Part 132: A Champion Hangover
The morning was hot, and even without the premature sunshine beating in through the large bedroom windows, the exothermic horror of a hangover was burning at his skin and the rustling bedding around them. At least, he thought, the room wasn't really spinning like it had the first two times he'd woken from fitful sleep, his limbs kicking restlessly about him, sweating heavily into the fresh sheets of the guest bed.
The two of them weren't actually spooning, but their overheated bodies lay close and parallel, with only a bunched up layer of soft duvet squished between his chest and the other guy's back, both sprawled heavily over the double bed that they had drunkenly collapsed into on arriving home.
Jordan Henderson closed his eyes again, little stabs of pain in the sides of his forehead disturbing what should be a comfortable lie in. For all the impending misery of hangover, the 30-year-old Mackem lad grinned his dry lips as he lay there listening to the other fella's deep, rattling snores, thinking on the mad victory that had led them into their colossal piss-up and here, squashed together in one of the comfortable guest rooms of his big house.
The Liverpool captain let out a very faint groan of distress at more prickling headache and the sheer heat of his long bear body. He pulled back a corner of duvet a little to expose his smooth chest to the air somewhat, but the air was musty and warm just like them, and flapping the corner of soft fabric against his nipple did nothing but irritate him more. He shifted his legs a little too: one bent and angled into the muffled shape of his teammate's back, the other stretched out away from the covers. His thigh and calf felt almost stuck to the silky sheets with sweat, and he reopened his eyes to stare down this muscular length to the bleary image of his outstretched toes.
Ugh. He wanted a pint of water, maybe four of them, but couldn't bear the thought of proper movement. He didn't currently feel sick, but if he lurched out of this hot nest and across the small room to the door, he was worried what violent nausea might grip him. Better to just lie very still and let the throbbing waves of headache do their thing, until it seemed safe to rise...!
Henderson turned his head a little, peering past the folds of duvet at the sideways head on the next pillow, facing away from him. The slowly re-growing crop of dark hair and the scruffy trim of bear down his sharp jawline; a big shoulder jutting up beneath this where he lay on his side. Sometimes, in hot summer, Lallana's Indian heritage showed in his deep tan and the intense darkness of his hair, adding to the handsome mystique of the shorter, older midfielder. His snores cut through that handsome mystique like a bulldozer in a rainforest, and Jordan grinned painfully at the invasive bursts of noise, squeezing his eyes shut once more and rolling very carefully onto his left, to bury his sweaty face into the pillow and put pressure on his temples. Ugh.
What was the last thing he remembered? The pair of them had been dancing, Adam with his Liverpool shirt off to boast his tattooed six-pack, whooping and hollering at the Merseyside club's triumph and spilling beer into his beard as he drank and danced. Klopp had been there -- what time had the old German actually left? What a legend! -- but increasingly few of the others.
Henderson remembered with a faint smile that he'd cried several times, the emotion of his captain's win getting the better of him repeatedly. But at that point in the night, the last bit he could remember, there was no vulnerability or overwhelming affection, just a mad drunken high. He'd gone from tactile over-excitement with the guys as they said their goodbyes and broke away from the golf club celebrations, to a kind of surly resentment that the party was finally slowing to a halt. He'd wanted the joy to spill right through to the dawn that was creeping at the skyline.
What time had it been when he and Lallana, closest buddies on the squad, finally exited the venue? Had they been the last to go? He remembered Ox being there, brash and rugged and performing terrible Little Mix dance routines with a couple of others whose faces blurred in memory. Henderson had looked particularly at the thickset midfielder during the night, admittedly, with the same questioning suspicions as he often did lately. Neco's claims about what certain squad members were getting up to sat heavily on the captain's confused perceptions.
He supposed his phone would have the details of the taxi he'd rang, so if he really wanted to know, he could check what time they quit the party and tumbled back here. He was actually a little bit impressed with himself. He couldn't remember beyond dragging Adam out of the clubhouse and over the terrace, forcing the cackling 32-year-old to pull his red shirt back on, but he must have had the wherewithal to direct a taxi driver over to this suburb of mansions; more impressive, he'd had the decency not to disturb his wife's sleep by crawling into bed with her, sticky with sweat and beer, and crackling with Premiership smugness. No, he'd shown wasted Lallana, too hyper and incoherent to be sent home to his missus, into this spare room and just collapsed in with him; it must have seemed by far the most sensible and chivalrous plan.
