by Cd Brennan
Padraig pulled her back into his embrace, to which she succumbed. He wanted badly to wipe away the conversation and start over. Luckily, Gillian did just that.
“You’re one of the best rugby players that the Blues have seen on their pitch. Yet, you care less. It breaks my heart, really.”
He rubbed his forehead in frustration. She hadn’t mentioned his meds, but it seemed like every time they spoke of the Blues, it was there, an elephant in every word. “I’ve just got a bit going on at the moment, Gill, but trust me when I say that rugby is my life.”
All the pain he suffered every day was a result of that passion. His love for rugby and nothing else. But how could he tell her about his past? Where he had been and how far he had fallen? He had learned that words didn’t work well with him. When he tried to rectify his behavior through explanation, it turned out wrong, turned against him to play out his worst fears. The media had taken all his comments, his defense, out of context until he had sounded like the biggest langer in the world. He’d learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut.
But he could show her.
He trailed kisses down the back of her ear, along her chin, then to her neck. Her small gasp of pleasure was all he needed to suck on the pulse zone in the fleshy part between her chin and neck. He dipped his right hand down to massage her clit through her shorts, using his other to squeeze her left breast, gently applying pressure against her nipple when he circled up over her fleece.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. The words carried away with the wind. He had massaged her to the point where Padraig thought she would come, then stopped. Not because he didn’t want her to, but because a young family walked by at the edge of the water. Each of them had their pants rolled up to not get wet, but still could enjoy the sensation of lapping water around their feet.
She wiggled to a sitting position, her eyes still glassy from arousal. “I think I might approach Scotch about water therapy for the team.”
Padraig groaned.
“I’m serious. All the big rugby teams in Australia do resistance training in the water a couple times a week.
“They have the weather for it.”
“We can make arrangements with the local pool on a Monday every other week instead of conditioning training.”
Even though Padraig was still unsure of her therapy methods, her passion was a turn-on. All the new-age music and yoga. All the acupuncture and salves that she applied to the boys’ ankles and shoulders that stunk to high heaven. She believed in it so strongly he couldn’t help wanting to believe in it, too. But wanting was the key word. He wasn’t ready to give up his pain meds, no matter how sexy and wonderful the woman was.
She now sat up cross-legged in the V of Padraig’s legs stretched around her. He ran his hands up the back of her sweatshirt, then circled around to grasp both breasts in his hands. He caressed them under the bulky hoodie, using slow and deliberate motions for discretion. There was something so erotic about sitting in a public place and pleasuring a woman. She hadn’t put a stop to it yet, either.
He ran his fingers over each nipple, the thick buds pronounced through her thin bra. She leaned forward into his hands, small soft grunts of ah escaped her as she dug her fingers into the sand on either side of his legs. The world had dropped away, the traffic noise and voices a distant resonance, as if they were both submerged in water. Even the lakeshore and horizon had blurred into abstract shapes and colors as his focus turned inward.
His rubbed himself against the thickness of her short’s waistband, and even though he knew they should get up and go, he couldn’t get himself to stop.
With a quick movement of body and sand flying, Gillian jerked away from his hands and turned to face him on her knees. Placing her hands on each side of his face, she laid a gentle kiss on his lips. “Irish, I need you in me right now. Let’s go.” She yanked at his hand to rise.
He was more than willing, following Gillian to her car, the squeak of sand from their bare feet loud in his ears.
As he rounded the front of her station wagon, he asked, “Are we going to yours?”
“Nope, your place is closer. I don’t think I can hang on much longer.” She hopped in as Padraig did the same. When inside, she turned in her seat and locked her lips to his, forcing them into a deep kiss, tongues and lips sucked to swelling. “That should keep us till we get there.”
“What about the boys? They’ll see you. They’ll know then.”
“Screw the lads!” she said in a mock Irish accent. And this from a woman who proclaimed such integrity for their discretion, to not cause any trouble within the team and to keep a professional distance at all times.
