Early mornings. The one gripe I have with my otherwise perfect job.

I can tolerate the rest: the dull test sessions, the monotony of pounding around a rain-sodden track on yet another dismal afternoon with only your lonely thoughts for something resembling company. I can even handle the damn journalists, with their notepads and dictaphones thrust towards me, hounding me from the moment I leave my hotel room to the minute I escape their clutches to crawl into bed. Knowing full well I could say absolutely anything yet they’ll twist my words into something more punchy. Unwilling to separate the facts from the concocted profile of me they replicate in their little tabloids or glossy magazines.

Want to sell a few more thousand issues? Hey, why not invent a story about that fucking playboy, Irvine. He won’t mind, it’ll keep him in the papers. That’s all he wants, isn’t it. Fame and money, that’s what it boils down to.

Forget success, reaping the rewards of a season’s gruelling slog of sweat, pain and ultimate dedication, forsaking a normal life for one constantly living out of a suitcase, for sacrificing the right to switch off after five, put your feet up and not have to worry about work until nine the next day.

I don’t give a shit, right?

But for another couple of hours in bed, it would be no problem and I could shrug off this feeling of melancholy no problem. I guess I’m always irritable at this unsociable hour. It’s not the only reason though … and the one thing I don’t want to do is have to traipse to the motorhome for breakfast with my team mate to discuss the imminent qualifying this morning. Acting as though this is the most normal and natural thing in the world.

I wonder how you are feeling; your first real test after that incident robbed you of your almost certain title. Are you nervous, a bit apprehensive? Fuck, although I wouldn’t admit it, I probably would be. A part of me hopes you are, that little sadistic, frustrated voice inside my head wants you to feel just a little anxious. Not just wants, but needs to see it. Needs to see it for the sake of my sanity.

But I doubt it.

Nothing fazes you. Not even I faze you.

I don‘t think you know how frustrating that is.

But I guess every cloud has a silver lining – well, for me anyway. And I’m wondering what you want to discuss, what you want to say now that it’s your turn to help me.

And it doesn’t seem to bother you in the slightest, the fact that I’m *this* close to fulfilling your dream, no matter how much I want you to feel something, anything. Just not this damn accepting compliance you seem to emanate.

Or maybe it does. Maybe it’s eating away at you from the inside like a tumour but your pride won’t allow it to surface, to show a bit of humility and deference to me.

Hmm, who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, I wonder?

My shoulders drop visibly in exasperation when I see you already have company. Great, another few minutes I could have spent in bed rather than meeting you early only to be forgotten about. Happily sitting chatting away with you little brother, doting over him sickeningly as usual. So engrossed in idle chit-chat that you don’t even notice me standing awkwardly by your table until a light cough from my direction breaks your intimate conversation.

Yeah, okay, I’m jealous. You can’t even begin to know how jealous I am. Of him, of anyone and everyone who can command your complete attention as that bastard can. So, it’s stupid. He’s your brother and fuck knows I know you adore him. I tell myself that he’s not a rival to me for your affections, that’s not it in the slightest. It’s just … it’s just … it’s just that you’ve devoted more attention to him in these last few minutes than you’ve ever given me in the whole of the past fucking four years I’ve spent with you. For every second I’ve tried to capture your gaze with a smile, a hook to lure you into natural conversation, you’ve given me hours of unrestrained ignorance.

“Not interrupting, am I?” I try to make my remark as casual as possible. Yeah, play it laid back, like you couldn’t care less if he’d forgotten your plans.

But that’s just it; I don’t care. Not any more. Years of admiration, of dotage, of unrequited desire, and where did it get me? Nowhere except the hell I’ve created for myself. And I can safely say I’ve given up. Given up entertaining the thought that you might unexpectedly turn around one day and tell me that you want me, need me with the same ferocity I’ve felt for you all these torturous years.

I’ve lived in my fantasy world for too bloody long now, and what better time to forget you than now, being unceremoniously booted out of your beloved team, probably with a little push from you. To make sure I fall off the edge.

So much for loyalty.

“No, you’re not,” you smile briefly back at me and motion me to sit, which I obediently so. Ah, too much conditioning, too used to taking orders from you that I automatically obey, despite the fact that I’m thinking fuck it, I’ll go somewhere else.

And it’s at times like this, I can’t believe you mean to be so ignorant of my feelings, of my blatant attempts to win you over. Just one warm smile, as if you’ve never noticed, never realised you’ve been hurting me so viciously.

I slouch back against the cold plastic of the chair, feeling the glare of the early morning sun on my back as I feign relative disinterest in you both. Hiding behind darkened lenses so I avoid you reading my eyes as you usually do with ease.