His thoughts turned again to Neco, his 19-year-old temporary lodger, but this time not with the sickly worry of what Williams had recently confided in him; he realised he had no idea what time the affable teen had quit the party and returned home, though he was fairly certain he hadn't been in a taxi with them. This led in turn to the contemplation of just how noisy he and Lallana might have been, crashing out of their Uber and into the big detached house, all stage whispers and loud steps -- he hoped dearly he hadn't woken drunken Neco, or the kids, or most of all, his wife. But his guilt was tinged with reckless pride -- surely anything was forgivable right now, in the afterglow of winning the title...?
Now, in the glare of early sunshine (why hadn't they had the sense to pull shut any of the curtains in this corner room?!), he stared over the pillow at the back and side of Adam's head, willing the older lad awake, if only to share in his dehydrated misery. He lifted a tingling arm, numb from being squashed beneath his chest during one short burst of sleep, and pulled it over the dividing inches of duvet until his clammy palm rested on the jut of his mate's shoulder. Adam's skin felt burning hot to the touch, but he supposed his own must too.
He squeezed and shook, very gently. Mate,' he mumbled, finding his voice hoarse to a point of non-existence; memories of wailed chants and singalongs surfaced dizzily. Mate...?'
Lallana's heavy sleepy breathing broke off mid-snore and his face twitched, his shoulder rolling a little. He shifted, pressing back, somewhere around the waist pushing firmly into Jordan's bent knee. Then an eye opened, singular and bloodshot, and his head shifted round a little against the pillow to stare up at the blank ceiling. Fuck me,' the experienced footballer gasped throatily, my head feels like... like... fuck, I'm too hungover for similes...'
Jordan laughed, a slow rattling chuckle into the squashed warm fabric of his pillow, his hand lingering on Adam's burning shoulder. `Huh... no time for poetry, Ads...'
The other hungover bloke fell silent for a minute then let out a mock whispering roar of `Champions!' to the silent mustiness of the spare bedroom, and they both laughed some more, wheezing and dry-mouthed and shifting their bodies restlessly over the covers.
The Liverpool kept his hand experimentally against the firm smooth muscle of his mate's shoulder, pressing a thumb in and stretching his fingers out a little further, the guy's head turning back onto the side as if this minute of wakefulness was traumatic enough and he was going back into the restless sleep of the drunkard. Jordan's hand was pulled up and over a little with the flex of shoulderblade, but he didn't take his fingers off that bare, sticky skin.
How many times had the two of them shared a bed? Well, they'd shared a room a million times, more or less every Liverpool away game since Lallana transferred into the club in 2014, back when Henderson himself had still been battling to make a mark on the club in his 3rd season, way before he was the respected captain and cornerstone of their strength. There had been hungover sleepovers like this before, at both of their flats and later houses, in various hotels. It was nothing weird or odd to be sharing like this, just common (drunken) sense -- yet the inches of duvet separating their bodies felt strange and cloying, and the sensation of Adam's smooth skin felt weirdly powerful to his throbbing, slowly waking fingertips now.
It had been fairly early in the night, he supposed, when it happened -- though both of them had already been pissed and on their 4th pint or so. The party had just been kicking off, the energy unleashed. Chants, dance moves, posing photographs, lads returning from the next room where a few ecstatic media interviews had been taking place. Henderson had found his bestie at the bar and hugged him from behind, laughing into his ear and feeling the warm bulge of muscle beneath the shorter fella's `Champions' shirt. They'd done a shot each (tequila? Hard to say) and lingered there at the free bar, Jordan with his arm about Adam's shoulders, turning to watch the terrible dad dancing of their great manager and some of his assistant coaches.
It was hard to say what had fuelled Jordan to say what had been on his mind for ten days or so, as he leaned in, pulling his hand up against the fluffy hair on the back of Adam's head, shouting above the bassline of the music. `Do you ever think we're too close, pal?' he'd slurred into the other athlete's ear, vocalising the anxiety that Neco's confessions had left him with on another heated night.
He could remember the odd look Adam had given him, brows furrowed and lips curled into an almost mocking grin. `Can pals be too close?' the St Albans-born versatile midfielder had chided him, rubbing an elbow against his upper ribs and bursting into tipsy laughter.
