Part 265: Coupling
The Aston Villa captain was the last back to the hotel from an evening of media duties; he grinned pleasantly to himself as he crossed the sweeping gravelled drive and climbed some steps onto the deserted rear terraces of the hotel, quite happy to have been so busied with interviews. He was not normally one to revel in such attention, but he seemed to be the name on everyone's lips for this tournament, and it was hard not to let that go to his head. Jack Grealish, the one to watch -- the last journalist he had been speaking to had thrown all sorts of quotes at him from big names in the sport, all excited to see what he could do for his country this month.
Jack's hair bounced loosely with his cheerful gait and he made his way into the surprisingly quiet communal spaces of the team's hotel. He'd expected a few of the lads to still be up and about, though it was much later than the lingering sunshine outdoors made it feel, and tomorrow would be a busy one: a last Saturday of formalities and prep before Sunday took them to Wembley and the start of their campaign. The tournament had finally kicked off this evening, and Jack's only resentment at being called away for more interviewing and photo-call was that he hadn't been able to enjoy the Italy-Turkey game that launched the competition.
The 25-year-old's faint sociable disappointment at strolling through a quiet bar lounge area was quickly tempered by what awaited him upstairs. If the whole squad had decided to call it an early night and were retreating to their rooms, then Grealish could disappear to his two, and enjoy some one-on-one time with its other occupant. The affable grin on his bearded face turned into a broad, bashful smirk, and he quickened his bouncing step through the plush interiors of their accommodation, mounting the stairs in a hurry.
The excitement built rapidly and by the time he was scuttling down the right corridor with a key pulled from the pockets of his tight England shorts, Jack the lad was whistling a jaunty tune and scratching mindlessly at his bulge with his other hand. He let himself into their generously sized corner suite and tumbled eagerly in. `Alright, man?' he called out in his gruff Brummie accent, letting the door fall firmly shit behind him and casting his eyes uncertainly about the room -- it at first appeared to be empty and Grealish felt a little sting of disappointed confusion.
`Heya.' Ah, there he was -- managing to make brushing his teeth look utterly seductive. Ben Chilwell was just emerging from their en suite bathroom, stood in the doorway with the toothbrush jammed in his mouth and a few beads of milky-white froth dribbling on the dark fluff of his overgrown stubble; the short curtains of his dark hair curling attractively above those tanned features, and the muscles of his exposed upper body all on show from there to the waistline of his loose black bed-shorts. He pulled the brush away and wiped the fluoride mess from his mouth with the back of one arm, giving Jack a grin of warm welcome.
Fuck, Jack thought, is he the most beautiful lad in the world?
Sharing this room up here with Chilly was the icing on a very multi-tiered cake. Apart from some injury absence, Grealish had enjoyed a brilliant season of personal success, and it had all felt like it was building up to entering this tournament with the Three Lions; he was living his boyhood dream, and to do it so closely with a guy who had gone from best mate to boyfriend to vague fiancé, well that was just the last bit of magic. He knew that they had to be careful not to overdo it, had even discussed avoiding a room-share at one point, but even the discreet morning cuddles were an important bonus for Jack as he faced his first big international competition.
`Finally done for the night?'
`I am. Come here.'
`Mmm. Babe, I'm still...'
`Kiss me.'
It tasted of Colgate. He slid his hands down the firm muscular sides of Ben's torso, letting his fingers edge just inside those shorts, while their mouths locked and kissed and their scruffy short beards tickled at each other's faces. It began as a simple kiss that should have parted so they could go on with their ablutions and winding down, but Jack pulled a little more firmly on Ben, letting their lithe bodies press together, and really letting their tongues meet. He found he could not quite let go of the handsome Milton Keynes lad, whose muscular body he rubbed and stroked, all up and down his back and sides, then inside those shorts to grip and squeeze his firm round glutes.
`Someone's frisky,' chuckled Ben amorously, nuzzling him and rolling up his taut navy t-shirt until it was level with his nipples, which he stroked circles around with a single fingertip in a figure-of-eight.
