The luxurious Manchester City team coach rumbled smoothly down the dark, rain-slicked tarmac of the M6 motorway, cutting a path through the freezing Staffordshire night.
Inside the heavily tinted windows, the atmosphere was a muted, exhausted quiet.
The players, completely physically drained from the brutal, grinding 3-1 victory over Stoke City, were mostly asleep, sprawled across the plush leather seats with massive, noise-canceling headphones clamped over their ears.
At the very back of the bus, entirely isolated from the quiet murmurs of the coaching staff at the front, Natán Comas had his stockinged feet kicked up onto the empty seat across from him.
His sleek silver MacBook Pro was resting warmly on his lap, the screen glowing brightly in the dim cabin.
He was entirely, blissfully checked out of the Premier League reality.
He was deep into a marathon session of Civilization V, his eyes tracking the hexagonal grid with the same intense, unblinking focus he usually reserved for tracking opposition full-backs.
He was currently orchestrating a massive, highly complex naval invasion of the Ottoman Empire, meticulously positioning his frigates and ironclads for a coastal bombardment.
The sore, throbbing muscles in his calves and the lingering sting of the freezing rain were completely forgotten, replaced by the soothing, methodical click of his wireless mouse.
He was completely oblivious to the fact that his immediate footballing future was currently being hotly debated at the very front of the bus.
Pep Guardiola and Mikel Arteta were sitting across the aisle from each other in the first row, a glowing iPad resting on the small table between them.
The screen was paused on a wide-angle, tactical replay of the opening goal against Stoke, the exact moment Natán had completely abandoned the left flank, drifted centrally into the right half-space, and slipped the brilliant, disguised pass through to Jesus Navas.
“I want him in the middle on Wednesday,” Pep murmured, his voice a low, intense whisper, his dark eyes locked onto the frozen image of the Spanish teenager on the screen.
“I want to play him as the False Nine against Steaua.”
Mikel Arteta leaned back in his leather seat, crossing his arms over his chest, his brow deeply furrowed in skepticism.
“Míster, I don’t know,” Arteta argued quietly in Spanish, keeping his voice down so the sleeping players wouldn’t hear.
“He’s a winger. His entire instinct is to face the defender up and beat them for pace. If you put him in the center as a False Nine, he has to play with his back to goal for ninety minutes. He will have two massive, aggressive center-backs breathing down his neck, constantly kicking his calves. He doesn’t have the physical bulk to hold them off like Sergio does. And frankly, his temperament… you saw him today. He gets frustrated when he doesn’t get the ball on the wing. If he gets crowded out in the middle, he might just completely check out of the game.”
Pep aggressively shook his head, tapping his index finger firmly against the glass of the iPad screen, right on Natán’s digital avatar.
“You are looking at the muscle, Mikel, but you are completely ignoring the brain,” Pep countered passionately, his Catalan intensity flaring.
“Look at what he did today. He didn’t just wander inside; he read the numerical disadvantage. He pulled the Stoke defense entirely out of shape just by existing in that central pocket. He possesses a gravitational pull. Defenders are absolutely terrified of him. If we put him in the center, dropping deep into the midfield, the Steaua center-backs will face an impossible dilemma. Do they step up to follow him and leave massive holes for Navas and Nolito to run into? Or do they stay back and allow Natán to turn and run directly at them with the ball at his feet?”
Pep leaned closer, his eyes burning with absolute tactical certainty.
“It is the perfect time to experiment,” Pep insisted, waving a hand dismissively.
“We are leading six-nil on aggregate. The tie is completely, mathematically dead. There is absolutely no way we are going to lose by six goals at the Etihad. It wouldn’t hurt to try it. If it fails, we sub him off and we have learned a valuable lesson. But if it works, Mikel… if he understands the spatial geometry of the center of the pitch… we completely unlock a terrifying new dimension for this football club.”
Arteta stared at the screen, looking at the brilliant, chaotic positioning of the teenager, before finally letting out a slow, conceding sigh.
“It’s a massive risk to his confidence if he looks lost out there.”
“He won’t be lost,” Pep stated with absolute, unwavering finality.
“He is ready.”
The team bus finally pulled through the towering security gates of the City Football Academy, the air brakes hissing loudly as it came to a halt in the private parking lot.