“Look, I’ll be going, see you later,” your brother lifts himself up from his seat and nods towards you before muttering something in German that I fail to understand but intrigues me. It wouldn’t surprise me if I’m the reason for his sudden departure. I haven’t exactly enamoured myself to my fellow competitors. I guess most have just got to the stage where my presence is both unwanted and unwelcome.

There’s that paranoia again.

“Hey,” I speak before I realise. The young man stops disentangling himself from the chair and looks over to me, surprised that I’ve actually acknowledged his presence maybe?

I firmly gesture him back down to the table with a nod of my head, and with a quizzical look to you he retakes his seat when you give him a neutral shrug. I internally smile as I observe his brilliantly blue eyes narrow a touch, waiting for that sarcastic comment or that casually-delivered put-down he’s expecting from me. Instead I give him a cursory glance over as he makes a huge show of sitting down, sighing, his posture almost mimicking my own in a derogatory fashion.

“What?”

Icy, does it surprise me? Yet, I can’t think when I’ve insulted him directly. Have I? Although in my growing frustration at you, at your painful indifference towards my advances, I know I’ve said things about you to the media that I never meant to go further. Things I said out of sheer desperation, things that hurt you, hurt me, and him probably. I guess he feels some sort of familial hostility towards me. And I know I’m not exactly his favourite person. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me. Normally, I don’t give a fuck but strangely it seems to cut me up in a way it never has before.

I shrug again, “You haven’t finished your breakfast yet.” I gesture to the unfinished plate in front of him, “And don’t feel you have to leave because of me.”

A glance back to you tells me you seem to be watching this exchange with more than a passing interest. I think you were waiting for that same snap back at him - do my relative pleasantries surprise you? Well, it must be the first time if they do.

“Yeah, we have plenty of time to discuss things, don’t we.” You finally break into the conversation, addressing me directly. And then we fall into that awkward silence. I don’t know why I asked him to stay; that moody petulance is more than irritating as he sits across from me.

But maybe that’s because I see him as a pale imitation of you, the man I’ve lusted after for all these bloody fruitless years, and that overwhelming knowledge eats away at me, bit by bit, feeding my resentment and frustration, poisoning my psyche and turning me into something even I’m beginning to dislike. Just his resemblance to you makes me resent him because looking at him all I can think of is the callous treatment you’ve given me, of your rejection. Punishing him for something he hasn’t even done to me.

I guess he’s here because, although I say I’m over you, that I’ve outgrown my obsessive infatuation, I still don’t feel comfortable alone with you in case you say something, or do something, to open up my old wounds and drag my scarred and banished feelings back into the raw unfriendly light. An unwelcomed presence until now, since I’ve needed the comfort of an unaware outsider to keep that space between us intact.

You both begin to cautiously talk again, not ignoring me but letting me exclude myself, and I almost drift off, leaning back on my chair and paying little attention to your conversation.

Until, that is, I’m accosted by a strange sensation. I lift my eyes back up to your level as you ask me a pointless question. You realise I’m not paying attention and you patiently repeat it. But I only give a faint reply, a non-committal murmur as I try to work out if I had really seen what I think I’ve just glimpsed.

Burning intensity suddenly alive in alluring eyes for a split second.

An invitation to take a reckless chance?

A dare?

And then it’s gone before I can even register its appearance.

You don’t seem to notice and it was so fleeting and unexpected that I can hardly justify my conviction, and the only explanation I can allow myself to believe is that I imagined it.

I almost convince myself until I’m aware of it again, this time more clearly, playing on every inch of my body like fingertips gently caressing my skin. Eyes radiating, narrowing slightly, then a barely noticeable shrug.

It takes me a few moments to slowly unravel the meaning of this elaborate yet carefully concealed ploy – every movement, every look, every sign telling me the same fantastic thing over and over again.

Christ, the little bastard’s trying it on with me.

A concealed smile meant only for me curves seductively on his lips when he recognises the realisation dawning across my features. What the fuck? He’s got audacity, right under your nose. I have to admire his guts, and seduction technique come to think of it.

Removing my sunglasses, I give him a half smile back, not wanting to betray my stance on his obvious suggestion immediately. Well, not wanting, more like not knowing what I think. What the hell can I say to it? The idle talk continues and I still can’t help thinking how much I’ve wanted you, how completely head over heels I was for you. I guess a part of me still is. A part of me will always wish things had been different, that I’d had the courage to speak out, reach out to you regardless of the consequence.

If, on that plane trip those seasons ago, I’d had the guts to kiss you rather than sink back in self-consciousness and lie my way out with a simple, “I’m okay, just tired.”