`Well, that's all your fault for being so fine,' Jack returned flirtatiously and coyly, blushing red in his chubby boyish cheeks. He angled his head to kiss at Ben's cheeks then neck, and gladly shifted his posture as one of Ben's hand disappeared inside the front of his shorts to grope him through his boxer-briefs. The two prime footballers teetered and cuddled in the bathroom doorway, enjoying the heat and feel of their athletic bodies and only gently resisting the urge to rush on into fuller action, Jack's mood and lust clearly infectious.
When impatience began to win against the slow enjoyment, he gripped one of Ben's warm hands and dragged him backwards, gesturing towards one of the two big beds that dominated the space -- they had taken to alternating between assigned beds night by night, a clutter of personal photographs and belongings surrounding each. He guided Ben towards his, wanting to host' him there in some silly fantasy of their one day properly sharing a home. He wanted them to be given a room with just one bed, properly coupled and not just bros' to the wider footballing world. Two superstars, he thought grandly, and Ben the handsome-as-fuck trophy husband to him as England's great new forward!
Full of ambition and self-satisfaction, Grealish dragged his t-shirt up and away and wrestled his lover onto the crumpled bedding, snogging him so more and dragging his hands across those washboard abs and back into his shorts, where he could feel Ben's enormous appendage swelling and straining for him. He jerked him slowly inside his shorts whilst kissing him teasingly on the lips and letting their thick leg muscles rub repeatedly.
Both young players moaned and sighed happily, no more words between them as they became more and more physical -- rolling into new positions and still not quite naked, just grabbing and dragging at one another's shorts and the stiff contents, stroking and clutching at meaty backsides as if in some private competition over whose arse would be taking it tonight. Jack thought back to some of their earliest tumbles together, but especially that afternoon in the barn last summer, opened up and brought to life by proper sex with this confident left-back stud.
Ben, who had been all grinning casualness since Jack approached him for that kiss, became firmer and pushier now, pinning him down on his back and yanking his shorts and undies over his thick hairy thighs to really get at his privates. Jack just lay there and giggled stupidly, parting his well-worked legs and feeling the layers slide past his ankles and go flying off the side of the bed. He stared lovingly into Ben's handsome face and watched as the shirtless stud stooped over him and began to kiss all around his mid-section, anywhere but the raging hard-on and fat balls beneath it. Ben's hands pushed Jack's wrists down against the bedding so he could not give in and begin to wank himself, instead just shivering with anticipation as Ben's tickling kisses roved about his navel, his hips, the insides of his hairy thighs, then at last, kissing him on the sack and sliding his tongue up the shaft.
`Fuck, baby,' Grealish moaned into the warm air.
Ben met his eyes cheekily, flicking his tongue back and forth over the glossy pink tip of his hard-on, then backing away a little bit... rising up on his knees, pushing down on the front of his bed-shorts, letting his own whopper loose. Its size took Jack by surprise every time, even now, and he instantly was unhappy to just lie here and be pleasured by him... he pulled himself forward in a sit-up and grabbed hold of it, then pushed his head down and began to suck on it with none of Ben's agonising delay and teasing.
Ben laughed and stroked fingers through his hair, wobbling side to side on his knees while Jack hunched uncomfortably between his legs, mouth wide open, taking as much of that big cock into his gob as he could, gagging a little on it and shifting positions. He held onto Ben's buttocks, squeezing and feeling the globed muscle, and enjoying the taste of him. Ben's playful laughter turned to deeper and more sensual moans, the fierce earnestness that always replaced his cheeky-chappy persona once they were hard at it.
Jack brought one hand across to grip the thick base of it and give him better control, working his tongue and lips around the long thick tool, eyes opening wide to stare up Ben's chiselled stomach and chest and up to his gurning, delighted face, his little moans of yes, yes, yes...' and that's it', and then, just as Jack began to peel down the back of the shorts too and slide one finger in between those glutes, the beautiful lips forming a name in distinct pleasure, moaning out in response to his oral work... but the name wasn't his. `Oh, Mason,' sighed Chilwell above him, shuddering with pleasure. Beneath him, Grealish just froze.
