--Lirtle, Prism Book Alliance®
Fergus' legs may be the most talented body part when it comes to the soccer field, but off the field, I think it's John's tongue hands down. Not only can that tongue put anyone at ease (he's a natural charmer with everyone he meets), but that wicked tongue created one of the most memorably erotic scenes I've had the pleasure to read (Aye!) following shortly after one of the most memorably awkward.
--Wendy, Hearts on Fire Reviews
I really loved this book and it should appeal to a number of different tastes. This is first and foremost a sport-based romance. Add into that anyone who, like me, loves just about anything Scottish...In short: I really, really, really, really, need to read the rest of this series.
--Prime, MM Good Book Reviews
From the Author
John gazed at him, then broke into a wide smile. "Hey, look. When we're horizontal, we're the same height."
"Then we should be horizontal together more often." Fergus regretted the words as soon as he uttered them. He was coming on too strong. Perhaps that was why John had panicked to begin with.
Hesitation flickered over John's face, then vanished like a ghost. "We should." He reached out and slowly swept his finger over Fergus's collarbone, eyes following its journey up and down the V. "Sorry about my, erm, malfunction earlier. I guess I wasn't ready."
"Don't apologize. When you asked me to dinner, I assumed nothing. When I invited you over, I assumed nothing. Though you were pretty clear about what you wanted."
John grimaced. "Too bad I'm all talk." He touched Fergus's chin and met his eyes. "I hope it's okay if we take things slow."
Fergus reminded himself to breathe as that gaze threatened to drown him. "I can do slow if you can do slow."
"Oh, I can do slow." He traced Fergus's mouth with one fingertip. "Shall I prove it?"
Fergus hoped the parting of his lips was a sufficient reply, because he couldn't speak for the desire rising in him again.
John eased forward and kissed him, so softly Fergus could feel his breath caress the chapped, sunburned places on his own lips. Then he gently pressed Fergus onto his back.
"I'm gonnae make you come," John whispered. "In about an hour."
Fergus glanced at the clock: 10:55 p.m. "An hour? Are you serious?"
"Shh. You'll see."
John kissed him so slowly, carefully, artfully, that Fergus began counting the minutes, for he'd already grown hard as granite. But then he let himself just exist in this moment and feel every press of John's lips, every sweep of his tongue, every tug of his teeth.
John moved to kiss his nose, lashes, brows, cheeks, chin, always returning to Fergus's mouth. Then he continued lower, covering every inch, reminding Fergus of all the sensitive places on his body he'd forgotten. Like how a tongue twirling inside his navel could make him gasp, and that he was more ticklish on the left side of his ribs than the right.
After a dreamlike eternity, John pulled back the covers, then settled between Fergus's legs, where he kissed and nipped his inner thighs, fingertips swirling over the backs of his knees. All of this should have tickled too, but instead it made Fergus feel dazzlingly alive. Never had his skin seemed so connected to the nerves deep inside him.