But now an overwhelming part of me has closed you off, and it’s this part which keeps drawing my eyes uncontrollably across the table to the young man sitting opposite me, his overalls wrapped tantalising around his waist. So easy to slip down over those muscular thighs.

Hell, what’s suddenly changed?

I swallow hard, growing conscious of my wandering thoughts turned so suddenly to this little fucking Lolita in front of me. And I think despite your perfections in my mind’s eye, despite the past where I’ve been so utterly crazy for you that it’s blinded me to the possibility of finding someone who will actually reciprocate my desire, he’s just as perfect in his own right. With the added bonus of him currently toying with every one of my senses, leaving me in no doubt as to his intentions.

Do I suddenly want him just because he wants me or is it something else?

At this moment in time, do I care?

The tension drives me insane as I fight to repress the sudden demanding desire to wipe that smirk from his lips with a definite claiming kiss, and I realise the urge to have him is growing with every passing second. The fact that you’re sitting so close purely heightens this welcome arousal as we seem to play a game of cat and mouse. An occasional smile, the casual meeting of our eyes moving on to lingering looks. The way we sit and move betraying nothing to outside observes but carefully designed to elicit an expanding and ruthless desire; my cool composure nothing compared with my body burning white hot at the thought of pounding him into screams of ecstatic submission.

Christ, if anyone had suggested the thought before now, I would have laughed at them, or scowled, being too caught up in mourning over the death of opportunity now that I knew I was no longer welcome in your team. The chance to spend my nights with you well and truly buried. That you were willing to discard me so quickly, telling me the awful truth I’ve known for so long; the truth that I’ve been frightened to admit because I know it will bring my world crashing down, shattering my highly-strung emotions with a single breath.

But now the idea doesn’t seem that outrageous.

His crystal blue eyes, darkened in an absorbing lust, echo the thoughts in my head - that your presence is frustrating his desires, and I feel myself carried away by that frighteningly lulling gaze pleading with me to invent an excuse, to say anything to bring us the privacy he’s asking for and that I’m more than willing to obtain.

I grit my teeth and take a deep calming breath before I speak, exhaling the pent-up tensions from my aching muscles in a relieving breath. I say anything, the first thing that comes to mind, giving you a believable excuse to leave us. You sound surprised so I feign an urgent uncertainty you seems to believe. Anyway, Ross will probably have something to say, it’s not as though it’s a complete fabrication. But you believe it, even though I’m sure I catch a glimpse of something flash in your eyes, detecting my lame excuse for what it is, seeing through my charade like I always thought you could see through my soul.

“I’ll see you later then,” you smile at me again as you stands up and I can’t help but follow the rise of his body as you lift off the chair. My eyes quickly trace upwards to meet yours briefly, accompanied by a flood of thirsty arousal, my body alive with powerful sensations. And the butterflies in my stomach which always accompany that smile of yours.

I can almost feel the glare on my body from across the table like a swift blow to the chest as I watch you turn and leave.

“Yeah, later,” I murmur, just loud enough for you to hear as I follow your footfalls with my ears, listening to you painfully walk away from me yet again. 

And when I turn to look at him, I can’t help but laugh at the image I’m presented with, his features suddenly darkened with overt jealousy as he bites his lower lip, continuing to stare me out. If he thinks he’s making me uncomfortable, he’s wrong. I’ve been in his position for four fucking years. If he thinks this is hard then just wait until he has to go through the agony I’ve endured at the hands of the brother he’s so suddenly jealous of.

“It hasn’t happened already,” I idly comment, watching the change of his expression from burning jealousy to mild humour, “so, it’s not likely to happen now.” My off-hand comment seems to placate him and that alluring smile once again finds its way on to his lips.

“But you want him?” he asks, trying to sound indifferent, but I can hear the moan of disappointment in his voice.

“Wanted,” I correct him, but he still doesn’t sound convinced, simply shakes his head almost despondently.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” he laughs hollowly, “Are you trying to tell me that you’re seriously not interested now?”

I don’t think he expects an answer, I think he’s already made up his mind. And so I don’t give him one. Why should I? What the hell would it achieve? I don’t tell him that, despite my better judgement, you still have the ability to make every inch of my body crave just one brief touch from you. But it’s never going to happen, I know that. How can I possibly love someone who won’t even acknowledge my screams for recognition?