Two weeks earlier, Porto: another hot hotel, this one with better air conditioning. Even so, they were throwing the windows open as soon as they were in the room, both of them fired up with a mixture of adrenalin and champagne. Tonight, Chelsea had won the UEFA Champions League and become the top team on the continent, and these two Englishmen had been as central to that campaign as anyone.
Ben was as pissed as a fart and knew it. He could feel the ruddy heat in his face as he unlocked and thrust open one of the big double-windows that looked out on the bustling glow of the Portuguese city below, the national stadium dominating the nearby skyline, the venue for tonight's all-Premiership finale and the delicious win over League-winning Manchester City. Somewhere else in the European capital, Pep Guardiola and his elite men would be licking their wounds and mourning a final big win of the season, just as Tuchel's Chelsea Blues had been partying hard from the moment the whistle blew.
The celebrations had been messy even at the stadium, the lads raucous as they hoisted the cup and received their medals, marauding indoors to popping bottles and repeated rounds of song. Ben felt the importance of the win, the crowning achievement of his first season at the West London club, a big and obvious vindication of his move here from Leicester last summer, one that he had laboured uncertainly over. Coming as it did on the verge of a summer international period, the UCL final was a beautiful turning point for Chilwell and his teammates -- and few more than his new bestie, Mason Mount, who he had consistently gravitated to in the locker-room partying, the riotous short bus ride to the hotel, the sprawling reception in the restaurant on the top floor, and now here, trying to let some air into the heavy atmosphere of their shared room.
Still glowing, Ben backed away from the window and its view of the hazy Portuguese sunset, scratching irritably at the tight fit of his Chelsea polo shirt, and watching as Mase poured them a nightcap from the mini-bar and almost danced a jig with every cheerful step, his lean face bursting with goofy pride, all matching blue and equally red-faced. Ben, smiling drunkenly, took an extra moment to appreciate the way Mase's shirt hugged his surprisingly well-developed back and shoulder muscles, the way the 22-year-old was really becoming a man.
`Yes, you beauty,' Ben trilled admiringly. He took the drink, a measure of neat bourbon, and then he hooked his arm in alongside the other lad's, interlocking their right arms so they were pulled stupidly close as they both knocked back the glasses and took long, satisfying sups of its sweet burn. Mason giggled and shook his head as he disentangled himself, shoving him playfully in the chest and stepping aside, that little dance and jiggle to his step -- both of them were fizzing with the energy of the big win, and might still be partying if things hadn't reached a natural end: Kai Havertz passed out in a heap against Timo Werner, Jorginho and Rudiger having to carry the captain out, and even their severe German gaffer looking worse for wear on his way into the elevators.
Chilwell had suggested that the two of them called it a night, and as he did, his intentions had been only half-conscious, maybe less. Now, looking at Mount, they were clearer than any other thought in his boozy, testosterone-drenched brain. They were even clearer in the clammy pouch of his briefs, contained within leg-hugging Chelsea tracksuit bottoms.
Mm,' Mounr murmured speculatively, this might be one drink too many.'
`You think?'
Mate, I am ruined,' sniggered the 22-year-old star. I'm gonna be gross in the morning!'
Doesn't matter,' breathed Ben dismissively, sipping more. Pressure's off. Tomorrow will be chill.'
`Chill Chilly,' the other young player returned stupidly. Mason drifted further from him, flopped backwards onto the edge of a bed, spilling a little of his drink onto the blue chest of his shirt, then relaxing there with a few clumsy sips and a sprawling stretch of his other arm. Ben moved closer, very close, until his leg was rubbing at one of Mason's, stood over him at the edge of the bed, swirling his bourbon about in the glass then finishing it in one swill.
`You cute bugger,' he said teasingly at the lounging Pompey lad -- the comment just earned a lazy, drunk giggle from the attacking midfielder. Ben rubbed one of his legs against one of his, letting the knees brush and the shins graze, and then their feet make contact -- socked toes poking out of Adidas sliders and tickling together. Mase giggled some more, finishing his drink and then letting the glass roll aside with a little brown streak against the sheets. He grinned, eyes hooded, and he looked really fucking angelic -- such a sweet boyish face, even as his body bulked up and his little tufty goatee attempted to render him mature.
