Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) by Avery Cockburn Read Free Book Online Page A

his thumb under and around the bulging head.
    “Mmmm.” Fergus squirmed atop him, abs flexing and releasing. “I need you inside me, John Burns.”
    Oh aye. John started to sit up, but Fergus pressed him back down.
    “Stay. I’ll get this.” He unfastened John’s trousers and dragged them off, along with his shoes and socks, disappearing for a moment beyond the horizon of the bed.
    John propped himself up on his elbows to watch as Fergus reappeared, then moved up until his mouth was poised over the significant tent in John’s blue silk boxers.
    Fuck, they’re Rangers’ royal blue, John realized. What if he notices?
    Fergus didn’t notice. Instead he wrapped his lips around the underside of John’s shaft, through the silk of the boxers, and…just…breathed.
    That moist heat, exhaled from deep within Fergus, flowed out to fill every cell of John’s body. He could feel the hunger in that mouth as it worked its way down to the base of his cock, then over his balls, filling them with an exquisite ache. Until now, he’d never fully appreciated the sensation of silk.
    Fergus slipped John’s cock free through the slit in his boxers, then promptly stopped being coy. He took him deep in one swift gulp.
    The pleasure was so sudden and blinding, John’s cry was strangled in his throat. Fergus lifted his head, then lowered it, devouring him ruthlessly, ravenously. He did it again and again, fast enough to make John nearly beg for mercy, but slowly enough to slither his tongue around the head with each pass.
    God, he was so good, so fucking good. As John arched his hips to meet Fergus’s throat, it seemed he’d never been so hard. He knew if Fergus used his hands, or even a single finger, it would be all over. But he used only his tight, wet lips and his firm, impossibly flexible tongue.
    At last Fergus released him and looked up into John’s eyes. Mouth flushed with friction, he licked his lips and said, “Fuck me.”
    They stood to shed the rest of their clothes, their progress slowed by the fact they could not stop kissing, or stop grasping at each new inch of bared skin. John’s hands were trembling, he was so turned on.
    Fergus tapped the drawer of the antique-looking bedside table. “Everything we need’s in here.” Then he stretched out on the bed on his back, putting one leg on either side of John.
    John turned to look at him, and There It Was Again. That stupid Celtic blanket.
    His condoms had better not be green.
    Thankfully, they were the standard color. John quickly rolled one on, noting with dismay that he was significantly softer than he’d been a minute ago.
    This is not happening.
    Uncapping the bottle of lube, he made himself look at Fergus, tried to see only him. The lean, toned body without an ounce of extraneous fat or muscle. Abs defined but not artificially sculpted, arms taut but not bulging. A body built for function, not form, which only made the form that much sexier.
    And Christ, his footballer’s legs, built for speed and strength. Thighs that looked like they could go all night. Soon they’d be wrapped around John, holding him steady while he drove deep into that perfect arse.
    He slipped one hand beneath it now, lifting and spreading Fergus’s cheeks. He teased the pink, puckered hole with the lube-soaked middle finger of his other hand, making Fergus pant and squirm with anticipation. “Yes. John. Please.”
    John slid a finger inside. Fergus’s breath hitched, then released in a long, shuddering exhale. “Ahhh,” he sighed. “More.”
    John gave him more. He watched Fergus’s face contort with pleasure, felt the greedy grip of his tight, slick corridor, and imagined the moment in the very near future when he would be balls-deep inside him. They would wrestle and kiss and groan each other’s names, and when it was over, they would start again from the beginning.
    Then his thoughts rebelled with this announcement: You’re about to fuck a Catholic on a Celtic fleece.
    It