the first sign of trouble. And if I want to keep moving forward with her, I need to allow her to set the pace, or I’ll lose her completely.
Our tongues twine together, and I feel my cock thickening in my trousers. I’m not sure it ever went down from before, but now it’s harder, angrier. Needier. If I inhale deeply enough, I can even smell the damp arousal between her legs, and knowing that gadget sits where I want to be causes my shaft to greedily press against her centre.
Christ, she tastes good. So fucking good. Her hips pump against mine, her leg wrapping around my hip as she grinds herself against me. I’m moments away from slipping my hand into her jeans and finger fucking her to climax when I hear a car horn blast in the distance.
“Fuck,” I growl, pulling back and looking around nervously. Press usually linger outside the stadium after matches, and the last thing I need is someone taking creepy photos of this moment. “We need to go.”
“Okay,” she croaks.
I glance over and notice that her lips are raw from my assault. She looks like a wet fucking dream all over again. Nipples poking out through the thin fabric of her kit. Chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Her eyes dip to my groin, and I feel it thump with need.
A playful smirk teases the edge of her lips, and just like that, I know we’re okay. That kiss was our version of makeup sex. And I’m okay with that. Tilly is beautiful and maddening and fun and surprising and that’s how I know she’s different. So as long as we keep moving forward. As long as she’s not running from me, I can be patient.
For now.
It’s Wednesday night, and I’m currently upstairs in my bedroom getting ready for a date with Santino. Normally, I try not to go out on weeknights because my eejit of a brother asks endless questions about who I’m seeing and where I’m going. He seems to notice less when I pop out during the weekends. But this week, I find myself missing Santino. The words he said to me on Saturday night about feeling like he’s losing me hurt me on a deep, dark level. It reminded me of the things my family said to me after I lost the pregnancy. My granddad, who’s normally not an overly emotional man, once said to me that I was sitting right in front of him, and he still couldn’t see me.
I hated those comments, but at that point in my life, I was focusing all my energy on my sobriety and getting my life back. I couldn’t let anyone in because I had to stay in control of myself.
However, that was five long years ago. I’m not that old Tilly anymore. I’m new Tilly, and I want Santino to feel secure in what we are to each other. I’m mad at that fucking eejit. He’s painfully perfect in so many ways but still challenges me and excites me. And the fact that he threw a wee fit at the football game because he was jealous actually turned me on in some sick way. What can I say? I like a spot of possessiveness in my man.
And that’s what Santino is. My man. My…boyfriend. I haven’t used that label with him yet because I was nervous to come out and say it. But he said he wanted more, so I want tonight to be a step forward for us. Then maybe I’ll finally be brave enough to tell my stubborn Scot of a brother that I fancy a man he hates, and he can just bloody well get over it.
I make my way downstairs to head out for the night but pause when I hear Mac’s voice coming from the kitchen. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, chills run over my entire body as I realise my brother is singing the lullaby that my granddad used to sing to us when we were wee.
I peer around the corner and spot Mac and Freya dancing in the kitchen. His arms are wrapped around her from behind, his hands splayed out on her belly as he sings softly into her ear.
The song is a Scottish lullaby called “Dream Angus”. It’s about the Celtic god of dreams who would go around passing out stories of love to everyone he met. The idea was that these wee dreams would help a bonnie bairn