Ben went to his knees on the carpet and laid hands just past Mason's knees. He rubbed his thighs very gently through his trackies, thumb against his body heat, and he gently parted the legs a bit further before creeping forward. The strong left-back lunged carefully over the edge of the bed and lowered his face in against Mason's crotch, where he could quietly nuzzle his privates in the front of those clingy trackies. In turn, the longer-serving Chelsea lad moaned softly, and Ben really stroked at the bulge of his strong thigh muscles -- het let his lips and tongue find delightful shapes in the synthetic material, and he felt himself get rock-hard.
`Mate,' laughed Mount faintly.
`Yeah?' Ben sighed, shifting further onto the bed, reaching a hand in and giving him a good feel through those pants. He licked his bottom lip and twitched his face, then lowered his mouth again to the growing, lengthening outline of Mason's prick. More moans signalled some enjoyment, some appreciation, some agreement -- Ben held off from anything more than this blocked oral, licking and kissing at the shape of it until it was straining hard against dark blue nylon.
Then he pulled himself up over him, pinning the leaner man against the bed, pressing his own compact muscular form over him. He breathed heavily, ragged lusty sighs into the hot air, and he rubbed their crotches together, letting Mase feel the sheer size of his horny rod, dry-humping him through their clothing and matching his friend's light, tipsy giggles of noise. Fucking horny,' he whispered. Can't help it... never won the Champions League before, to be fair...'
Mmm,' murmured Mount, you silly bugger...'
`You can feel how horny I am?' Chilwell demanded a little more firmly.
`I can...! Mmm...'
All yours, if you want it? You up for some fun, mate...? Yeah...?' He reached under Mason's shirt, stroking up the side of his muscular torso. You up for it, Mase...?'
Mason turned his red, gurning face on him, all foolish grin and dull sleepy eyes. `Calm it, Chilly, I'm not sure we ought to,' he said, but his grin became a needy leer, and there was something intense about the way he returned Ben's hungry gaze. His hands were on Ben's muscles, reaching under his polo shirt, knuckling against his intense six-pack. Ben moaned back to him and leaned in, not actually kissing him but letting their noses brush and their chins bump. Their breath mingled.
Ben crawled back, peeling the shirt away so he could dip in and kiss him just below the pecs, and work his way down the groove between his bas, kissing and letting his stubble tickle his pale skin. Mason alternated between gasps and giggles. When Ben peeled down the waist of those trackies and kissed his hard-on through his black undies, the 22-year-old shuddered and whined his name. You like that?' Ben asked raggedly. You want my lips on you?' He kissed it again and Mason just yowled with anticipation -- so Ben gave it to him, pulling the pants down and planting the slim firm prick straight into his hot wet mouth.
He sucked on him generously and slowly, drooling saliva against the hot red of Mason's tip, rolling his tongue about the head and then taking much of the length inside his satisfying mouth. Ben dipped up and down with his head, curls of his hair stroking damply against his own sweaty brow. He held the sides of Mason's body and felt him grind and writhe in frustrated enjoyment.
`Oh, Ben, mate...!'
Chilwell didn't say anything, couldn't, because his mouth was so busy. He gagged himself on it, rose and spat some more, slathering over it and treasuring the oddly sweet fresh taste of his prick. He drooled across the head and shaft and gave the balls a lick -- a few good rough licks, then the gooch below, pushing Mason's privates up and teasing a little of his undercarriage, making him wiggle and gasp. He pushed the legs further apart, or tried to, but the position wasn't working... so he flipped him over and pulled the undies and trackies down some more, leaning over his mate's body and fondling his round peachy cheeks, spitting between them and then sliding a finger down his crack.
`Mmmmm, oh god...'
Ben rubbed and poked at him, not quite invading his hole, but slicking and tickling his crack, and kissing the base of his spine. Again, he climbed onto him, pinning him to the bed with his own strong frame; he kissed the nape of his neck, massaged at his back muscles, ground his hardness against his pillowy buttocks. The lads ground and dry-humped more, all groans and gasps and some hesitant playful murmurs of `Don't, Ben!' always followed by pitchy giggles of enjoyment.