No, true, I mean, I just mean- Henderson wasn't sure what else he'd mumbled then, on the edge of the wild party, already regretting the silly question once it was aloud and between them. `Do you think anyone else reckons its weird, or...?' No, that wasn't the right question either! He could see Lallana was more amused than offended there.
Do we care what anyone thinks? Bros for life...' At that point, they didn't seem to be by the bar any more, in Henderson's confused timeline of memory, but somewhere on the dancefloor, back in the thick of it, beneath the shifting glow of cheesy disco lights, Adam's arms about him in a tender embrace. Buddy... I'd have quit this team in a season if I hadn't made friends with you back in the day, skip... and... well, our friendship has been the second best thing about my Liverpool years, you know that...'
`Second!' he remembered exclaiming playfully, slapping softly at the other man's bearded jawline.
`Well, after winning the fucking Premiership...!' And that had been that, an awkward little intimacy brushed aside, a tight hug unlocked, mad dancing resumed. And Jordan had looked at his best pal in the middle of that clubhouse and realised just how big a hole was going to be left in his life if, or when, Lallana exited the squad and made a fresh start elsewhere, a final chapter to his successful Premiership career.
Here in the alcohol-drenched gloom of the bright bedroom, Jordan stroked that rounded shoulder and onto the firm bicep a little, staring thoughtfully at the profile of Adam's still features. It was a depressing but likely reality: Lallana's contract was up and not renewed. They hadn't properly discussed it much, both implicitly knowing how difficult a separation might be for their close friendship, but the strong likelihood was that the 5ft8 midfielder would be on his way out as soon as this victorious season ended. Lallana was still a skilled player but, in footballing terms, he was getting on, and missing out on match time next to Klopp's vibrant young crop of lads. For consistent first-team starts, Lallana needed to ditch the victorious Reds and begin a third act elsewhere.
The reality of this struck Jordan in the vulnerable early morning headache of his hangover, and he pulled forward a little, sliding his head over the pillow, reaching his hand just a bit further down and around that arm, hooking about the firm bulge of bicep, squashing the dividing scraps of duvet between his chest and Adam's back. A strong urge to hold onto the other fella overrode the heat and discomfort as he gently pulled his arm about him and fell into a big spoon position.
Lallana shifted ever so slightly and made a sickly groan, then lifted a clammy hand to slap on top of Jordan's, pressing it to one of his firm smooth pecs, red hot over the sheets. `That's nice,' the 32-year-old footy ace grunted vaguely, clearly not back asleep as he had aimed for.
Jordan let out a little breath of laughter, which must have tickled the space between shoulder and neck on Adam's tanned upper body, allowing his hand to pulled more firmly in against chest muscle; he felt Adam's thumb rub sensitively over the back of his own hand, an oddly soothing gesture that made him pull a little closer, until his own slightly overgrown fringe was mingling a little with the short dark hair on his pal's head.
With his free hand, Lallana was pulling on the duvet a little, dragging and stretching at it, so that its awkward curling tangle lifted and straightened and vacated the narrow space between their bodies. Instinctively, Jordan pressed gently forwards (did Adam press gently back?) until his own firm pectorals rested more closely against the hot skin of the older guy's back, fully spooning into him. He shifted and stretched his legs so that for a few moments, his left knee rubbed forcefully over what must be Adam's buttocks and down over his thigh, and then they settled in what felt a comfortable if overheated position, Adam's thumb still tenderly stroking below his knuckles.
Last night,' the captain muttered softly, his voice loosening a little from that hoarse croak, I didn't mean to be weird, askin' if...'
Leave it,' purred Adam's voice, his thumb rubs ceasing. It's fine, I... I get what you meant, but...'
`I don't really think we're too close,' Henderson whispered apologetically.
No,' chuckled Adam's voice softly, right now I'd say... just close enough...! Hah...' And with that, he more definitely pushed back, folding his short stocky frame into Jordan's taller body, a hulking little spoon curled up against him; his lower back curved in against the tightness of his six pack and his round backside seemed to settle against the furry upper thighs of Jordan's hot, restless legs.
Henderson felt the urge to talk honestly. He pushed his hand a little further over the pec, the heel of it brushing a nipple, his fingertips finding their way onto the tight sculpted ridges of Lallana's intense six-pack, while he pulled his face almost right into the crook of his neck. I'll miss you so much,' he admitted quietly, I'll be fuckin' lost here if you go, mate...'
