si yo soy tu bro

Florence is the only reason he's here, training far later than he has ever willingly stayed at the Ciutat Esportiva.

Tonight, it´s Friday—their night.

The same night he's occupied on her schedule for the last few months, and he'll be damned if it's cancelled on behalf of some random dickhead. He doesn't bother to learn his name, but she just had to stop back by her office for 'a few minutes' that's now lasted nearly an hour because McFuckface decided to show up.

Florence was dressed for him, not the grimy wanker currently leaning over her shoulder, hovering close enough to make Héctor's hand ball into a fist. He asked her to wear something he hadn't seen before, and she didn´t disappoint. The dress makes her ass look fantastic, and the thin straps give him visions of sliding them down the slope of her shoulders with his teeth.

His attention isn't the only one she's managed to grab. And that won't do.

Before he gets ahead of himself and does something rash—like hex the leering bastard so hard he forgets what year it is—Héctor schools his features into the very definition of calm and approaches them.

“Pardon the interruption.”

They both look up. Florence's wearing that squint that's only for him.

She's annoyed.

Good.

So is he.

“Will this take much longer?” He's trying to be polite but even Héctor hears the edge in his voice. “We have a prior engagement.”

“And we have business to tend to before the boss´ audit next week.”

“Is that what you call looking down Florence's blouse and asking stupid questions even an intern could answer for an hour?”

“Héctor!” Florence may glare at him but she tugs at the neckline of her shirt regardless. Good.

“I wasn't—”

“Save it.” Pulling at the cuff of his shirt to keep himself from walking over and knocking his teeth off, he looks right at Florence. “Ready?”

If McFucker's face were any redder, he might mistake the idiot for a tomato. “We're not—”

Héctor clenches his jaw when Florence puts a hand on the twat´s arm.

“It's fine. We'll finish up the report before Monday. I'll email you my findings over the weekend."

The smile on McWanker´s face spreads like slime, slow and slick, as his eyes skim down to her chest, dipping well past the threshold for indecency.

“I look forward to hearing from you, Flo.”

His voice drops lower when he says her name. It sounds far more intimate than it should.

Héctor sees red.

The door to her office hasn't even shut when he grabs her wrist and hauls her into the storage closet. Héctor sure as fuck isn't going to go near any place that cocksucker touched.

“Bellerin!"

Pushing her against the nearest wall, he hauls her skirt up over her hips and presses himself against the length of her back. Florence turns her head, laying her cheek against the wall, and her hair falls over one shoulder.

He can't help but nip at her ear and tug at the lobe until she gasps.

“Do you want anyone else to touch you, Florence?”

Each breath she takes sounds like want, like lust, like need. It's music to his ears but not the song he wants her to sing.

Right now, he wants to hear her scream.

“Answer me.”

“N-no.” She squirms against the wall, rubbing her ass against the placket of his trousers.

He presses harder. Another nip. This time it's her neck his teeth latch onto, and it earns Héctor a louder groan. Better but not quite what he needs to hear from her. Still, he's grinding against her, wanting more but not yet, soothing the sting of his bite with his tongue.

Only to do it again.

Harder.

“Do you want to touch anyone else?”

The next noise he forces from Florence is just what he likes to hear, accompanied by her knees knocking together before he nudges them apart.

More of a nuisance than a decoration, he decides her dress must go. Now.

Héctor can hear her future complaint so he doesn't tear it off, no matter how badly he wants to. He wants to make her squirm, so he relishes each of her little huffs of breath as his fingers slide under the fabric.

“I asked you a question, Florence.”

He pulls the dress off completely before tossing it to the side. She's bare beneath, save for the lacy matching set and thigh-high stockings, and he feels his fists ball at the knowledge that McAsshole had a view of something that is for his eyes only.

“Do you want to touch anyone else?”

“No.”

“Louder.”

“No!”

“Say. It.”

“I don't want to—"

She gasps when he brings the flat of his palm down on her ass—hard.

Hard enough for her to jolt.

Héctor does it again.

Florence presses her forehead against the wall; her low moan sounds like some confluence of pain and pleasure. It blurs his vision, shreds his self-control, and when she arches back against him, he can't be fucked to wait a second longer.

Héctor has never been able to muster more than an ounce of patience in his entire life; he vanishes both his clothes and her matching set, then widens his stance and rocks his hips forward. His cock slides against her ass, and his teeth return to her earlobe.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Her breathy little whimper makes his cock twitch. “I – I don't want anyone else to touch me."

Fisting a hand in her curls, he pulls her head back against his shoulder. “And?”

“I don't want to touch anyone else.” It comes out in a single breath. “Please, please, I just—”

“I know.” He licks a line up the length of her neck. “You've been so good. Let me give you exactly what you need.”

And he does.

No matter how many times they've done this, Héctor can never get enough. Florence's cunt is hot and tight. It squeezes him like it's carved to fit the exact shape of his cock.

Her palms are flat against the wall and his hands wind around her front to squeeze the supple curves of her breasts.  

“Tell me how it feels when I fuck you like this.” He uses his grip as leverage, thrusting deep into her from behind. “Tell me how it feels to have your cunt stuffed so full of my cock you're gagging for air.”

Her answer sounds less like a word than some primal noise. It's obscene and all he can do is fuck her harder, faster—until her moan dies out and all he hears is her ragged breathing. Everything blurs into the sinful rhythm of their frantic fucking as it echoes in the small closet.

Héctor's not ready to come, but fuck if his body agrees.

“Who's going to make you scream, Florence?”

She whines.

He tries to slow down, tries to hold her hips and still her, but Florence is relentless, rocking back against his cock, demanding his release with every movement.

“Tell me who is going to make you come?”

Whatever control he has left is obliterated when she moans his fucking name.

Florence presses back and angles her hips, drawing him deeper, sinking to the hilt before moving in sharp circles. She's killing him and she fucking knows it, given the way she glances over her shoulder before pressing her cheek against the wall.

