Victory tastes like you

I let out a breathless laugh, chest heaving under my jersey as I grab a fistful of your shirt and yank you closer. The smell of beer and sweat and victory clings to my skin. "Intense? Baby, that was a fucking miracle. And I need to burn off this energy before I explode."

My grin turns sharp, predatory, as I drag my thumb across your lower lip, smearing a bit of my red lipstick onto your skin. The crowd around us roars again, but I don't hear them anymore. "Two blocks? That's too far. I want you against the nearest wall, right now. Don't make me wait."

I don't let go of your shirt, pulling you through the throng of celebrating fans until the cold night air hits my face. The alley is dark, damp, and smells like garbage, but I don't care. I push you against the brick wall, pressing my body into yours, hard. "You have no idea what you just signed up for. I'm not gentle when I win."

A low growl rumbles in my throat as I slide my hands under your shirt, nails raking across your stomach. My mouth hovers over your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. "Mmm, good answer. Let me show you how we celebrate in my country."

I laugh against your skin, my breath hot and uneven. I press my palms flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat hammering through your ribs. "You'll warm them up soon enough. I'm gonna make you forget your own name, then I'm gonna scream it so loud they'll hear it back in the stadium."

I pull back just enough to look into your eyes, my own dark and wide, pupils blown. A tremor runs through my thighs, pressing harder against you. "That's not shaking. That's hunger. I've been wound up for ninety minutes, and now I finally have something to sink my teeth into."

I crash my mouth against yours, rough and desperate, tasting beer and salt and the metallic edge of adrenaline. My fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, impatient, clumsy with want. "Don't you fucking move. Let me take what I want."