It's happening,' Lallana responded in a voice that sounded dull and almost detached, but was contradicted as his hand cupped about Henderson's and resumed that gentle, stimulating thumb-stroke once more. We both need to face it, Hendo.'
But for now,' grumbled the Sunderland-born pro, pushing his palm in firmly somewhere about the other man's navel, we just fuckin' won, right, so...' He pressed his chest into Adam's back with a bit more force, squeezing the arm about him, cuddling at him with experimental firmness. He let out a long sigh into the back of his neck and was glad when the other fella echoed it.
Yup,' droned his mate, we are unbeatable... unbearable... Mmm...' He pulled a little on Jordan's hand, almost dragging him into a fuller cuddling position, so that his nose and lips pressed softly into the fluffy darkness of his hair, and his knees rode in more firmly down the back of Adam's thick thighs.
`Mate?' Jordan asked in a tremulous but deep voice, his lips tickling on the other guy's head hair as he spoke.
`Yeh...?'
`You ever wondered what this would be like?'
`This?'
THIS.' He shrugged his shoulders, pushing the motion through their clammy embrace, trying to gesture his ambiguous meaning through the sheer physicality of the way they lay. I mean... you and me... like, best mates, but... you know... fuck...' The little swear word was under his breath as his words became hoarse and quiet and tailed off. Adam had gone very quiet and he lay statue still behind and beside him, trying to imagine Lallana's reactions to his euphemistic murmurings. He felt as if he was about to be elbowed away or laughed at, but with a captain's authority, he pushed his hand further down, just a little, fingertips brushing towards the stubbly remnants of pubes just an inch or so above the waistline of his pal's undies.
The changing rooms of Liverpool's training ground, in the first infant days of 2020. Jordan was pulling a soft towel over his chest and neck, drying off from a hot shower that had lasted too long. But all of them had been extra intense with their routine there, eager to feel scrubbed clean, bursts of nervous laughter sounding out between them, but not a single glance at each other. Everyone just fixated on the tiled wall, soaping down their own body, reflecting on what they had just participated in.
Alisson Becker had left first in an almost stormy silence; Andy Robertson and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, the biscuit gobbler himself, had pottered out minutes later. It was just the two of them left in here, captain and best mate, drying down in uneasy silence.
Jordan dropped the towel to the bench in front of him and stood tall, dressed in just the loose grey boxer briefs he'd pulled on, little damp patches showing through the fabric at his hips where he'd dragged them on prematurely, too eager to be covered up and less exposed, after how much they'd shown each other in the past hour. He looked at Adam, who was sat on his arse with the towel about his thick waist, cradling a tshirt and underpants in both hands but staring morosely at nothing.
`That was fucked up,' the Mackem football captain said in a low voice.
`Sure,' agreed Lallana quite distantly.
`Poor Alex,' Jordan said uncertainly. He'd seen distress, but also enjoyment, in what the silly game had led Ox to do. He could picture with odd vididness the creamy crumbly mess on his teammate's lips as Alex accepted his defeat and consumed the... the...
He ate our spunk,' Lallana exclaimed with quiet indignation. He looked up, his intense stare fixing on Jordan's eyes. God. What the...?'
It is mental,' Jordan agreed quietly, picking up a long-sleeved tshirt from his things and climbing into it, pulling it over his smooth torso and sturdy arms. But... well, he started it, the dirty bastard...' He paused thoughtfully, unfolding the pair of jeans from his pile of gear. `What if you'd lost, mate? Would you have... done it?'
Adam shrugged his broad bare shoulders, still glistening wet. `Would you?' he asked evasively, staring quite oddly at his captain, frowning a lot. Jordan watched his face and body language and avoided a clear answer himself. They both knew the rules of the game, the debauched silliness their hyper mood had led them to agree with there, as the five fellas tossed off over one biscuit. Someone had to lose. Thank fuck it was neither of them.
`Wonder what it tastes like,' Adam murmured vaguely.
Horrible, I bet,' Jordan said, but pausing to note the thoughtful, curious edge to his mate's frowning face, the little spark in his eyes. Fucking horrible.'
Yeah,' his older friend said uncertainly, looking away. I bet it's fucking horrible.'
`Of course I've wondered,' came Adam's eventual reply, a slightly gruff and resentful tone to it. He'd been silent, but his body had not shifted or reacted. Jordan still held him close, spooned against him from behind, his hand creeping around the bottom of his abdomen, his own other arm bunched up with pins-and-needles beneath his body weight. Their leg hairs stood on end where they gently connected and ruffled.