“Tell me you're mine.”

Curling his hands around her hips hard enough to bruise, he thrusts once, twice, and sinks his teeth into her neck the third time as he feels her cunt flutter around his cock.

“I - I´m yours.”

He can't stop himself from coming.

꒰ 🍒 ꒱  

Héctor doesn't like waking up alone when he knows damn well he didn't go to sleep like that.

His irritation spikes again when he spots Florence on his couch with a stack of papers and a pencil between her lips. She's dressed, and the only reason he doesn't complain further is because she's in one of his old Arsenal jerseys.  

No matter how enticing the sight of her in his clothes is, it isn't enough for Héctor to change his mind as he (not) accidentally spills the contents of her tea all over the papers she had on the coffee table.

Florence is on her feet within a second; her hair is wild and her eyes are murderous. “What the fuck was that, Bellerin?"

He smiles.

“The only thing on your agenda today is me. Let McDumbass figure out his own part of the group project. Something tells me you've done more than your fair share already."

“You're a menace. I needed—”

“Don't worry your pretty little head, Florence. I made duplicates last night while you were searching for the panties I had saved in my pocket.”

“That's what happened to them?" Florence's fists curl at her side. "Really, Bellerin?”

“As far as I'm concerned, you won't need them for the rest of the weekend. ”

“Oh?”

“I know you only penciled me in for Friday, but I've taken the liberty of blocking off your time until Monday morning.”

“Is that so? Florence bites her lip and looks up at him. “And how do you know I don't have a date or something?”

Héctor reminds himself that he isn't possessive, but the lie twists tight in his chest. “Because you're mine.”

When she smiles into his kiss, he doesn't need confirmation to know it's true.

“Have a go at what?” Mae asks, needily threading her fingers into his hair after he sits up. When he rubs her clit more firmly with the pad of his thumb, she lets out a shivery hum, “Me first today?”

“Yeah, you first,” Neymar says, nosing his way along her collarbone until his mouth is against her throat. “Wanna eat you out, yeah?”

Unexpectedly, Mae goes tense. It’s a different sort of tense than the arousal that keeps her body wound tight, more stiff than pliant. She asks, “You want to?”

Confused, Neymar pulls back to look at her face. She seems a bit caught out. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“It’s not really that,” Mae says, slumping a bit. She looks down between them to avoid his eyes and idly traces the head of his cock. It feels very nice, but not quite nice enough to distract him.

“Seriously, we don’t have to if you don’t like it,” he tells her, despite the hollow feeling that grows in his chest at the mere thought. Finally getting a quasi-girlfriend who’s with him nearly all the time but doesn’t like being eaten out. Figures.

Sounding oddly sullen, Mae says, “I wouldn’t know if I like it.”

Neymar’ confusion blooms fully then, and he raises an eyebrow at her even though she’s still staring directly at his cock and not his face. “How would— it seems a bit simple, love, does it feel good or bad?”

“I’ve never felt it,” she says with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. Her cheeks are a blotchy pink when she finally makes eye contact with him, obviously embarrassed.

Still confused, Neymar repeats, “You’ve… never felt it. No one’s ever gone down on you.”

“Nope,” she says, tugging at his cock pointedly like maybe it’ll encourage him to move on.

Following a long second of silence, Neymar says, high-pitched and incredulous “Really?”

“Stop it,” Mae whines, gently punching him in the side before letting go of his cock to bend down and bury her face in his shoulder. “Don’t make fun, you’re being rude.”

“I’m not making fun; I just don’t believe you!” Neymar says, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her face. “You’re not having me on, really?” It wouldn’t make any sense at all as a joke, but that’s precisely why he’s suspicious. Mae’s jokes, especially those that require planning, tend to fall flat.

“You are making fun,” Mae mumbles, a pout in her voice. Still, she cuddles up closer to him until his cock nudges between her legs; she’s not embarrassed enough to keep herself from rubbing against it, huffing out a breath against his neck.

Neymar does have to fight against the distraction this time, closing his eyes and sliding his hands around to grip her ass. “Come on, how is that even possible? Nobody’s ever wanted to eat you out before?” he asks, too curious to let it go, mind sifting through all the people he knows that Mae’s shagged.

“I dunno,” she says, still a bit whiny, cheek against his shoulder. “I like doing it, going down on people, like. It’s the first thing I go for, right, you know I can come like that, just doing it for somebody else. By the time I realized nobody’d done it to me, it felt weird to ask.”

Even hearing the explanation doesn’t really help. Neymar sighs and tips his head back, thinking with a little frown. “You told me you’ve been tied up before, like, someone literally tied your hands together— and didn’t lick you out. I don’t get it,” he decides, shaking his head. “That makes no fucking sense. You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious, bloody hell,” Mae grumbles, laughing at the end of it and letting some of the tension out. “Not all of us are this preoccupied with oral sex, you know.”

“Can we remember the bit where you just said you can come from sucking somebody off? And I’ve seen it with me own eyes?” Neymar says, kissing her chin and then her lips, mouths fitting together sideways from the angle.

“Don’t recall that conversation,” she smiles, sitting up to get a better kiss, aligning their mouths properly.

Soon, it feels safe to bring it up again, after Mae’s gone loose in his lap, mouth opening for his tongue. He kisses her just long enough that she starts trying to rub herself off against his cock again, breaking away then to suck in a breath. “How about it?” he asks. “Wanna find out how it feels?”

“Suppose m’alright with you being my first,” Mae murmurs back to him with a little smirk, sweetened by the honesty he can hear in it.

Exaggerating his confidence for show, Neymar leans back against the pillows, glancing up at her. “You’re in for a treat, then,” he says, “haven’t got a complaint yet.”

Gamely, Mae plays along, running her hand up his chest. “Not one?”

“Not one,” he confirms with a shrug.