It's just a bit of fun,' Chilwell promised, rolling him onto his side and hooking arm about his waist; again their faces were very close, but no kiss. It's all good, isn't it? We've played before? Nobody minds, do they?'
Mount looked on the verge of a hesitant Well...' but he had Ben's hand on his cock and Ben's hard-on pressing into his leg. Just oral,' he whispered eagerly. `Nothing more tonight.' And with that, he began to wriggle and disappear downwards, ready to return Chilly's favour. Ben just spread onto his back and pulled up on his shirt, stripping it away to show off his chest and six-pack, allowing Mase a lovely view as he went down on him. Ben's big meat was removed from its tenuous cloth prison, and drooled over now by Mase, who still looked cute and innocent with his lips all over a veiny monster.
Suck it,' Ben ordered quietly. Suck me good, mate...'
Mason groaned through his mouthful. Ben stroked the lightly gelled tufts of his hair, ruffling and messing it, playing with his ears and his neck. He pressed up with his crotch, guiding more of his massive on into that receptive mouth. Their skin slid against skin, both of them really quite sweayt with their drunken heat and the sudden late-night lust of the room. Sheets and clothing rustled as sliders were kicked off, socks rolled away, t-shirts tossed off the bed. Trackies unfurled and thrown aside, undies dragged free of strong athletic legs. Both lads naked now, tangled and sweaty and hands all over each other.
Ben ignored the oral only idea, fingers damp and back in Mason's crack; he reached under his balls to finger him while kissing his shoulder and thumbing his nipple. It made Mount groan and whinge wordlessly, happily lifting one leg to allow better access, gladly taking a length of finger, then two fingers, inside his strong ring. Ben pushed and thrust at him, frigging his man-pussy and kissing up his neck, nuzzling their faces again and then, at last, daring a kiss... bringing his stubbled mouth close, and just sighing as Mason twisted aside, leaving it unclear whether he even acknowledge the near-snog that Chilly had gone for. Ben ached with drunken frustration. He jabbed his fingers in more, opening him up, and began to shift their positions, moving Mase onto his back and angling his cock that way.
Let me fuck you,' he hissed. Please.'
Ben,' groaned Mount uncertainly, I dunno, maybe not tonight, just...'
`Please,' he whined.
God,' mumbled Mason, I want it in me so bad.'
I knowwww,' Ben hissed back, so let's just...' He pushed its tip between those cheeks, bearing down on him in missionary position, kissing him on the cheek, which felt so slick with sweat. `You need a dick in you, I can feel it...'
`I do, I really fucking do... mmm, Benji...'
`Yesss...'
`Put it in me,' gasped the 22-year-old, and Ben wasted no time.
He pushed his cock, helping it from the base, angling it between those cheeks and its thick brutish head against the tickled wet entrance. He bore slowly into him, holding him tightly in his arms and letting their faces brush and graze and make a quiet awkward dance of not kissing. He inched into him, mounting Mount, pressing him into the comfortable luxury of the bed, pinning him between firm biceps. `God you feel good,' he whispered.
You dirty bastard,' Mason returned in a quiet drawl, your cock is ridiculous...'
Feel it in you,' he groaned eagerly, feel it up you...'
`God you're horny...!'
`Horny for you...'
`Hehe, horny for the trophy!'
`Horny for YOU...'
`Mmm, it feels good haha, it's... just... so... thick...'
For you,' Chilwell groaned again. He was pushing more of his thickness inside the tight resistance of his mate's hole, pinning him to the bed with it and with the weight of his upper body. And then he began to pull back and forward and fuck him, making erectile thrusts and gasping out in joyfule eagerness. For you,' he repeated gaspingly, and Mount's response to that was a bit strangled and awkward.
Mason groaned in the physical force of it, feeling Ben inside him, and his cries were musical to Ben's ears; there was something so joyful and exciting about Mount and his energy, there really was. He was intoxicating in his bizarre innocence. Oh god. Ben pushed deeper with each roll of his hips, and then the words were gushing out of his mouth. Feel it,' he whispered, feel me in you, that's how much I want you baby -- you beautiful fucker...'
`Mmm?'