`You have...?'
`Sure. Haven't you...?'
`I dunno.'
`Then why are you asking?'
At this quite blunt, defensive question, Henderson just let out a long breath, vaguely aware his hot stale air was tickling at the edge of his teammate's beard. He shifted his weight a little and straightened his left arm, reaching it forward; Lallana complied silently, letting this second arm to slip under his torso and curl about his chest, so that Jordan properly held him now, really gripped in against his own warm physique.
I don't want you to go and... to be wondering anything,' the Liverpool captain thought aloud, unsure of what he was really saying, the thoughts taking form as they left his dry lips. He pulled his legs in a bit more firmly under Adam's and inched his fingers to the taut elastic edge of the boxer briefs the other guy wore, feeling that transient barrier in place. I don't want us to... not know.' He heard his own lame words hang in the stale air about them. Again, he wished they'd shut the curtains, wished the morning light wasn't syrupy and invasive on their shared bed.
Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he did it; he edged his fingers under that tight elastic and reached into the hot pocket of private flesh. He found Adam's cock plump and warm, his balls saggy and wrinkled and exciting beneath his touch. Adam didn't make a noise to begin with, and he groped at the contents of his package without much certainty that this was allowed. But his mate didn't stop him, just lay there, still and breathing deeply, as he found the shape of that thick sausage and fingered beneath those sweaty bollocks, dragging his hand back and forward and wondering if it was really getting bigger under his palm.
`Hendo,' came Adam's voice in an awkward rush.
`Yeh...?'
`I don't want you to do anything you'll regret,' the 32-year-old told him gently.
Jordan, who had frozen at the interruption, remained still, his hand tucked firmly inside the tight underwear, on the precipice of something new. But he slid his thumb and forefinger around the girth of Adam's manhood and tried to spell it out: he could regret nothing that happened with a guy as special to him as Lallana, someone who meant this much. He pulled softly on that thickening outline and pressed his face into the back of his hair. It's okay,' he responded vaguely. We're okay.'
Adam's hand had been resting just above his wrist, cautiously consenting to the exploration of his undies; now it lifted and their arms crossed with a warm fleshy brush. Adam was reaching behind himself, pressing his knuckles very gently into Jordan's six-pack and reaching down. Jordan tensed up, feeling more anxious at this shivering touch than the fact he had his mitt thrust down a man's undergarment. His own cock was twitching and reacting long before it was touched. Morning wood?
Lallana didn't quite copy him, didn't reach inside his close-fitting white undies, but found his stiff outline in their material and thumbed slowly at it, an aching tease of a touch. Henderson fumbled at the unseen massiveness of his mate's member, aware from many shared moments that Lallana outstripped him quite clearly in that department, but without the usual laddish penis envy. It was just so enjoyably big and firm to his touch; getting bigger, getting firmer.
Jordan actually found himself angling his hips away, avoiding Adam's reaching strokes between their bodies. He wanted to concentrate on the task, quite literally, at hand. His friend took the hint and let his hand sit idly over his hip, allowing Jordan to just pull up against him, his hard-on pressing against one of his arse cheeks now, and his hand easing Lallana's full hard-on out from his undies and more firmly into his grasp. He took his hand back a moment, spat fully in the palm, and reapplied it to his mate's meat, sliding back and forth on it in a few tentative gestures. At last, a little purring moan from Adam, partly suppressed by pillow. This okay?' he dared to ask. This feel... good?' Adam moaned again and nodded into his pillow. Jordan slid his hand up the shaft and toyed at the loose foreskin, circling his thumb about it and retracting it so his fingertips brushed over the sensitive wet head instead; now Adam's moan was a bit clearer, a bit less muffled by pillow, and it gave Henderson a real rush, a sense of his power over another guy, his closeness to the handsome Premiership player.
Jordan,' whispered Adam, we're both... married...'
I know,' Henderson purred in his ear, can't you feel my wedding band against your dick...?'
`Mmm... mate...'
Jordan began to get into it. He liked the study feel of Adam's body and Adam's cock in his arms and in his hands. This wasn't a BLOKE, it was his best mate. This wasn't anything kinky, it was just a really pure and overpowering friendship. He pulled back and forth on the other dick and repeatedly spat into his hand to lube it, feeling his mouth get dryer and dryer. He tightened his hold around Lallana's chest as he gained confidence in the slow sweaty handjob, really enjoying the gaspy little moans and muttered curses. `Oh fuck -- Hendo, mate... fuck, buddy... mmm.... Captain...' That last one especially, for some reason.
