotten how much he loves praise.

We’re both riding that edge, and I need to eke this out, squeeze every last millisecond from it.

I lower my body to be as close to him as possible, to eliminate any gaps between us.

Our mouths don’t quite line up, but I want to kiss him, so instead, I push my face into his neck.

My hands are in his hair, holding it, but not pulling .

Mathias’s grunts morph into protracted whines, and he starts dropping my name in there. “Owen. Fuck, Owen. Oh my god, Owen.”

He’s usually quiet when we fuck, and I’m not reading anything into this sudden outburst. Nope, it doesn’t mean anything.

We’re not making love, and Mathias moaning my name means nothing.

I, on the other hand, have lost all capacity for words. Any sound that falls from my mouth is neither instigated through conscious effort, nor does it make any sense. “Fu—Math —shii —oh my fucking dude. No, god. Feels so— ungh! Help me.”

I want to be the one to reach between our bodies, grab Mathias’s cock, and end this. I also want this to go on all night. I want to fuck him until the sun comes up, but I’m forty-five and my back isn’t cut out for tantric sex any more.

“Fuck your hand, Wild Card,” I demand. “I can’t—oh god—I can’t go much longer.”

“I’ll come,” he simply replies.

“Do it.” I lean up on my arms and Mathias reaches between us, wraps his fingers around himself, and starts pumping. I speed up my thrusts again, working us both closer to that edge.

I’m not breathing. I don’t care. I stare transfixed as Mathias’s hand stills. He throws his head back, eyes slamming themselves shut, and he cries out.

“Owen.” His release stripes his chest in silky white ribbons.

It’s two seconds tops before I follow him over that peak. I pillow my forehead onto his shoulder and whine through my orgasm, and then I collapse on top of him as I catch my breath.

And I realise I don’t know how I’m going to recover from this.

Eight years ago, I broke my leg, but I also broke Mathias Jones. In more ways than one.

I need to be the person who puts him back together.