It had only been an hour-long drive from Stoke, but to the exhausted players, it felt like an eternity.
The cabin lights flicked on, blindingly bright.
Players groaned, stretching their stiff limbs and packing away their iPads and headphones.
Pep stood up at the front of the bus, holding onto the overhead rail.
“Listen up!” Pep called out, his voice cutting through the groggy shuffling.
“Excellent fight today. You suffered, and you won. No training tomorrow. Take the Sunday to rest your bodies. Come Monday energized and ready to prepare for the Champions League. Go home!”
A collective, quiet murmur of immense appreciation rippled through the bus.
Natán quickly saved his Civilization V campaign, slamming the laptop shut and shoving it into his duffel bag.
A whole day off.
It was music to his bruised, exhausted ears.
Thirty minutes later, the heavy oak door of Natán’s Cheshire mansion clicked shut behind him.
The house was completely dark, silent, and wonderfully warm.
He dropped his bags by the door and walked slowly, painfully up the grand marble staircase, his body feeling the delayed, agonizing physical toll of the brutal Premier League fixture.
He walked directly into the master bathroom, stripping off his club tracksuit and stepping into the massive, slate-tiled walk-in shower.
As the scalding hot water rained down from the massive ceiling showerhead, Natán braced his hands against the dark stone wall, dropping his head and letting out a long, ragged groan.
His body was incredibly, profoundly sore from just getting kicked all the time.
The physical abuse he had endured at the bet365 Stadium was painted across his skin in vivid, ugly colors.
There was a massive, deep purple contusion blooming across his right shoulder blade where Glen Johnson had cynically checked him into the advertising hoardings.
His left shin felt like it was on fire, covered in a nasty, scraped yellow bruise from Glenn Whelan’s reckless, studs-up slide tackle.
Both of his calves were tight and throbbing from the relentless, grinding physical grappling of the Stoke midfielders.
The hot water provided a temporary, soothing relief, washing away the freezing Staffordshire mud and sweat, but every time he shifted his weight, his muscles screamed in tired protest.
He felt like he had just gone twelve rounds in a boxing ring, not played a football match.
He stood in the steam for twenty minutes, letting the heat seep into his aching bones, before finally turning the water off.
He grabbed a plush white towel, drying his hair roughly.
Just as he was reaching for a pair of clean underwear, a sharp, loud chime echoed through the silent, cavernous house.
The doorbell.
Natán froze.
He looked at the digital clock on his bathroom vanity.
It was late.
He wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and his teammates knew better than to bother him on a Saturday night after an away game.
“Qui és això?” Natán muttered to himself in confused Catalan.
(Who is this?)
He quickly pulled on a pair of soft, grey cotton sweat-shorts, completely abandoning the idea of finding a shirt.
He rushed barefoot out of the master suite, moving as quickly as his bruised legs would allow, hurrying down the grand marble staircase to the foyer.
He unlocked the heavy oak door and pulled it open.
Natán’s dark eyes instantly widened, all the lingering exhaustion entirely evaporating from his body in a single, massive surge of adrenaline.
It was Kylie.
She stood under the soft, ambient glow of his exterior porch lights, looking absolutely, breathtakingly magnificent.
She had clearly just arrived from the airport, but she managed to make international travel look like a high-fashion editorial.
She was wearing a stunning, oversized camel-colored trench coat draped effortlessly over a sleek, form-fitting black silk camisole and tailored black trousers.
Her dark hair was styled in a flawless, sleek blowout, cascading over her shoulders, and a pair of dark designer sunglasses were pushed stylishly up onto the top of her head.
She smelled intoxicatingly of rich vanilla and expensive amber, entirely cutting through the sterile, rainy English air.
“You’re here?” Natán breathed out, his voice slightly raspy, genuinely shocked.
She wasn’t supposed to arrive until sometime Sunday morning.
“Yeah, I decided to take an earlier flight,” Kylie smiled, her dark eyes scanning his bare, heavily muscled chest, taking in the droplets of water still clinging to his collarbones and the dark, messy dampness of his hair.
She bit her lower lip slightly, her gaze lingering on the defined v-line dipping beneath the waistband of his grey sweat-shorts.
“Was I interrupting?”
Natán shook his head rapidly, leaning against the doorframe.