“Oh, you must be very good,” she simpers, slowly climbing off his lap to stretch out on her back beside him. She keeps eye contact while she rolls her knickers down her thighs, kicking them off the foot of the bed. “Think I’m ready for you to blow my mind.”

“Hey, watch it,” Neymar grumbles, displeased with the level of sarcasm in her tone. Mae just grins at him, wide and a little shy, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth when Neymar shifts up onto his knees.

“‘Blow’ my mind works better when you’ve got a dick, doesn’t it?” she asks, parting her legs for him when he places a gentle hand on her thigh.

“Eating your mind doesn’t sound as appealing,” he agrees. He can tell she’s nervous from the way she tugs at the skin of her knuckles with her teeth, biting mindlessly, so he’s careful when he settles on his belly between her legs, not too close all at once. “Just tell me f’you don’t like it, alright?”

“There’s no way I won’t like it, to hear you tell it,” Mae says, reaching down to pet his hair back off his forehead. “I’m just waiting for you to impress me.”

“You’re a pain,” Neymar says, unable to keep the fond edge out of his voice. He loosely circles his fingers around her wrist and holds it against the mattress, pleased when he watches her dimple disappear, her smile melting into a quiet sigh. It’s only in the split second before Neymar leans in closer to her that he realizes he’s never been someone’s first for this, either. Everyone he’s licked out has had it done to them by someone else, already knowing what they were getting into; it’s a gentle sort of thrill, the idea that he’ll get to show Mae something he loves for the first time.

Though she’s needy, Mae’s not terribly impatient. She keeps herself still when Neymar takes his time spreading her open with his thumbs to get a look. He can see how wet she is, likely from long before this conversation even began, but she only clenches her muscles and huffs out a little breath when Neymar rubs one thumb teasingly close to her clit. After a moment, he murmurs to her, “Gonna lick you now, darling,” and waits for her quiet yeah before leaning in to do just that, letting the first stroke of his tongue fall gently so she can catalogue the feeling.

Mae’s initial reaction is a surprised gasp despite the warning, followed by her closing her thighs around his head. Neymar can’t stop a little laugh from coming out, even while he’s nearly dizzy from the satisfaction of finally getting to taste her. “Gotta keep these open, need some room down here,” he teases, curling his hands around her thighs to pull them apart again.

“Sorry,” Mae breathes, already too distracted for banter, the way she gets when she’s headed towards overwhelmed.

“Keep ‘em open,” Neymar repeats, sliding his hands back down to keep her spread for his tongue. The second lick is much more thorough - Neymar uses the flat of his tongue to lick from her opening all the way to her clit, looking up to catch her reaction. Mae moans out this time, eyes closed, and head tilted back. She clenches the duvet in one of her fists but obediently keeps her legs open, wide enough to earn some praise, “Good girl,” mumbled right against her clit.

“Ney,” she whines, reaching out blindly to get a grip on his hair, twisting the longest bits of his fringe between her fingers. If Neymar had any remaining doubt around whether she was telling the truth about never being eaten out, her physical reactions would eliminate it. The first light suck he gives her clit sends her hips bucking up hard enough that he pulls back, afraid of scraping her with his teeth.

“Alright, love, relax,” Neymar mumbles, ducking back in to give her clit a soft kiss instead. He slides one hand up to rest low on her belly, stroking her skin with his thumb while she pants, leaving only one hand to hold her open for his tongue. Two fingers work fine, enough to frame her clit right in between them; he doesn’t need to keep her spread, but he likes the access it gives him, a smooth line to lick between her two most sensitive spots. Neymar aims the next lick much lower, right where she’s wettest, humming softly against her when he hears her whimper and feels the tug at his fringe.

Really, he already knew what she’d taste like - he’s sucked his fingers clean after fucking her with them just to watch her flush - but it’s always better like this. There’s nothing stopping him from licking inside her, nothing obscuring her taste. He decides to stay there as long as she’ll allow it, bottom lip pressed snug against her skin while he sucks her to make sure everything she leaks will make it into his mouth.

He expects Mae to pull him back to her clit eventually, but after a long moment only punctuated by her soft, moaned breaths, she lets go of the duvet to rub her clit herself. Her fingers bump against his nose but she doesn’t seem to care, panting out, “Please don’t stop.”

Neymar doesn’t even stop long enough to promise that he won’t. He tilts his head to give Mae’s fingers more room to move, gripping her thigh instead of bothering to hold her lips open any longer. Hardly half a minute goes by before he feels her start to tremble, the biggest tell that she’s getting close; Neymar dips his tongue into her as deep as he can manage, fingertips pressing into her skin. Despite the hard kick his cock gives when he feels her tighten around his tongue as she starts to come, he’s almost disappointed with how quickly it’s over, unhappy about taking his mouth away from her already. He pushes the feeling aside to listen to her helpless groan, chasing her with his tongue when she squirms enough to dislodge him.

“Oh my god,” is the first thing she says when she’s sucked in a deep enough breath to speak again. Neymar breathes out a soundless laugh and rests his forehead against her knuckles where she’s cupping her clit, licking some of the wetness off his lips. “I should’ve asked for that a long time ago.”

“Wouldn’t have felt as good if you had,” Neymar says confidently, propping himself up on his elbows far enough to get a good look at her face. She’s much more disheveled now, flushed in a gradient from her face to her breasts, red to pink. “Good things come to those who wait, etcetera. And I hardly even touched your clit, look at that.”

“I would’ve died,” Mae says seriously, eyes closed, and brows furrowed. Neymar lets his gaze drop back between her legs when she doesn’t look down at him, gently pulling her hand away from herself so he can see.

“You wouldn’t have,” he says, slightly belated. He can see how swollen her clit is now from her rubbing and her orgasm; it’s hard under his lips when he leans in and places a gentle kiss there.