When his best pal shot his load, he felt almost as triumphant as watching Chelsea best City last night; a detached, confident sense of his own superiority and skill. Adam's quiet wet groans signalled the moment and he was ready for it, tightening his grip and speeding up his tugs on that long thick dong, but then holding his hand back tightly because he was wary of getting the other man's spunk on his fingers, just pumping it out onto the silky creases of bedding.
And then, he supposed, it was over. He relaxed his hold on Adam, who was gasping almost fearfully, and pulled back a little way, onto cooler patches of bedding, his right-hand throbbing from the heated exercise of what he'd done to his best mate. He held this hand away from himself, sure it was clean of cum, but staring down his arm at it in a kind of fascinated horror. He lay on his back and stretched out all four limbs, staring from his hand to his toes to the ceiling, a few tangles of duvet doing little to cover the sweaty length of his 6ft body, the tenting form in his pants. His left leg and arm brushed a little against Adam's back; the short stocky midfielder was still recovering his breathing, not saying anything, or looking this way. Regret, Jordan thought, in a dulled swell of panic, his headache returning.
He felt more hot and sickly for the slight movements of it, and he thought he could smell his mate's sour, salty completion somewhere in the thick musty air of their bedspace. He felt the duvet shift and swell, pushed his way, spread over him in some odd, kind, sharing gesture; but then he was taken aback by the movements beside him. The duvet was being pushed more firmly over him, riding up his chest to his chin, and his partner was rolling over and shifting his weight. Jordan felt hands on his midriff, and realised that Lallana had vanished beneath the cover of the sheet.
He lay there on his back, lowering his unsteady, aching gaze from the ceiling to the mound of bedding that stretched form his nipples downward: the other man, hunched over beneath this tent of feathery comfort, pawing at his six-pack and squatting over his furred legs. Then, like the most gentle tickling breeze, warm damp lips somewhere just below his navel. Jordan couldn't hold in a little gasp of surprise into the air. He felt fingertips hooking at the black waistband of his white Armani pants, feel the aching slowness with which his undies were peeled back and his dick was exposed. Adam didn't take it in hand, no. He took it, very very gently, in his lips.
Oh,' Hendo groaned into the stale air, ohhh...'
He wanted to fling the duvet aside and see it properly, what was going on; but there was something wary and deliberate in Lallana's movements and he didn't want to disrespect or expose that, so he just lay there, pulling his hands up behind his head, and let the magic happen; the soft warm feel of lips and tongue exploring his dick and the big swelling droop of his balls, kissing all over them; Adam's beard tickled against his privates, utterly novel. He tried to lower the volume of his surprised and pleasured gasps, but it wasn't easy.
Mmm... just the knowledge that his ruggedly handsome mate was down there, willing to try this, to taste this... oh god... he let his hairy thighs part more, feeling strong hands rub up and down their insides... he ground his buttocks into the sweaty sheets, arched his back a little, sucked in deep breaths between his own low groans... he bit his lips to keep in a more eager yelp of satisfaction, feeling the tickling gentle sensations rove up and down his short sturdy length of cock.
Then Jordan relaxed his arms and reached both hands under the sheets, snaking down his sides until they were meeting Adam's; the best friends clasped sweaty palms together at his hips, and he felt the other man descend and rise over his prick, tasting him hungrily, pleasuring him even though he'd cum already himself, attending almost lovingly to his hungover need... and on those thoughts, Jordan let himself go, no warning or panic for poor Adam, just spewing his seed into his mouth as if it was with wife down there instead. Almost as soon as the initial rush had passed, Jordan was overthinking that, feeling cruel and unfair to spunk so freely in his mate's gob, but... Adam was just squeezing tightly at his hands and breathing heavily under the duvet, kissing the underside of his slim shaft and... well, lapping up more and more of his sticky wet load...