He laughed, then louder as she peeled out backward. “Watch out, there might be kids!”
“Oh, shit. Oh, no.” She peered into her rearview mirror. “Thank God, there wasn’t. I’m acting like a lunatic. I get this way around you.” She grabbed his hand and held on, driving the car with only her left. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He could relate, but couldn’t find the words. He understood the loss of control he had when they were together. All the energy was both liberating and frightening as hell. It had been awhile since Padraig had been caught up in such a whirlwind of emotion and need. With a female at least. Rugby had always been his first love.
His house was less than a mile away, the red glow of sunset behind them as they headed east away from the lakeshore. Before they turned off the main street onto the cul-de-sac where the house was located, Padraig suggested they park around the corner and walk in, but Gillian was having none of it.
“If they are going to know, they will. I don’t like to be sneaky.” She turned to him in the car. “And I’m not embarrassed of you or the situation. Are you?”
A little, but he squeezed her hand for reassurance. “Nope, not at all.”
Del’s car was gone when they pulled up on the curb in front of the house. That was a bit of luck. Padraig still clicked his door shut quietly behind him.
As they strolled along the lawn together to the front door, Gillian hooked her arm through his. Brave. He imagined much of her lust had rescinded like his, but she was still determined. A feisty lass his ma would be proud of. Nothing but the best for her eldest son, she had always said.
He held the door for Gillian as they entered. The telly was on in the living room, an evening newscast, and he could hear commotion coming from the kitchen, a pot set hard onto the cooker, and cupboard doors clunked shut. Must be Rory and his late-night snacking. The young man was a stick yet ate non-stop.
He put his finger to his lips and motioned up the stairs. They might just get away with it. They both laughed, acting the teenagers. And when he closed his bedroom door behind him, he became shy. She had never been in his space before. Not that there was much Padraig had added.
He did a quick skim of the floor to make sure no dirty underwear was lying about and moved to the small desk where the pill bottle sat out in the open. He had taken his workout pain relief, but had left the bottle behind when they met for dinner. A big step for Padraig. He rarely separated the pills from his person. She knew he took the meds, but he didn’t want to bring it to her attention. He muddled about as if he was stacking papers and clearing the area, discreetly opening the top drawer and swiping the container inside.
He jumped when she came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Nervous, Irish? I know it’s not your first time,” she joked, “but I’ll still be gentle with you.”
Her husky voice and sexy banter brought his focus back to the room, to her head resting between his shoulder blades. He turned in her arms and kissed her gently. “The boys will recognize your one-of-a-kind car, especially since it is sitting up on our curb in front of the house.”
She laughed and shrugged. “We’ll have to deal with any backlash together. Not that there will be much… I don’t think.” She grabbed a curl and twined it around her finger, her gaze fixed to the middle of his chest, her
teeth worrying her bottom lip.
“Right so, then let’s get it on,” he growled into her hair, pushing her back onto the bed. He ripped open a condom and placed it on the table beside his bed.
Another laugh from her notched his heart up a couple of degrees. But his giddiness and fun turned to hot fire when she grabbed his ass with both of her hands and tugged him against her crotch, his hard-on nestling between her legs. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still try to be discreet…ya know, for respect for the team and the club…”
Silencing her with a deep kiss, he’d worry about the club later. Right now, Padraig wanted only Gillian, tasting her in different places, first her brow after he had lifted off her glasses, soft pecks that returned the wanted result when Gillian shivered beneath him. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he slowly removed her hoodie, then singlet, kissing each mound of exposed breast on his way down to tugging off her shorts.
She laughed when they got stuck on her high-tops, which he discarded with a yank. “I hate these feckin’ things.” The shoes he rarely saw her without.
She laughed. “I love them.”