Right away, her hips jerk. “Neymar,” she whispers, half a gasp.

“You came so quick,” he replies, settling back down where he was, mouth much closer to her again. Mae looks ambivalent and a little nervous when she stares down at him, mouth open in anticipation.

“It felt good,” she mumbles. It turns into a whine on the last word, good high-pitched and elongated when he kisses her clit again. “Neymar.”

Close enough that his wet lips brush against her when he speaks, Neymar admits, “Don’t wanna stop yet.”

Mae’s hips nearly twitch out of his reach, an involuntary reaction, but her fingers find their way into his hair again. She holds him more tightly this time. “It feels different like this,” she murmurs, different than the times he’s kept his fingers moving inside her until she came a second time.

“I know, babe,” he says back, reassuring. He makes sure she’s watching so she’ll know when to expect it when he licks her clit again, as gentle as he can manage; it’s soft enough that she simply shivers, letting her legs drop open wide again.

Mae doesn’t say anything else. She watches him until he curls his fingers around her hips to hold her still, tipping her head back then so that the whimper she lets out following his next lick is pointed toward the ceiling. Neymar knows she’s sensitive; it’s what he’s counting on, hearing the sweet, overwhelmed sounds she lets out when he gives her more than she’s used to. He keeps his grip on her hips tight, already expecting her to try and twist away from his mouth.

He doesn’t have to wait long to be proven right. Just like the first time, her hips jerk back when he sucks her clit but Neymar holds her firmly, nails caught in the skin at the edge of her hipbones. Mae’s quite strong - almost certainly stronger than he is - but she’s also a good listener, prone to going pliant at the right combination of gentle restraint and his voice. Neymar uses it to his advantage now, squeezing her hips and resting his cheek on her inner thigh for a moment to murmur, “Can you stay still for me, Mae?”

“Yeah,” Mae gasps, though she sounds unsure. The hand in his hair tightens to the point that he nearly winces, but he lets her keep the hold as a distraction when he tries again. This time, he fits his lips very gingerly around her clit, tongue pressed soft up against it. He sucks with as little force as he can manage, just enough to let her feel it, and makes a pleased sound when she only whimpers in response, hips stationary against the bed. Neymar wants to encourage her with his words but uses his hands to do it instead, loosening his grip to feel up her sides so that he can keep his mouth where he wants it.

After the initial writhing and jerking, Mae seems to channel her reactions into her voice instead. She keeps an almost painfully firm grip on Neymar’ hair, but she does a very good job of keeping herself still despite being twice as loud as she was the first time around. Neymar takes his time with her, gradually sucking harder and sloppier kisses over her clit until she pulls him in closer by the back of his head and holds him between her legs, groaning out wordlessly. It’s hot, feeling her slick against his chin and her clit hard in his mouth; he pours himself into it, sucking her in sharp pulses in the rhythm that she sets for him with the tiny nudges of her hips that she can’t hold back.

Neymar, perhaps naively, expects that this orgasm will take a while. It’s not like he and Mae have been doing this for ages, but he feels confident enough to say that her second orgasms are harder to achieve, usually leaving him with a cramped wrist and biceps burning with the effort of fingering her for that long. He’s surprised again by how quickly he feels her thighs shaking next to his shoulders, the bite of her nails against his scalp making him groan around her clit. Careful not to interrupt her momentum, Neymar follows Mae’s lead and sucks just as hard as he has been, eyes shut against the pressure when she closes her thighs around his head.

She comes hard and loud the second time, riding up against his face for the bulk of her orgasm; as soon as it starts to wane, she shoves him back, suddenly enough that he gasps when she isn’t in his mouth anymore. “Stop! Fuck, stop,” she whimpers, punctuating it with a laugh when she looks down and spots his surprised face. “Sorry, sorry,” she pants between breaths, collapsing back against the bed. Her legs are spread wide, trusting that he won’t touch her again just yet.

“Don’t have to be sorry,” Neymar mumbles, pushing himself up onto his knees to look her over while he wipes his chin dry. There’s a wet patch on the sheets where his cock’s been rubbing and a separate one under Mae’s bum, the slick he didn’t manage to clean up the second time. She blinks up at him and grins, bright but pleasantly exhausted, shoving a hand through her hair to push the stray pieces that are sticky with sweat away from her face.

“Fuck me,” she sighs happily, reaching out for him when he starts to crawl up her body. “Not literally,” she adds after his cock nudges her hip, giving him a suspicious look, as if he might be getting ideas. “Maybe later.”

“Not literally or maybe later?” Neymar asks, settling himself on top of her.

“I haven’t decided. I’m disoriented now,” she insists, staring blatantly at his lips instead of his eyes while she speaks to him.

“Are you gonna tell me the verdict or not?” he asks, feigning impatience. He uses his cleaner hand to pet some of her flyaway hairs back, dipping down to give her a kiss.

Mae makes a quiet noise, blinking slowly when he gets so close that she can’t see his mouth. “It was pretty fucking good,” she announces, resting her hands on his ribs. “Makes me wanna— build a time machine, maybe. Go back to when I’d never felt it before and do it all over again.”

“Can do it as many times as you like,” Neymar offers.

She kisses him this time, lifting her head off the bed to reach him. It’s closed-mouthed but lingering, somehow sensual in its simplicity. “Once more before bed,” she decides in a murmur, smiling at him again. Before Neymar can reply, Mae’s rolled him onto his back on the mattress, hands at his shoulders to hold him in place. She places a smacking kiss to the center of his chest and straddles his thighs, adding, “Wanna do you first, though.”

Julián turns over in the bathtub. The porcelain is cool against his warm cheek. He stares at the bottles lined along the edge. Shampoo. Hair conditioner. Three empty beer cans. Face-wash. A miniature red wine. Shave cream. Soap. Soda. He cradles a bottle of fernet. It’s half-empty. He can taste it on his lips. Bitter, sweet, herbaceous, and spicy. Perfect, like sticky barbecue ribs on a summer day. He remembers it:

Smell of sun lotion. Taste of beer. Her tangled hair sticking to her lip-gloss. The way she laughed at everything he said.

