Football Smuts

Chapter 5 - Wicked Games ft Neymar and CR7

He wants to touch him, tear into his soul

He wants nothing more than for him to take him here and now,

And one thing's clear for both of them:

They are what each other needs—sensual, dirty, and desired

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After their heated make-out session in the elevator, Neymar's cheeks held a blush of crimson, and his head was filled with a euphoric buzz, a buzz that Cristiano Ronaldo could only cause. Neither of them mentioned the outburst of passion that exploded in the elevator. It hardly seemed natural to him, his first proper no-holds-barred kiss. He doesn't know why, but it felt unreal—like it never happened or existed. Perhaps he just imagined it all. He touched his lips, still swollen and tingling from his kiss. No, it happened, and he is a changed man. He wants him, needs this man desperately, and knows he wants him too. In one of Cristiano's many cars, the music is on briefly when his phone rings again. Holy hell, he thinks. Is this his life, nagging phone calls?

"Ronaldo," he snaps, and Neymar can't help but stare at his veined hands on the steering wheel. Those hands, imagine them around my neck.

"Hi, Cristiano, d'you get laid?" a familiar voice speaks, and they both know who it is.

"Hello, Lionel—I'm on speaker phone, and I'm not alone in the car," Cristiano sighs.

"Who's with you?"

Cris can't help but roll his eyes; Lionel was always the nosy type. "Neymar."

"Oh, hi, Ney!"

Lionel Messi knows my name! He couldn't help but smile. "Hello, Leo."

"Heard a lot about you from my wife and Miss Laurent," Lionel murmurs huskily. "Even Cristiano can't keep his mouth shut about you." Cristiano rolls his eyes, but Neymar smiles. He talks about me!

"Please, don't believe a word he says." Lionel laughs at this and knows the younger man is different from his friend's other affairs—he likes this one.

"I'm dropping Neymar off now," Christian emphasizes his name. "Shall I pick you up after for a quick catch-up?"

"Sure."

"See you shortly, my friend."

With that, Cristiano hangs up, and the music is back. Fragments of his drunk phone call returned to him, and he distinctly remembers what he called him—Ney. Lionel calling him that made him remember, and then he wonders why he hasn't ever called him that again. "Why do you insist on calling me Neymar all the time?" he asks, looking at him.

Cristiano cocks a brow at him. "Because it's your name."

"You called me Ney yesterday when you were interrogating me about where I was."

"Did I now?" he murmurs, a smirk on his face. They're almost at his apartment; it's not taken long. "Neymar." he muses, and the man scowls at him but ignores his expression. "What happened in the elevator? It won't happen again. Well, not unless it's premeditated."

Neymar belatedly realizes he's not asked him where he lives—yet he knows. But then he's come to get him before, so he knows where he lives. What able cell phone-tracking company owning a stalker wouldn't? Why won't he kiss me again? He pouts at the thought, doesn't understand. Honestly, he feels his surname should be Cryptic, not Ronaldo. Cris climbs out of the car, walking with accessible, long-legged grace round to his side to open the door, ever the gentleman—except perhaps in rare, precious moments in elevators. He flushes at the memory of his mouth on his, and the thought that he'd been unable to touch him enters his mind. He wanted to run his fingers through his decadent, untidy hair, but he'd been unable to move his hands. He's retrospectively frustrated.