“I was in the shower.”
“Oh,” Kylie smirked, playful glint in her eyes.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course,” Natán said immediately, stepping back and pulling the door wide open to let her out of the chilly night air. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
As soon as she stepped over the threshold, Kylie elegantly kicked her pristine designer sneakers off her feet, leaving them neatly by the door.
She shrugged out of the heavy camel coat, hanging it on the hook, entirely making herself at home.
She turned to face him, stepping slightly closer, closing the physical distance between them until he could feel the ambient heat radiating from her skin.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” Kylie asked, her voice dropping into a soft, sultry, undeniable whisper.
Natán blinked, his exhausted, football-fried brain momentarily failing to grasp the blatant subtext.
“Sure, but to do what?”
Kylie let out a soft, throaty laugh, resting her manicured hands gently against his bare chest, her fingertips tracing the hard lines of his abdominals.
She looked up at him through her dark eyelashes.
“Come on, Natán, what do you think I meant?”
The realization hit him like a lightning bolt.
A deep, burning flush of crimson instantly colored his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“Oh,” Natán stammered, his Catalan accent thickening heavily with his sudden, boyish embarrassment.
He instinctively shifted his weight, wincing slightly as a sharp throb of pain shot up his bruised calf.
“My legs are kind of sore, though. Stoke City… they kick very hard.”
Kylie’s smile softened into something deeply affectionate and wildly provocative.
She slid her hands up over his shoulders, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck.
“I’ll do all the work,” Kylie promised, her lips hovering just inches from his.
Natán swallowed hard, all the pain and exhaustion completely vanishing from his mind.
“Okay,” Natán breathed out.
Kylie’s fingers closed around Natán’s wrist with a possessive grip, her nails pressing crescents into his skin as she yanked him toward the staircase.
He stumbled after her, caught off guard by the sudden intensity burning in her dark eyes.
She moved with purpose as she pulled him up, not bothering to look back.
At the top landing, she twisted sharply, her free hand landing flat against his chest and shoving him backward through the open bedroom door.
The backs of his knees hit the mattress edge, and he collapsed onto the plush duvet, his body bouncing once before settling.
Kylie didn’t give him a second to catch his breath.
She crawled up the bed after him and swung her leg over his hips, straddling him.
His shorts were the only barrier between them—thin cotton stretched taut over his obvious arousal.
She pressed her palm down over the bulge, grinding against him through the fabric, feeling the heat of his cock trapped beneath.
Her other hand went to the waistband, yanking down hard.
The shorts slid over his hips, freeing his erection, which sprang up, thick and rigid.
She didn’t bother removing them completely—just enough.
Positioning herself, she reached down, wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and guided the swollen head against her already slick folds.
She sank onto him in one smooth motion, a guttural moan spilling from her lips as her pussy swallowed him inch by inch.
The cowgirl ride was a symphony of flesh meeting flesh, wet and rhythmic.
Kylie’s thighs gripped his hips as she began to move, rocking forward and back, her pelvis tilting to grind her clit against the base of his cock with each thrust.
The bed springs groaned beneath them, a low metallic chorus that matched the steady slap of her ass against his thighs.
She set a pace that was deliberate, almost lazy at first, savoring the fullness of him stretching her from the inside.
Her hands pressed into his chest, fingers splaying over the hard planes of his pectorals, nails dragging down through the light dusting of hair there.
Natán’s hands shot up to grip her waist, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her hip bones.
He tried to thrust upward, to meet her movements, but she slapped his hands away, pinning his wrists to the mattress on either side of his head.
“Stay,” she commanded, her voice breathy but firm.
She wanted control, and she took it.
She rose up on her knees, nearly letting his cock slip out before slamming back down, the force of it jolting through both of them.
A loud gasp escaped him, his back arching off the bed.
Kylie repeated the motion, faster now, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts as she rode him like a beast she was taming.
Every downward stroke created a soft, squelching noise that made her clench around him involuntarily.
She changed rhythm, rotating her hips in tight circles, grinding his cockhead against her deepest spots.
Her inner walls rippled, clutching at him as if trying to milk him dry.
She could feel every ridge, every vein of his shaft as it slid through her, and she chased the friction with a desperate hunger.