“Are you asleep?”

“What?” Julián jerks up. His eyelids feel heavy, like someone has taped them shut. He blinks several times. The world is still blurry. “Am I what?”

“I could hear you snore.”

“No.” Maybe. “It’s music. I’m at a party.” He holds his phone into the air, hoping to catch the beat. It echoes through the house. Dun-dun-dundun-duh. The DJ is making the floor vibrate. Even the bathtub quivers. It makes him feel sick. He suppresses the need to vomit. “Hear that?”

“I can hear you groaning.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Not in a sexy way, Julián. Like you’re dying.”

“I do feel like I’m-” Dying, yes, like I’m about to choke on my own spit. The world is spinning. Maybe if I moved it would counteract it. Oops, no, that definitely made it worse. Shit, am I about to be sick? I can’t be sick. Not on the phone to Sierra. She’ll block my number. She’ll block my number if I tell her how bad I feel. I can’t say I’m dying. But I’ve already started talking. I do feel like I’m what? Like I’m what? Flying. Dying sounds like flying. Genius. “-flying.” No, now I definitely sound drunk.

“Flying?”

“Never mind.” Julián lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling. It´s white, just like the ceiling back at the flat they used to share. He remembers it:

Sierra washing his back, shampooing his hair. Him shaving her legs, Sierra giggling because he missed a spot. Whispers of: you’re the one that I want. Whispers of:

“I miss you.”

The silence is loud. Julián swallows. It’s like his words echo in the bathroom: I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you. But it’s just Blink 182 playing below. The DJ has gone rogue. Tom Delonge’s voice serenade his miserable existence:

Where are you? And I’m so sorry. I cannot sleep-

“Wow,” she sounds amused, “some soundtrack you’ve got going there.”

“Ha. Yeah.” Pause. “Did I actually-”

“Say that you miss me? Sure did.”

Fuck. “Right.” Fuckhead. “Cool.” Twat. Dick. Idiot. Julián has another gulp of the fernet. It settles in his chin like a coating of oil. Or maybe the showerhead is dripping. His whole body feels like liquid, like he can’t fully control it, just like he can’t fully control the question: “Do you miss me too?” Fuck. Fuckhead. Twat. Dick. Idiot.

“Julián-”

“Sorry. Don’t answer.”

“You know-”

“Unless it’s affirmative in which case: definitely answer.”

Pause. “Julián, you know that we-”

Sque-e-eak. Footsteps. Giggling and kissing. The door clicks shut. Someone says:

“I want to fuck you in over the sink.” Shuffling of fabrics. A moan, and then -

Julián battles himself up to peer over the edge of the tub. A young couple - girl partially undressed, man’s hand under her skirt - peers back at him. She screams, and he apologizes, and Julián says:

“Sorry, this one is taken,” as they’re already halfway out of the bathroom. The door slams shut.

Sierra asks: “What was that?”

“Someone walked in on me.”

“Where are you?”

“In a bathroom.”

“You’re calling me from the toilet?”

“No, bathtub, actually.”

Pause. “Why are you calling me, Julián?”

There are too many reasons. They swirl around Julián’s head, merge into one, then separate again. Hundreds of reasons. Thousands of reasons. Because I just wanted to hear your voice? Too soppy. Because I wanted to apologize? Too serious. Because I saw your recent Instagram photo and it made me really horny and I remembered when we used to - Too much - full stop.

Or maybe it’s because:

He misses the way they would dance, uncoordinated feet and all. Julian´s not a great dancer, and Sierra making fun of him because you´re Argentine, Juli, how don´t you know how to dance cumbia? Feet hurting, but not any more than their bellies hurt from laughing too much. Drunk kisses, hot touches, Sierra looking at him like he was the sun.  

He misses the way they would travel, in the car, no map and no sense of direction. They would eat breakfast in Manchester and dinner in Plymouth. They would set up camp on the beach and find their sleeping bags soaked by the tide in the morning. They counted the days by the sunrises - and they never missed one. Her eyes would glow so bright and full of optimism. He wonders if they still glimmer.

He misses the way they would love, sometimes roughly and sometimes slowly. Always together - always in tune. Her body was warm and wet and welcoming. He could worship her curves every day and never have enough. He feasted on her sex, on her breasts, on her lips, on her moans and on her pleasure. They glowed in the afterlight. So full of satisfaction, and so full of love.

He misses the way they would -  

“Julián.”

Julián goes quiet. He realizes he’s been speaking. There are pictures on his phone. From Buenos Aires, and from Manchester. And from his private album, of them, snuggled up in bed, duvet under their chins, cheeky grins on their faces. They’ve just made love, no doubt about it. But why did I have to say it out loud?

Julián swallows. He puts the phone back to his ear. He goes to take a swig of the bottle. It’s empty. He’s sticky with liquor. “Sierra,” he croaks. He wants to say more. Repeat everything that’s on his mind in eloquent, poetic ways. But it all comes down to the same: He misses the way they would dance, sing, travel, kiss, love, be.

He misses her.

I miss her.

“I miss you.”

Pause. “I miss you too.”

Julián sits upright. He’s too quick - the world spins and spins around him. He grabs a hold of the edge of the tub. Shampoo bottles and beer cans scatter across the floor. The DJ is playing Bad Bunny, Coco. The lyrics seem to penetrate his brain:

No puedo escuchar cancione' dе romance (I can't listen to love songs) Me cansé que dе pensar en ti no me canse (I'm tired of not getting tired of thinking of you) El último pétalo me dijo que aún hay chance (The last petal told me that there's still a chance) No sé si e'verdad, pero si va' a volver, avance (I don't know if it's true, but if you’re coming back, come forward)

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“Wow.” Julián stares at the wall tiles. They have not been done well. Some are askew. Two of them have been placed the wrong way, disturbing the pattern. He can’t seem to look away from them. “Wow,” he mutters again, “Sierra, I never-”

“-knew? Why would you. We never talk. Unless you’re drunk.”