In the afterglow, Lallana remained under cover, perhaps ashamed, while Henderson lay there and heaved out big panting breaths. But eventually, he pulled comfortingly on the clammy hands in his, yanking Adam up his body a bit, up and out from under that musty covering. His friend slid up him, chest on his tummy, face coming to rest somewhere between his own flat hard pecs, lying fully on top of him; Jordan's spent cock squashed somewhere about his waist as they lay there, bodies gently rising and falling. He could see Adam's face, although they didn't make eye contact, and he thought he could maybe make out little flecks of white moisture in his beard; the remnants of his own load?
He lay his arms and hands over Adam's strong broad back and held the smaller guy in against his chest, unsure how he was feeling about what he'd done there, but needing to comfort and reassure him. This was okay. This wasn't weird. No regrets. He, Captain Henderson, certainly wasn't regretting the quick wet blowjob that had cured his hangover, fuck no.
The door opened with a casual suddenness, rustling against the carpet. Jordan felt Adam tense beneath his forearms, his head turned the other way; he looked quickly to the doorway, a burst of nausea striking him at the same time as the uncomfortable surprise reminder that this was a full house. In the doorway stood his wife, a silky pink negligee clinging to her curvy form. Jordan stared at her through sleepless, bloodshot eyes, incredibly aware of the intimate pose he lay in.
Jesus!' Rebecca exclaimed loudly, hanging from the doorframe in an almost flirtatious pose. A massive grin was on her sleepy features. You two!' She burst out laughing, eyeing up their tender posture on the guest bed. If we hadn't been married all these years, I would bloody wonder...! What a pair...' She smiled innocently at their post-coital position, throwing back her hair and stepping side to side. Now what do you two hungover brutes want for brekky...?' And laughing again and talking to herself, she vanished from the doorway, leaving it wide open, disappearing down the hallway as she spoke through various fry-up options.
Jordan lay there, clinging to Adam's bare back, holding his friend and lover against him, unable to digest that they had been so easily discovered, so easily dismissed. Slowly, Lallana peeled away from him and the two men's eyes finally met, looking at each other at close distance, nervous smiles on their lips. `How did it taste?' Henderson asked, very quietly.
Lallana answered with a slow, bashful grin. `Fucking horrible,' he sniggered.
They ate a breakfast of champions. Bacon, sausages, homemade pancakes. Hash browns. Fresh-ground coffee, filling the house's big kitchen-diner with its smell. Jordan devoured more than he ever normally would, ravenous with still-drunken energy and spent by the furtive antics in the spare bedroom.
To his left, his wife was rabbiting on with her take on the Liverpool celebrations, the city carnage she'd seen on the news and the word of multiple arrests for fans getting out of hand; to his right, Adam, a borrowed silk dressing gown hanging open about his defined chest muscles, stuffing his face with grub.
Opposite, a bleary-eyed Neco Williams, something nervous or suspicious in his jerky movements and lack of chat. Jordan watched him surreptitiously, feeling that every time he looked away, his young lodger was staring at him, somehow able to see the decadent infidelity of his early morning. But that was nonsense, Henderson told himself, how the hell could the Welsh lad know a thing? No... Neco was just as beer-addled as them, and suffering for it like only a teen could, none of the grown-up resilience of he or Adam's livers!
Sitting there, the Liverpool captain basked in the moment. The knowledge of his team's supremacy, the Premiership finally theirs, and the excited anticipation of next season and all it might offer. The confidence in his secure marriage to a beautiful woman, who loved him enough to overlook his disgusting hangover and prepare him this feast. The quiet respect of a younger teammate sat opposite him, chewing his way through bacon and looking like he might throw it back in ten minutes, totally unable to cope with drinking with the big boys. And lastly, on his right, louche and sexy in his borrowed robe, his best mate, Adam Lallana, a guy he'd loved so dearly for the best part of his adult life.
In his loose-fitting pyjama bottoms, Jordan felt his cock stir idly against his thigh, relaxed in his seat at the dining table, scraps of breakfast food still resting greasily on his plate. The 30-year-old sighed contentedly and let his cock stretch and relax against his body, not exactly stiffening up to full energy, but nestled there in dormant enjoyment, ready for a second round if the situation demanded. And what brought the Premier League-winning football captain more secure joy in that queasy, hungover moment, was the knowledge that if he wanted to use that restful warm cock in between his legs, he could do so as he wished: with his gorgeous wife, pounding her into the ped and making her scream his name as he did every other night, or with his handsome best friend, who could probably still taste his cum on his lips as he sipped fresh coffee. A boundary had been crossed, Jordan though happily, looking from one to the other, and on the other side of it: freedom.