And am I really going to make the same foolish mistake twice. Holding back, the fear of rejection, of pain those years ago has caused more indescribable hurt against me than a simple no from you could have ever done because at least I would have known where I stood. Instead, I built up this fucking dream scenario in my head, let you work your way into my head, my waking thoughts and my sleeping dreams, unable to think about anything else, unable to want anything else. Destroying me from the inside as easily as you just smiled at me then and slipped away.

Am I getting a second chance? Those blue orbs watch my movements, intrigued, he can’t read my eyes the way you can. Can’t pre-empt my thoughts, my reactions, my moods. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking or what I’m feeling. He can only go on what I let him see, only see what I want him to.

And the knowledge of that frees me like you can’t possibly begin to understand.

“I guess I’m always going to wonder …,” my voice trails off into whispers, staring off into the distance, my gaze following the direction in which you walked just those few minutes previously, “But, there are some things you’re just not meant to have.” My head snaps back around to face his questioning expression, “And others you know you’d be stupid to pass up when they’re there for the taking.”

If he is taken aback by my bluntness he disguises it well, replying only with the sort of indifferent shrug that sends ripples of lust coursing through me. He shifts in his seat before looking me straight in the eye as if to say well, what are you waiting for?

What am I waiting for?

“So …?” he begins, a sly grin forms on those god damn kissable lips.

“So…?” I echo. A single word, a single word full of more meaning than anything I’ve ever said to you in all these years I’ve yearned for you.

I could drown in all the words I’ve versed to you, drown in the pleas and suffocate in the begs while you just watch me. And now, now I can’t think of anything else to say to you.

But now I don’t need to say anything at all as I pull my chair to bring myself beside him. He’s so temptingly close, I could so easily reach out to him, part those pursed lips with a kiss to shock his senses into brilliant life. God, what I could do to him, show him, teach him. And he would be mine, not yours any more, and he would want that more than anything else he’s ever had.

And I could love him like you would never let me love you.

Out of view, I let my hand come to rest on his knee, feeling the rough material of his overalls between his heated skin and myself.

“Look at me.”

My hoarse command elicits an immediate response as his eyes lock to mine, almost quizzically. He’s trying to predict my actions, wondering what I’m going to do, how far I’m going to go right here in the open. Not a worried look, no fear of discovery, not even a cursory glance around to see if anyone is watching. Just mild curiosity. And I can only grin wickedly at the low murmur falling from his lips, replaced by a slightly louder hiss as my caress works its way up his thigh to make contact with the growing bulge in the crotch of his overalls.

“God, Eddie, don’t tease me like this,” he whimpers as I caress the hardening body underneath my palm with more force, but still he can’t tear his eyes away from our trance-like gaze, not hypnotised but afraid to break it, scared that if he does the sensations currently invading his body will be snatched away from him. Enough is enough and I pull my wandering hand away, only to feel him grab instinctively at my wrist with the sudden loss of contact. The sensation of his body writhing underneath the now heavily applied pressure as he firmly keeps a grip on me, motioning my hand faster and harder against him, stirs my own arousal further. An intoxicating desire to taste those slightly parted lips not quite fulfilled as he leans over to me; his warm quickening breath causing my skin to flush as our lips brush gently. So tantalisingly close it physically hurts.

He shudders beneath my touch and I make a snap decision.

“C’mon,” I pull him off his chair with a  tug on his wrist until he’s on his feet, standing inches from me. Christ, he looks beautiful, his skin flushed with the heat of arousal, oceanically deep eyes begging for the caress that will take him over the edge and fulfil an awakened need.

And for the first time I glance around to see if anyone has seen our little exchange. But surprisingly, we’re alone moreorless, the rest of the world utterly oblivious as I pull him closer, enjoying the heavy rise and fall of his chest again mine, the husky moan in my ear as he rests against my shoulder. “Where?”

I laugh softly, “Anywhere but here.”

Offering no resistance, he lets me lead him inside the motorhome. The door slams shut behind us and, trusting my senses that we’re alone, I press him against the now closed door. I know what he wants before he even has to speak it and, god, the urge to fuck him right now is overwhelmingly acute. But not yet. Not because there are better places to choose from. And not the slight guilt at seducing him like this before he can actually think about and realise what he’s doing rather than letting the overpowering sensations I’ve stirred direct his actions. Christ, I’m fully aware this is his first time, his arousal is mixed with an apprehension I can almost taste, acting like a drug for both of us. None of those things, but the simple fact that the beautiful creature trembling underneath my own hard body is not likely to last two minutes if I give in, like every single fibre of my being screams for me to do regardless of the pain I’d cause.