“I’m not-” Julián takes a deep breath. He can taste his breakfast. He slowly settles back down into the bathtub. The ceiling looms above. A fly is crawling across it, quivering in the flickering orange light from the lamp. “Maybe I am a bit drunk.”

“Oh!” Sierra laughs. “Oh, you admitted it.”

“A bit,” Julián empathizes. He’ll have a banging headache in the morning. He will feel crippled for days. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Her voice soothes him.

“I’m also a bit drunk.”

Julián barks a laugh. “You are?”

“I guess we’ll both regret this in the morning.”

No, Julián thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He lets the silence wash in over them for a bit. Drip-drip-drip. The showerhead is leaking. He blinks water out of his eyes. He croaks: “Why did we split?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t. The arguments? It doesn’t matter really, does it?”

“We’re just too… dissimilar.”

“No, we’re similar. We are very similar.”

“Sometimes that’s worse.”

“Sometimes that’s better.”

Sigh. “See? We are arguing again.”

“No, Sierra, we are communicating.”

“When did you become such a therapist?”

“After my second shot of tequila.”

She laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. It seems to echo through the room. As if it travels with the music downstairs. It’s slow now. Slow, and romantic. He remembers:

“Do you remember when we went to Anto and Leo´s wedding? They were playing that song. Ah, what’s it called… listen-” he waves the phone, tries to catch the music, “hear that? It’s- Adele, that’s her name, yeah, Adele. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do, to make you feel my love. They were playing that, do you remember? And they were dancing. And we sneaked outside, and we were going to fu- make love behind the barn, but then you saw that falling star, and we ended up just sitting in the field making wishes.” Pause. “Do you remember?”

There’s a long wait. For a moment, Julián thinks she’s hung up. When she speaks: “I remember,” her voice sounds wet.

“Do you know what I wished for?” Julián asks.

There’s an even longer wait. “What?”

“You.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“Why?”

“We were already together then.”

“Aye, and I wanted to keep it that way.”

She laughs. “Well, that didn’t work out.”

“No,” Julián admits, “it didn’t.” It’s kind of funny, he supposes, it’s kind of not funny. He wants to laugh and be casual about it, but if he tries to smile, he’ll start sobbing, and if he starts sobbing, he’ll start crying, and if he starts crying, then she’ll definitely hang up on me. He buries his face in his arm. The darkness soothes him. He could sleep - forever, and forever, and tomorrow will be a new sunrise. But it won’t be with her.

Sierra asks: “Do you know what I wished for?”

He mutters: “What?”

“For you to fuck me.”

He laughs, and it makes him sob. Just fucking typical - very sexy of me. “You wished for me to fuck you?” He can’t believe it.

“You were just so fascinated with the stars. Like, you wouldn’t look away from them, and so we just sat there as you talked about the constellations and some Greek guy-”

“Ptolemy,” Julián remembers.

“-and all I wanted was to get bent over the haystack.” She pauses. “See, dissimilar.”

“Dissimilar,” Julián admits.

“All those cheap dates in Manchester, when I just wanted you to let me pay for cinema tickets. But you were too proud. And all those car-rides, oh God, Julián, the car rides. I just wanted to jump on a train so we could both enjoy the journey and not constantly get stuck in traffic.”

“Huh. I remember it rather differently.”

“Of course you do.” Sigh. “That’s what I like about you, you know? You always remember the fun.”

“It doesn’t sound like you had fun.”

“I did.” Pause. “But it would’ve been nice to do things my way sometimes, you know?”

“I know,” Julián realizes. I know. Fuck. Fuckhead. Twat. Dick. Idiot. Of course I know.

“Could we try that?”

“Try what?”

“Doing things my way.”

It sounds like a proposition. His heart leaps in his chest. “You mean-”

Sque-e-eak. Footsteps. The door opens and shuts. Julián battles himself up to peer over the edge of the tub. He stares at Sierra - wet cheeks, small smile on her lips, mobile pressed to her ear - and she stares at him as she says:

“I mean: no more calling me when you’re drunk.”

Pause. “Roger that.” Julián hangs up. He slowly puts his mobile away in the pocket of his trousers. He’s still peering at her, apprehensive. His body is liquid. Or maybe just his eyes. They seem to drip-drip-drip like the showerhead. “What are you…?”

“What are you doing,” she returns the question. She kneels next to the tub, picks up the miniature wine, shakes it in her hand. “Empty.” She pulls the bottle of fernet out of the tub. “Empty.”

“It’s mostly in my chin.”

“Charming.” She rests against the tub, her cheek squeezed, perfectly round and peachy in her hand. She looks at him, an expression of exhaustion and content. “What am I doing here?” she asks the question for him. “Didn’t think I’d miss the world cup celebration, did you?”

“World cup…” Pieces start coming together. His mind wanders of, what DJ at a party would play Blink 182? “Some shitty DJ they hired”.

Sierra laughs. There it is again: the perfect sound. It soothes his aching head.

Julián manages to reach over and grab her hand between his own. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?”

Pause. “Everything.”

Sierra nods. “Me too. I’m also sorry. About everything.” She looks at his hand. She looks at him. And her eyes send him back to the sunrises: glimmering violet, full of warmth and optimism. A new day. A new chance.  

A new kiss.  

It is gentle, almost a peck, but it is there. On his lips. He tastes of fernet. She tastes of wine. The air is thick with perfume and aftershave and memories. When she climbs into the tub, she fits perfectly into the crook of his arm. As if they were always there, together, resting in a bathtub, watching the white ceiling, listening to the DJ announce:

“Everybody hit the dance floor!”  