Leaning forward, she braced her palms on his shoulders, her hair falling in dark curtains around their faces.
Her tits swayed heavily in her bra, straining against the lace, and she let one hand drop to her breast, pinching her own nipple through the fabric hard enough to make her hiss.
“How does it feel?” she whispered, her mouth inches from his ear, her hot breath tickling his skin.
“Incredible,” he groaned, his hips bucking despite her earlier command.
She rode harder, faster, her thighs beginning to burn with the effort but she didn’t care.
The coil in her belly wound tighter with each passing second, the promise of release shimmering just out of reach.
She could feel his cock throbbing inside her, matching the frantic beat of her heart.
Her pussy gushed, wetting his thighs and the sheets beneath them.
She didn’t hold back; she let the sounds escape, moans, cries, half-formed words, as she used his body for their own pleasure.
The room smelled of sex: sweat and perfume and the musky scent of their mingled arousal.
The curtains fluttered in the breeze from an open window, but neither noticed.
The world had shrunk to the space between their bodies, the place where they were joined.
Kylie’s movements became erratic, less controlled, as the pressure built.
She was chasing her peak now, her nails raking down his chest, leaving red trails that would bloom into welts later.
She didn’t care.
Then she leaned in, her lips hovering over his.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” she breathed, the words a confession and an accusation all at once.
Their mouths met, and the kiss was nothing gentle.
It was a collision of teeth and tongue, hungry and consuming.
She poured everything into it, the frustration, the desire, the overwhelming need that had driven her to drag him up those stairs.
Her tongue swept across his lower lip, demanding entry, and he gave it, their tongues tangling in a wet, desperate dance.
As they kissed, her hips never slowed.
She was still riding him, still fucking him with a frantic rhythm that bordered on savage.
The kiss deepened, and she swallowed his groans as they escaped into her mouth.
Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling his head back, angling his face to better devour his lips.
She bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper, then soothed it with a stroke of her tongue.
He responded by thrusting up into her, finally matching her pace, his hands gripping her ass and guiding her down onto him with each stroke.
She broke the kiss only to gasp for air, then dove back in, licking along his jaw, nipping at his earlobe, before recapturing his mouth.
The wet sounds of their joining mixed with the wet sounds of their mouths, a symphony of flesh and saliva.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she could feel his pulse racing through his tongue.
They kissed like they were trying to breathe each other’s air.
She tasted herself on his lips—the salt of her own sweat, the lingering sweetness of her arousal.
It drove her wild.
She ground her hips in circles, pressing her clit against his pubic bone, and the friction sent sparks behind her eyelids.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down her throat, sucking hard on the sensitive skin, marking her.
Her head fell back, exposing the arch of her neck, and she moaned loud and low as he found the spot just below her ear.
“Yes,” she hissed, still riding him, her movements now a desperate undulation.
He pulled her down onto him harder, his hands kneading her ass, spreading her cheeks to feel where they were joined, the slick ring of her pussy stretched around his cock.
She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her, and kissed him again—softer this time, slower, but no less fierce.
Her tongue traced the seam of his lips before slipping inside, exploring his mouth like she was memorizing the shape of it.
She pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “So close.”
He answered without hesitation, his voice ragged.
“Me too.”
The word close became a mantra, a prayer they both repeated in the language of their bodies.
Kylie’s rhythm faltered, her thighs trembling with the effort of maintaining her pace.
She clamped down on his cock, squeezing with her inner muscles, and he groaned into her mouth, his hips bucking erratically.
She rode him through the kiss, their mouths locked, their breath mingling in short, hot bursts.
Her climax was a building wave, cresting behind her eyes, flooding her senses.
She could feel him swelling inside her, his cock thickening with impending release.
She tore her mouth away, letting out a cry that was half-scream, half-sob as the wave crashed.
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming.
Her pussy clamped down around him in rhythmic spasms, milking his shaft as she shuddered above him.
Her inner walls pulsed, hot and slick, and she heard him roar, felt his release as he came with her, hot ropes of cum shooting deep inside, filling her, overflowing around the base of his cock.
They clung to each other, bodies locked in the aftershocks, hearts hammering in unison.
The kiss resumed, softer now, tenderness replacing frenzy as they rode out the final tremors together.