But to take an innocent, to be its first …

When I break a fleeting kiss, nothing more than a gentle brush of his lips with mine, I feel him try to pull me back, trying to recapture my lips and body crushed against his for the reassurance they can give him. My chest tightens in held-back desire, wanting to take that first kiss, to let my tongue explore the warm cavern of his mouth, to taste the lips from which these incoherent pleas fall. Later, later when his body’s satiated I’ll give in but first …

“Please,” he moans, breathless and uncontrollably, to be replaced by a groan of anticipation as his overalls fall from his waist around his ankles and my hands gently ease down the restrictive cloth covering his erection. With my head nestled against his abdomen, I swear I can feel the addictive vibration of his groans travelling from deep in his throat through me with the feathering touch of my fingers on his throbbing organ.

And, god, knowing that I can do this to him, that I can make him experience exactly what he’s caught up in now, make him moan, scream, tighten his fingers around strands of my hair as his pleasure borders on unbearable pain and his body can’t support his own weight. That I can not only see his arousal, but sense it, feel it coursing through me like my own, driving me to capture his erection with my lips, letting my mouth work him as he begs me, declarations of a love he can’t possibly yet know slipping from his lips as I take him to the very brink. Feeling his climax as acutely as I would feel my own.

And for a second, I know it. Fear. Not my own, but his. A split-second of all-encompassing panic at what he’s feeling, at letting himself go, at giving himself up completely to me. Of being utterly vulnerable and at the mercy of anything and anyone.

Christ, it’s … unreal.

But it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the rush of orgasm as I send him over the edge, his cries strangled into breathless whimpers when he comes, filling my throat with warm salty liquid. I automatically swallow, releasing him from my mouth, and for a few moments I stay there, my head resting softly against his abdomen and I listen and feel his fight for breath and an equally losing battle against his senses.

Rasping and hard, his breath eventually slows and becomes less laboured and even the shivers coursing through him tail away. Yet, still his eyes are closed as he leans against the door, is if he were praying to himself. God, this has hit him harder than I expected.

Standing up carefully, I lift his head to meet mine. Those beautiful eyes flicker open to me with a bewildered expression.

“Fuck –” is all he can manage as if the past minutes are utterly incomprehensible for him.

“You okay?” I ask, my fingers absent-mindedly combing back his tousled hair.

He nods unconvincingly, “Yeah, it’s just … Christ, I .. it’s just, god, a bit much to take in. You …” his head falls back against the door again with a wordless exclamation, “Christ, if you only knew how long I’ve …”

I don’t let him finish, I don’t have to. I know what he’s getting at, know all too well the overwhelming release of excruciating tension you get when you finally get what you’ve been dreaming for, what you’ve longed for for longer than you dare to admit to yourself … well, at least I know the tension.

His lips taste every bit as sweet as I imagined and I allow him to pull me closer, to deepen the kiss, the initial urgency replaced by a lingering desire just to have each other, to be locked in this embrace. And I’m increasingly aware of my own throbbing arousal as I press against him, absorbing him with every one of my senses.

I break away, reluctantly letting go of those soft lips, “We probably ought to get out of here,” I smile but instead his arms wrap around my waist, crushing me against his body.

“Let me.”

Words of reason dry up in my throat when a hand slips down inside my overalls and grips my cock. The sensation of cool air against my heated and suddenly exposed skin causes me to shiver but I hardly notice. The whispered words in my ear as he jerks me off seem to echo throughout the motorhome, fuelling my arousal to dangerously high levels. Words I can scarcely imagining slipping from those seemingly innocent lips taking me deeper into a fastly approaching orgasm I can’t prolong. Oh, my own dirty little angel.

My arms support me against the door when he slips to his knees and my eyes close with a throaty gasp as his tongue replaces his hand as my tormentor, his hot mouth taking me further into this intoxicating climax. I don’t know what I say, what I scream, whose name leaves my lips when I at last feel the explosion of my orgasm hit me full force. But the smile on his face when he reaches up again and kisses my lips, the taste of my body on him the very real evidence of our union, I guess it must have been his.

We dress without a word. Not out of some regret or sudden realisation, but because we don’t have to say anything. No excuses, no denial, no repercussions or reprisals.

And before I push open the door which will take us back into the very real and sobering world, we kiss, softer this time as I hold him tight against me.

“Find me later, when you can.”

His eyes visibly light up a mixture of adoration and relief shining through, almost dazzling me.

And he leaves me. Leaves me alone at the steps of the motorhome to think.

I lied back there. When I told myself I couldn’t remember what I said. When I said I didn’t know what I was thinking through the flood of orgasm as he repaid me for ruthlessly taking him. Those thoughts at the brink, I’ll never forget them, staying with me like some waking dream.

They weren’t of you.

~The End