Aquella feroz sesión de testosterona en que las hormonas formaron parte del bello arte del beso al cuello, le puso el sello que aquella noche, después del coche, todo iba a ser fenomenal

“Fucking hell - how romantic!”

Sierra laughs. She wraps her arm around him and closes her eyes. “Let’s head down in a second,” she suggests.

Julián too closes his eyes. “Yes,” he agrees, “in a second.” It seems like seconds. Seconds of memories:

- First kiss as the fireworks set off at midnight, and

- Skinny-dipping in the lake behind the house, and

- Arguing about what TV show to watch, and

- “Delete that photo, I look awful!”, and

- Long, long walks up and down the pier, and

- “I’m sorry, this isn’t working,” and

- Solo dinners in front of the TV with nothing to watch, and

- Drunk texts, drunk calls, drunk everything, and

- I wish I could do things over, and

the party has long finished by the time he wakes up, bleary-eyed, thirsty, in the need of a piss and breakfast.

But first things first, he dials a number.

Sierra stirs next to him. She’s frazzled - hair sticking out everywhere, sleep in her eyes, dress crinkled and marked with spots of wine. She picks up her phone. She mutters: “‘ello?”

“I’m sober,” Julián says.

Sierra looks up at him. “Spell: handkerchief.”

“H-A-N-D-K-E-R-C-H-I-E-F.” Pause. “Am I right?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a dictionary.”

They laugh. They laugh so much it hurts, and Julián’s head swims, and his knees ache, but he feels good. So, so good. Like he could take on the world. After a good, greasy breakfast. He smiles at her, and she smiles back at him, and when she asks:

“Do you want to try again?” and offers him her hand, he takes it and says:

“With you? Always.”

“Fuck.” She is tight. When she gags, it sends shivers down his spine. She bobs her head. She takes him deeper. She slurps and coughs around him. Spittle dampens his skin. Her makeup has started to run. Her eyeshadow is smudged, and her mascara has lumped at the edges of her lashes. When she blinks, it runs down her cheeks. She is a mess. It excites him.

Neymar reaches down, under the blanket, opens his hand for his cock. He is throbbing, and hard, and the fantasy is putting him on edge. But instead of grabbing his member, his fingers dig into Kat’ soft hair. He blinks his eyes open. He looks down and meets her gaze.

“What –”

Kat takes him in. His cock disappears between her lips until her nose is nuzzled close to his skin. He is wrapped in her wet heat. All he can do is groan with pleasure.

Neymar’s hand sinks into her locks. He twists her hair around his palm, pulls her head back, then pushes her down onto him. He starts fucking her mouth. A low gurgle echoes in the room. It is dulled beneath the thin fabric of the throw, but it still seems to ring in his ears. The sight of her makes him moan; her pleading eyes glimmering in the light from the fireworks, her cheeks growing pink, her lips stretched to accommodate the thick girth of his cock.

Kat coughs. Her eyes roll back slightly. Neymar holds her for a second longer before letting her go. When she pulls free of his cock, she gasps for air. But she doesn’t give herself much time - she goes back on him, takes him in, bobs her head as she welcomes him back into her throat. She is quick. She is determined. As both of Neymar’s hands grabs her hair, she closes her eyes with a hum of satisfaction.

The fireworks flicker. Neymar’s eyes slip back to the light show on the ceiling as he rests his head onto the pillow, his hips working on filling Kat’ little mouth. The sofa groans beneath them. His thrusts are making it rock. With her head steadied in his hold, he can take her rapidly, claim her throat, rub himself to her lips, make her cheeks dirty with precum and makeup and spit.

But he won’t last. His balls are tightening. His muscles are aching. He pushes into her one last time, ready to fill her with his cum - when she pulls back.

As Kat sits up and breathes in, Neymar groans in frustration. “I was so close,” he whispers. His words taste of rum and whisky and gin and champagne. When she kisses him, he can smell himself too - sweat, and sex.

“I’m not done,” Kat says. She is in a black minidress. When she hikes the skirt up, he sees that she’s not wearing panties. Her cunt is shaven and wet. He can smell her - her excitement lingers in her juices. “How tired are you?”

“I’m awake now.”

“Could you lick me?”

Neymar nods. Kat shuffles up across his body. She settles with her knees on either side of his head. He is trapped between her thick thighs. They are warm when she sinks down around him, her sex hovering her mouth, her labia flushed and slick. When he flickers his tongue across them, she lets go of a quiet gasp. She tastes as she looks; sweet, and stark. She lowers herself onto his lips, and Neymar welcomes her with an excited groan.

When Kat settles across his face, Neymar’s tongue immediately sinks into her. He licks her labia, pushes his lips in between her folds, kisses and sucks his way across her cunt. She is sensitive. His every move makes her moan. She leans over, grabs a hold of the armrest, and slowly starts rocking onto his touch.

Neymar is lost in Kat’ heat. Her juices fill his mouth and settle across his beard. He can feel her wetness trickle down his cheeks as she starts riding his face. His nose is trapped to her sex. In the dampness, he finds it hard to breathe. But when his fingers sink into her thighs, he doesn’t push her away - he drags her closer, urges her to fuck him harder, to use his lips as she pleases.

Kat obliges; she rubs her clit against his nose and drags her cunt down across his warm lips, using his rough tongue to slicken her movements. She is moaning. She is drenched. She is still wearing heels. Neymar can feel them dig in at the sides of his chest as she clamps her legs more tightly together. Her fingers are in his hair. Her nails graze his scalp. It hurts when she pulls at his curls. The dull pain makes his cock rock hard.

“Fuck yes,” Kat whispers as Neymar’s tongue brushes to her clit. She rolls her hips, thrusts herself further onto him, covers his head with her sex and thighs and juices. She locks him in her heat. She claims him for her own pleasure.