`I love you,' he mumbled breathily. Mason's eyes jolted open beneath him and the ecstatic mask was a bewildered frown. Ben stammered awkwardly between half-started sentences, still buried in his arse, but pausing over him in the intimate hold, their faces so close. Because actions speak louder than words, he pushed forward with his face and went for the kiss, but got cheek rather than mouth, and then felt the other land's hands begin to push at his arm muscles and his chest. Ben gasped, sighed, wilted -- he retreated, feeling the little pop of release as the first half of his thick cock left Mason's arse. He sucked in air, staying awkwardly over him, his mouth tasting sour with the foolish words he'd let out.
His cock ached and he wanted to push back in and go on fucking. Mase looked and felt so beautiful beneath him. But his face was becoming angry, his hands were pushing more forcibly at Ben's muscles, urging him to rear back and roll aside. And Mason was rolling away, muttering something as he whirled on him, cock wobbling side to side. He mumbled some vague accusation that Ben didn't quite pick up the words of, and then they were just crouched there, naked and sweaty, staring at one another across the king-size bed. Ben,' gasped the midfielder, what the hell is going on?'
Mmm, babe...!' He resisted, very slightly, the hold from behind; the strong feel of Declan's big arms encircling him in the close space of the hotel bathroom where he was trying to finish a quick wet shave. His body rocked to the rhythm of Rice's bigger body, holding him and leaning in to peck kisses at the inside of his neck and shoulder, bare back and chest muscles rubbing as the defensive midfielder grappled possessively at him. I'll cut myself, careful...!'
Declan Rice heaved a long sigh and lowered the hold of his arms further down Mason's bare torso, still squeezing him but less eagerly, kissing gently at the backs of his earlobes whilst Mase removed the last flick of white foam from his jawline and dipped the little manual razor into the suds of the sink. A wet kiss landed on his freshly shaven cheek and Declan's hands flattened against his washboard abs. `Come to bed,' murmured his England teammate encouragingly, before at last releasing him from the cuddle and backing off into the doorway.
Mount blushed and grinned at him in the mirror that connected them, splashing water on his cheeks and neck and washing away little white dabs of shaving foam. He smiled but said nothing, dropping his posture to carry on washing at his face, letting big Rice drift out of the en suite and leave him here alone for a moment to compose himself.
A skimpy white towel knotted about his waist, fresh from the shower, the Chelsea player followed his boyfriend out into the main room and folded his arms across his developing pecs. He stared self-consciously across the room to the broad back of the other London footballer, who was just clearing some things off the bed to make space for him, then turning to grin invitingly over. Declan looked tall and powerful, naked but for the white boxer briefs that fitted him so well; he looked more confident in his smalls than Mason had seen him in the earlier days of their romance, and it wasn't just because he got fitter and fitter.
Childhood best friends and now so much more, two 22-year-olds living their dream here, due to step out at Wembley in less than 48 hours... and yet Mount could not quite let himself go. He could not quite relax into the shared fantasy of the experience that the two special men were racing into together. More specifically, he now stood awkwardly in his towel and watched as Rice got comfortable on the bed, tall and well-built and all affable smiles.
`Get over here,' laughed the West Ham hero gently.
Mason hunched his body a little as he crossed the room, a lopsided grin ghosting across his face. Declan was laughing quietly again as he neared the bed. `Lose the towel then, won't ya?' he murmured, shifting onto his side and patting the expanse of bedsheets next to him. Mason smirked and winced at the same time, undoing the knot in one deft little movement, then sliding his toned naked body onto the bedding besides his man, who immediately enveloped him in the same strong hug as in their bathroom, pulling him in close. Mason responded instinctively, always so comfortable and excited to be held by this big loveable brute. Instantly, Rice was lowering his head and kissing his chest, rubbing his lips close to Mount's permanently perky nipples, making him giggle and shake and sigh.
`Declan...'
`Mmm.'
`Dec...?'
`Mmm?'
`Declan!'