When they finally broke apart, breathing ragged, Kylie was resting on her stomach, her head pillowed comfortably against the broad, muscular expanse of Natán’s bare chest.
The steady, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat was incredibly soothing against her cheek.
Natán lay flat on his back, his left arm wrapped securely around her.
His large, calloused hand gently cradled her lower back, his fingertips resting softly, possessively on the curve of her ass, his thumb tracing lazy, comforting circles against her bare skin.
It was a profound, quiet moment of absolute vulnerability, completely detached from the chaotic, paparazzi-filled reality of their respective lives.
Natán stared up at the dark ceiling, the serene silence eventually broken by a low, audible rumble from his stomach.
“I’m so hungry,” Natán murmured quietly, his deep voice vibrating pleasantly through his chest against Kylie’s ear.
He had burned thousands of calories running in the freezing rain at Stoke, and thousands more in the intense, athletic intimacy they had just shared.
Kylie shifted slightly, tilting her head up to rest her chin on his chest, looking into his dark eyes.
“I can eat,” Kylie agreed softly, a small, sleepy smile on her lips.
Natán froze.
He looked down at her, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion.
He stared at her for a long, silent moment, his brain frantically trying to translate the English phrasing into Catalan.
‘I can eat.’
He understood the words individually, but the context made absolutely no sense to him.
Why was she announcing her physical capability to consume food?
Obviously, she could eat.
She was a human being.
“I… what?” Natán asked, his accent thick with absolute bewilderment.
Kylie laughed, realizing immediately that the casual American idiom had completely bypassed his textbook English comprehension.
“It means I’m hungry too,” Kylie explained, resting her hand flat against his chest, her thumb brushing against his collarbone.
“It’s just an expression. Like, ‘I could eat right now.'”
“Ah,” Natán exhaled, a sheepish, highly embarrassed smile breaking across his face.
“I was confused for a second. I thought you were telling me a secret about your body.”
Kylie giggled, burying her face into his neck, pressing a soft kiss against his warm skin.
“I don’t want to cook, though,” Natán admitted, letting his head fall back against the pillows with a heavy, dramatic sigh.
“My legs are dead. If I stand at the stove, I will fall over.”
“I could order something,” Kylie offered, reaching over to the bedside table to grab her phone.
“You guys have delivery apps here, right?”
“Sounds perfect,” Natán beamed, immensely grateful.
“Any allergies?” Kylie asked, unlocking her phone and scrolling through the high-end Manchester restaurant options available for late-night delivery.
“No,” Natán replied, pulling her slightly closer, relishing the warmth of her body against his.
“I eat anything. Just get a lot of it.”
She navigated the app with practiced efficiency, ultimately selecting a highly-rated, authentic Italian restaurant that was still open in the city center.
She ordered a massive, ridiculous spread to satisfy their post-coital starvation: two large wood-fired Margherita pizzas, a massive bowl of creamy truffle rigatoni, garlic bread, a fresh burrata salad, and a slice of rich chocolate cake.
It was enough food to feed a small family, but she knew the metabolism of a professional athlete required serious fuel.
“Okay, food is on the way,” Kylie announced, tossing her phone back onto the nightstand and settling back against his side.
“The app says it’ll be here in about forty-five minutes.”
Natán groaned softly, shifting his weight.
“Okay. I should go wash properly this time.”
He moved to push the heavy white duvet off his legs, fully intending to drag his aching, bruised body into the massive walk-in shower to rinse off.
But before he could even swing his legs over the edge of the mattress, Kylie’s hand shot out.
She grabbed his arm as she pulled herself up, swinging a leg over his hips, straddling him completely, pinning him back down against the plush mattress.
“Woah,” Kylie murmured, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, renewed, incredibly predatory hunger as she leaned down, her loose, raven hair falling like a curtain around their faces.
“We got thirty minutes yet.”
Natán blinked, looking up at her stunning, illuminated face in the dim light of the bedroom.
The exhaustion in his muscles completely, instantly vanished, entirely overridden by the electric, undeniable chemistry that sparked between them.
A slow smile spread across his lips.
“Okay,” Natán whispered, his hands immediately coming up to grip the soft curve of her hips, pulling her firmly, desperately back down against him as their lips crashed together, the Italian food completely forgotten in the heat of the Manchester night.