Neymar is growing hot. His hands at her hips start tugging at her flesh. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. A buzzing noise is filling his ears. He needs air. He doesn’t want her to move. But he needs air. He wants her to come to his lips. But he needs air.

Neymar gasps in air. Kat is hovering him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with desire. She is still holding onto his hair. She wrenches his head back, sends him a cheeky smile, and then lets go. She crawls down his body. She positions herself over his cock. As Neymar watches, she grabs a hold of his member, leads him to her sex, and sinks down onto him.

As her tight inners clench in around his throbbing member, Kat whispers: “You’re missing the celebrations.” There’s a breathless tease to her voice.

Neymar grabs a hold of her hips and gasps: “Is that what this is? A celebration?”

“What else?” Kat rocks down onto him, her lips tightening as his cock penetrates her fully. She is warm, and wet, and her muscles squeeze him as her body works to accommodate him. It is tense. It is thrilling. “You fell asleep before I could give you a midnight kiss.”

Neymar’s back arches as Kat starts riding him. Her cunt has barely gotten used to his size, but she still fucks herself with his cock, moving up and down his hard, slick length. Her hands are on his chest. She pushes him down into the sofa as she picks up her pace. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“It was eleven.”

“Where-” Neymar gasps. Kat has engulfed him fully, and she’s rocking down onto him, forcing a shrill of pleasure to go through him, “-are our guests?”

Kat smirks. She reaches up and pulls down the neckline of her dress. Her bra peeks out. It is black, and lacy. “They’re setting off fireworks,” she says. Her voice sounds parched. It’s obvious every word from her lips is a struggle. As she rides him harder, her chest starts jumping, the padding of the bra barely containing her heavy breasts. The edge of her hard, perky nipples peek out. The mere sight teases Neymar’s senses. “They’ll be back soon.”

“How soon?”

Kat pauses. “Don’t hold back,” she only says, and Neymar understands: any minute.

Neymar pushes himself up onto his elbows. Then, he rises to a sitting position, his legs stretched, Kat’ hips trapping him to the sofa. He wraps his arms around her waist. He leans up. He kisses her; softly at first, then greedily as the seconds pass by, tasting himself and her in the hot air between them, in their spit, on their tongues.

Kat moans. Her noises are barely audible over the cheering from outside. More rockets shoot off. The fireworks pop and crack as it explodes across the sky. A backdrop of bright colors light up her frame; green, like her earrings, the jewels glimmering; blue, like her eyeshadow, its color faded; red, like her tongue, darting out, flickering across his earlobe.

She bites down. She whispers: “Make me come, Ney,” and he grabs a hold of her full buttocks as he drags her down onto him, controls her movements, demands the pace.

Their skin clap. Their wetness dampens Kat’ thighs. Neymar can feel it as he slips his hand between them, down to her sex, teases her clit with his fingertips. It is small and hard beneath his touch. As he starts circling it, Kat’ breathing picks up. She buries her nose in his hair. She wraps her arms more tightly around him. She holds him, pushes into him, and drags him closer.

She comes. He can feel her orgasm against his palm and around his cock; a tight shiver, a gurgled moan, her teeth sinking into the soft skin of his shoulder as she tries to hold her cries of pleasure back. But he feels them, in the kisses on his skin and her suckling on his ear.

And he feels it in the way she gives in to him; how her body succumbs to his fucking, how she rocks and moves between his hands as she takes her with more fury, desperate for release. He is on edge. His cock throbs. When he pushes her off of him, he is ready to come.

“Please,” he breathes. The word seems stuck on his lips, but Kat knows what he craves.

She sinks between his legs. She opens her mouth to his cock. She takes him in, swallows him, and licks her own taste off his length as she engulfs him once more.

Neymar barely makes it to the back of her mouth before he comes. He rocks into her, his hands buried in her hair, his body arched and his head thrown back as he groans. He fills her. His cum slips down her throat. Trapped in his strong hold, all she can do is swallow his loads as they fill her small mouth. She coughs. She swallows. She gags. She gets it down. By the time he lets go of her head, her tongue is salty and thick with the scent of him.

Neymar is sweaty. He is heaving. He looks up at her, and she looks down at him. She smiles. He smiles back. He says: “That was better than a midnight kiss,” which makes her laugh.

“Don’t get used to it.”

There’s noises in the hallway. They can hear people coming up the stairs. Kat quickly wipes her mouth off in the back off her hand as she scoots off Neymar’s body. She tugs him away. She pulls the blanket back over him. She presses her finger to her lips and winks.

Neymar understands. He turns to face the pillows. He closes his eyes. He pretends to be asleep.

The door swings open. He can hear footsteps as people enter.

“Man,” Lio says, his voice excited, “that was some good fireworks you missed, Kat.”

“Where did you go?” Antonella asks.

“I just needed the loo.”

“Sucks to be you,” Lio exclaims. There’s a hollow sound as he shakes the different beer cans scattered across the table. They are all empty. The sound of the fridge opening in the kitchen soon follows, and his voice from far away calls: “It was awesome!”

Richarlison asks: “Where’s Neymar?”

“Asleep,” Kat replies. A moment of silence follows.

Neymar feels certain he’s being watched. He nuzzles his nose closer to the pillow, smacks his lips, and fakes a deep snore.

“He won’t be of any use tonight,” Richarlison sighs.

“How about we take this party to the kitchen,” Kat offers gently, to the annoyed groan from all of them.

“Good idea - there’s still booze out here!” Lio calls.

Richarlison relents: “Fine!” and there’s a noisy sound of steps crossing the floor. A door shuts. All sounds seem to go quiet.

Neymar remains still. He doesn’t dare to move. Soon, he doesn’t have to - he’s asleep again, his body satisfied, his lips tugged back into a smile. He barely feels as Kat returns, her frame hovering his, her lips pressing to his cheeks as she says:

“Happy New Year.”