The long blocky face was lifted up and close, smirking at him, eyes intense. One of his hands was rubbing softly at Mason's shoulder and the other was playing beneath his strong sharp chin. What?' the defensive player demanded calmly. What's up with you, Mounty?' He was smiling, a little laugh in his voice, his body language so tender and affectionate -- but as Mason paused awkwardly and failed to answer, some awareness seemed to register in Declan's face, and his body stiffened and tensed beside him. What?' Rice asked again, more quietly but more seriously. What is it?'
Mason pushed a protective, hopeful arm about his waist before he said anything. `Dec, I feel like there's something I have to tell you,' he confided.
Do you have to?' muttered Rice with strained humour. Cos I really really want to fuck you.'
You can fuck me fifteen times if you like,' Mason told him with a forced lightness in his whisper, but before you do, just... promise me not to overreact and be all extra about this, will you?' He could hear the feeble wobble to his own voice as he asked the question. `Let me tell you something, then you can pound me good, yeh?'
`Mase, you're making me nervous.'
I know, I know. But... don't be. It's just...' Deep breath. Some stuff happened with Ben.'
Declan's response was slow, his face quietly stormy. `Yeh. I know. You told me.'
`Mm.'
What about it?' Rice said, a little hiss edging into his voice. You've sucked him off again? He's sucked you?'
`Well, it went a bit further than that...'
I know,' Declan told him through clenched teeth. What are you trying to tell me, Mase?'
And now the Champions League truth rushed from him more earnestly, the stuff he'd been unable to say to Rice for the past few weeks, even as they reunited on Teesside in the England friendlies, or in any of their hot training days here in Surrey leading up to this weekend. But here in his lover's embrace, Mason's guilty worry got the better of him, and it all came out. Just how much he'd been allowing himself to play about with Ben near the end of season and on the Portugal trip to beat City in that final -- the tenderness and affection Chilwell had started to show him, and of course, the grunted admissions mid-fuck that had chilled and shaken him. The four-letter word that had broken it all.
He's in love with you?' demanded Dec in a voice that sounded truly broken. It made Mason grab and cuddle at him quite desperately, pulling their bodies closer than close. I don't get it,' mumbled the West Ham man. `I don't get it...'
He got the wrong idea,' Mount told him rapidly. He's messed it all up. He thought me and him were... oh, I dunno. It was just fun! It was just a laugh, you know? He and I, well, we get on so well and we got so close and just-He could see this was going badly. He wasn't sure what he'd expected but Declan's expression looked brutal, his body felt stiff and distant.I'm telling you this so you know it means nothing,' he added weakly. I made him sleep in another room that night. I told him he was being ridiculous. He's with Jack, for fuck's sake! He's just being daft, he isn't REALLY in love with me, he's just kidding himself and-
`And fucking my boyfriend whenever he wants,' Rice finished, his voice barely audible.
Only a couple of times,' was Mason's trembling reply. And I never thought it was... I didn't think he... I mean, as soon as he said that, I stopped it, and...' He forced a cheerful energy into his voice. `I'm all yours, Dec, you know that -- all I want is you. I'm so happy to be here with you. England, you and me. Three Lions. We're gonna bring football home. Don't let's get worried about confused Chillwell and...'
So is he in love with you, or is he confused?' Declan was angrily demanding. Which is it?'
I dunno, both?' Mason hissed at him. Look, don't be like this, babe, I didn't want to...'
`We should have just fucked,' Rice muttered.
We still can,' Mount pleaded. And he began his wheedling work now, reaching inside those underpants and teasing life into Rice's privates. He kissed him on the throat, between the pecs, on the bulge of his shoulder. He murmured desperately, You know nobody turns me on even a fraction of what you do to me, Rice Cakes, you KNOW it...' He moved on top of him, cowgirl, so he could rub his broad strong arse over his bulge, while massaging his chest muscles and staring pleadingly into his face; but Declan wouldn't look him in the eye, shifting his face to the side a little and letting his eyes fall half-shut.