He rolled off to the side to look at her. In her bra and knickers, she was the sexiest specimen he’d ever laid eyes on. It was funny. Gillian wore sexy underwear under a load of weirdness, as if she was in juxtaposition with herself. She had the body of an athlete, but the clothes of a nerd.
Her nails were chewed short. Her hair was long. Her toenails were painted a bright pink, but covered up by her worn high-tops.
So she had her own skeletons. Fair enough.
He ran his hand down the soft skin from her breasts to her belly, then teased over her mound and down her right leg, the one exposed and not half tucked under Padraig’s weight. When he looked up, she was staring at him, the sedate expression in her eyes a strange mixture of passion and relief, as if she, too, had waited too long to find this.
He didn’t want to rush, only to linger and enjoy the responses her body involuntarily gave to his touch. When he pushed her panties off and cupped her pussy, her eyes glazed over. He ran his hand back up her leg, over her thighs and then hip, to settle for a moment around the side of her belly before continuing up to release the bra straps off her shoulders. When her breasts came free from the silk, he groaned at the beautiful sight in front of him.
He plunged in, as much as he wanted it slow, but her nipples had peaked and it took all his strength to pull back from sucking until they bruised. Their sex was so hot he’d never get his fill. The more he felt, the more he wanted.
He tugged at his T-shirt, which Gillian helped to get over his head, then in one motion removed his shorts and boxers. The condom on and with a subtle nibble on her lips, he slid home, his length surrounded by warmth and sweet pressure.
There was a loud knock at the door, and Del’s voice muffled through the wall. “Mate, there better not be anyone in there with you.”
For feck sake. Gillian smiled at him, and he buried his head in her shoulder. “Go away, Del, I’m busy.”
He began to slide in and out, slowly, covering Gillian’s small gasps with his mouth to hush the sound.
Pounding again. “Mate, I’m serious, no sex the day before a match. My one team rule.”
“For feck sake, Del, I’ll be out in a minute.”
Gillian laughed out loud with Padraig still deep inside her.
“I heard that, mate. I know she’s in there,” Del yelled again while thumping the door so hard, the hinges whined from the strain.
“That’s your rule, not mine!” Padraig yelled over his shoulder, but Gillian gently turned his face back to her own, shushing his anger with small soft kisses around the outline of his lips.
“We can finish this later. It’s important to Del, and Del is important to the club.”
“Feck it,” Padraig said as he withdrew. He lay still on top of her, holding her tight, trying to get his composure back together.
Del burst in the door. “I knew it! Look at your ass hanging out there, Irish. No mistaking that shit. Get your prick out of her and your ass downstairs where I can see you both.”
“I’m out!” Padraig yelled.
“Hi, Del.” Gillian cupped her hand in a small wave.
“You’re not helping any, either, Miss Sommersby.”
“I was just giving his back a massage. I get better leverage this way with him on top of me.”
Del chuckled. She had handled the situation with grace, even with her legs up and wrapped around Padraig’s backside.
“I’m goin’.” Del paused a second. “Nice legs, Gill.”
“Get outta here!” Padraig grabbed his phone off the bedside table and threw it at Del, who was already halfway out the door. It smashed into the wood and fell with a thud onto the floor.
Gillian tweaked his nipple. “You forgot to mention Del’s rule.”
Padraig rolled off to the side of her, pulling her into a cuddle. “I didn’t realize he’d enforce it. Plus, having sex before a match affects players differently. I play better.”
Chapter 15
But he didn’t. Padraig had a horrible game. Gillian cringed when he knocked-on the ball. And when he got into a pushing match with the opposing team’s center after a dirty tackle, it turned into an all-out brawl between the teams before the ref and coaches stepped in to break it up.
He kept his attention away from the sidelines. During practice, they’d catch each other’s eye, and Gillian almost could believe they were in a real relationship. Relationships she’d envied in the past, watching from a distance, never engaging in herself. Relationships where they shared secrets and mundane daily activities with the same frequency and enjoyment.