On it went, but it wasn't like normal between them; it moved from Mason's eager redemptive foreplay to rough kisses and grabbing. All through it, Declan couldn't seem to look him properly in the face. He grabbed at him, responded to his touch, became hard and dripping for him, but said nothing, barely made a noise -- in fact, their sex was eerily silent, just rustling gasps and fleshy thumps. Mason was thrown about the bed until they were in position and then Dec was fucking him. From behind, so that there was no need to look at each other; even when the Chelsea player tried to look over his shoulder, he found his face pushed away, his neck and hair shoved down, his body just slammed with hard but mechanical fucking, push after push until the strangled groan of Rice unloading his balls in him and making strange, vulnerable gasps to himself, but not letting Mason turn or rise or cling to him for kisses and cuddles. He was held at a distance, even as Declan reached beneath him and wanked him furiously towards completion, not a word said. Mason reached a miserable orgasm, and the ghosts of tears welled up in his eyes -- it felt like he'd just ruined something very important.
On a sunny Saturday, just over 24 hours from the England side's tournament opening win over Croatia, the men shifted back and forward in a melee of Marks & Spencer suits, readying themselves for an official team photograph outside the hotel.
Declan Rice stood a little way from anyone else, busying himself with carefully knotting his own tie. The 6ft1 Londoner cast his shadowy and sleepless eyes in all directions, moving warily from foot to foot. Near to him, some of the other young Lions could not actually manage their own knots -- in a different mood, Rice might have sniggered a little to see Arsenal's Bukayo Saka having his collar and knot sorted out by Liverpool's Jordan Henderson -- but then the Sunderland man was moving on from Saka to help out another befuddled looking player. At 25, surely Grealish should be a little lest clueless with a tie, but then the Villa guy didn't look himself: he looked dazed and as if he'd had as restless a night as Rice's own, staring intently back at Hendo and letting his tie be sorted out by the team's token father figure.
He was not proud of the way he'd behaved last night. The faceless, unkind sex he'd enjoyed with his lad, fucking him roughly but quietly in the shared bed, finishing messily inside him and holding onto the usual sweet words of lust and adoration that he should whisper as he did so. And afterwards, moving silently away across the room, pulling his boxers back on and then getting in to the other bed with his back defiantly facing Mason. His sulk had burned straight through the sleepless night and into breakfast, and he had found himself avoiding being too close to his boyfriend as they collected their new suits and began getting ready for the photoshoot.
Mason was over there now, stood looking a bit lost on his own, immaculately dressed but hovering anxiously next to Coady and Calvert-Lewin. It was unfair to be cold with him, Declan thought, but he was struggling with the admissions and confusion of last night's pillow talk. Mount was beginning to look this way, but Rice avoided meeting his questing eyes and expression of hurt innocence, staring hard back at Henderson and Grealish instead: one Premier League captain patting the other on the shoulders and then leaving him to it. Rice tried to study Jack's expression -- he was smiling and proud, but there was something a little glassy and artificial in it.
The men were moved into position, guided into three rows by the photographers and their own bosses. Declan took his own place near the centre back, tall and rigid with his shoulders squared and an awkward half-smile finding its way onto his long face. To his left, Marcus Rashford looked oddly severe and focused, perhaps nervous to be so central in the formal photograph -- on his right, young Jude Bellingham was contrastingly buzzing, his whole face cracked by a big dazzling smile, the 17-year-old showing not a single scrap of nervousness about what awaited them tomorrow.
But no sooner were they in position than Rice was staring forward across the rows, past the central trio of goalkeepers, and on to where Mount was seated towards the left of the front row. Just beyond him was his Chelsea teammate, beaming confidently ahead towards the photographer. Declan saw Ben turn briefly to flash a smile at Mason. From here, he could not see Mason's reaction at all. His stomach did somersaults.
And then Declan was looking back along the upper rows again instead, finding the handsome profile of Jack instead, where he stood flanked by Sancho and Phillips: like himself, Grealish was staring broodingly down his height at the seated men in front, the two dark-haired Chelsea stars seated so closely side-by-side in the front row. From here, Jack's nostrils could be seen to flare, his brow knotting, his shoulders lifting and falling. There too was a jealous and angry man trying hard to put a brave face over his heartache.
`Right, big smiles!' crowed the voice of the team photographer somewhere in front of them, and Rice turned his stern expression that way just in time, the hint of a smile being forced onto his lips. Flash went the camera, the formal photograph was taken, all smiles.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share