By the looks the other players threw at Padraig, they thought him at fault for the fight, which rarely happened in rugby. For as much physical contact as there was, there was still a sense of decorum and respect between players that resulted in few conflicts on the pitch. There was an understanding that because the game was one of the most strenuous of all sports, full cardio for eighty minutes and plenty of opportunity for an elbow or knee to end up in the wrong place, the offended player let things slide. For the most part.
What triggered Padraig? It must be the drugs, the oxycodone changing the lighthearted joker into a man full of rage, like Jekyll into Hyde. Her brother had been the same, but she hadn’t recognized it for what it was back then. To her, he was just being an asshole big brother, but she knew better now.
They lost the match, but all the boys were still in good spirits except Padraig with his long face, dragging his feet around. As they lined up to congratulate the other team, the Blues joked and called out to one another. While Padraig proceeded down the line, half-heartedly slapping fives to the Gazelles, Gillian decided to make an exit. She had things to do, and dealing with Padraig’s alter ego wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t invested enough for her to take on his baggage, as much as Coach wanted her to help. As much as she desired him, she had her own demons to deal with, including a classic car that wouldn’t start.
Without saying her goodbyes, she gathered her gear up quickly and made it to her wagon without being caught. She should have stayed around to help the boys with icing their muscles and made sure they took care of any injuries properly, but she was a mess. And a bit embarrassed from last night at Padraig’s house with Del catching them in the act in bed.
Never had she been so brazen. Always a bit shy when it came to her sexual exploits. But there was something Padraig did to her that had unleashed years of pent-up sexual energy. And she was mad for more. What if she became one of those sex addicts? Maybe addiction ran in her family, like a genetic inclination or something. Shit.
She was confused, and not having talked to Junette about it, her bemusement replayed constantly in her head. Have fun, then let it go vied for maybe there was something there. But with a jock? She’d hated them for years. Vowed to hate them after Andrew.
Maybe she’d just use Padraig for the great sex. And c
ompany. And conversation. And that sexy-ass accent. Sure, she’d watched her brother and his friends go through the girls with no remorse. Why couldn’t a woman do the same?
Time for grounding with her folks and a serious mechanical outlet to straighten things out. Then, she’d consider going to the game social or not.
When she arrived at their house, her dad was sitting outside in a lawn chair, drinking cans of beer with the neighbor. Her dad was still dressed in his work gear, Carhartt pants and a cotton shirt with his plumbing logo above one pocket, Sommersby Sewage & More. Gillian left her Plymouth on the curb and approached them with a wave. “How are you boys doing today?”
The older gentleman, Phil, from next door answered first. “It’s a great day to sit out and shoot the shit.”
“You here to work on the car?” her dad asked.
“Indeed, I am. I am so close to getting her running. Is Mom around today?”
“She had an early shift at the hospital. Should be around soon if you plan on staying for a bit. I think she saved some leftovers in the fridge from dinner last night if you want.”
“Aw, that’s nice of her, but I only planned on getting the ol’ girl running and then was going to head to the cabin.”
A look of disappointment crossed her dad’s face, but he said nothing.
“Did you want to go with me?”
Her father shook his head, then took a long swig of beer. “No thanks.”
As if Phil could sense the sadness that had settled over both of them, he changed the subject back to the beast sitting in the driveway. “She sure is a beauty. You did some good work there.”
“We both did.” Gillian looked pointedly at her father. “Both Andrew and I. He did way more on it than me.”
Her dad grunted. “I’ll be happy to get it out of my garage.”
Although her love for her dad was boundless, her ire spiked from his comment. With the exception of a framed family picture Gillian’s mom kept on her dresser, anything to do with Andrew had been wiped from the house. Unhealthy as all hell, but that’s the way her dad wanted it. The car was the last reminder. It would have been long gone, Gillian reckoned, if not for the tarp that had disguised it all these years. And she’d fought for it.
