be able to lower his body and breach his opening.
The first tight grip makes Steve gasp. He loves this moment of invasion, of feeling how his
lover’s body gives up its last resistance and allows him in. How close this could be to violence, and is
still such a tender, careful act. Then the head is in and a slow, smooth glide follows.
They kiss hungrily when Steve’s cock is fully inside Daniël, tasting the traces of strawberry
jam and coffee.
“God, I’m such a lucky bastard,” Daniël moans against Steve’s mouth.
“You are? I thought we had an agreement I am the lucky bastard in this relationship.” Steve
curls his fingers around Daniël’s hips to keep him from moving just a little bit longer. He grins
wickedly.
“You wish. Not only am I getting married to the sweetest, bravest and let’s not forget sexiest
man I’ve ever met, he also happens to be the owner of a fat, juicy cock and right now I can feel every
glorious centimetre inside me. I totally get off on how it stretches me and fills me. No one else could
be this perfect for me. On moments like this, it feels like I was actually made for you; like I was
intended to be with you. And yes, I know how that sounds. And you know what? I don’t care how I
sound, as long as you get to hear it.”
“I don’t know what to say. I ...”
Daniël puts a finger on Steve’s lips. “Simply accept that I love you? That I couldn’t ask for
more and don’t long for anything to be different?”
He starts to move. Small, controlled. Finally he leads Steve’s right hand to his cock. “Please
...”
There is an aching tenderness in their lovemaking, an almost disbelief this is happening to
them, this is what they are doing. This is them, together. Still together.
Steve has to look at Daniël’s face. It’s impossible to close his eyes for even a fraction of a
second. All the details get, once again, etched into his memories: the brows furrowed in concentration,
the teeth worrying the lower lip, the drops of sweat, the pupils dilating until only a small rim of the
iris is visible, the vulnerably exposed throat, the inked words on his upper arms, the freckles.
“What do you see? Tell me, what is it that you see?” Daniël asks.
“Everything.” Steve struggles to even say those few words. “You.”
Steve allows himself to reach his climax first. He sees the marvel in Daniël’s smile. A few
more strokes are enough to give his lover his own pleasure.
They both sigh in regret when Steve slips his spent cock out of Daniël.
“Please, your fingers ...” Daniël mutters when they lie side by side, close enough to breathe
each other’s breath. He smiles contently when Steve reaches around, gently touches the closed but still
very relaxed rim and slides two fingers in.
“Like this?” Steve moves the middle and index fingers a bit.
“Yeah. I missed it so much all those months. Tried it with my own a few times, but it’s just not
the same. It has to be yours.”
Minutes pass in gentle half-sleep.
“I’m perfectly happy like this, but I’m afraid I have to rest for a bit. The press conference ...”
Steve retracts his fingers again, but kisses Daniël’s lips to make up for it.
“Can’t we tell Degaré and Matthew to give that press conference without us? Hey, Matthew
might even declare his undying love for Gael. Now that would really be something for the tabloids and
it would give us a bit of peace and quiet,” Daniël half jokes.
Steve feels too drowsy to give any kind of reaction but a faint smile. He can’t even get his
thoughts in a straight line, let alone say anything that would make any sense.
Then a kiss on his forehead. “Steve? Lieverd? I let you sleep for as long as possible, but I’m
afraid you have to shower and get dressed so we get to the Graces on time. Before I forget, there’s
some letter addressed to you. It looks like it was personally delivered because it has no stamp on it.
You want me to read it to you? I haven’t opened it, of course.”
Steve nods, but soon he’s too busy to remember it. The letter simply has to wait until after the
press conference. If it’s important, it would have been sent to the Three Graces Park anyway.
*
Less than half an hour later, they’re on their way. They don’t talk much in the car. Partly
because they’re too nervous but also, what’s the use of repeating the same things over and over again?
Steve expects the journalists to be curious but not overly hostile. He knows his words, and those of
Daniël’s, will be interpreted freely and even be twisted beyond recognition, but there’s not much he
can do about that. He will be asked to consider answering questions he doesn’t want to hear, and he
will answer them in some way or form. What’s the use in him being there otherwise?
They are greeted by Arnaud Degaré and Matthew Kirkby.
“Remember, you have full freedom to speak your mind, or to refuse to answer any question
you don’t like,” Degaré says. “When it gets too much for you, we can stop. Oh, and Daniël? There are
some gentlemen from the Dutch press. They’d appreciate it if you could answer a few questions in
your own language.”
Daniël nods. “No problem.”
Then, to Steve, “You’re okay?”
Steve takes his crutches from Daniël and smiles. “I’m fine. You’re with me, the manager’s
with us and the captain. The best support anyone could hope for.”
“We have a pretty full house too. About fifty of them ...no, must be at least a dozen more. I
guess nearly half from abroad,” Matthew says. “It’s enough to make even me nervous.”
The words are an invitation, and Steve appreciates his captain’s (still his captain, mostly
because of Daniël, he knows all too well) gesture. “He sat there for me, all those months ago, when I
couldn’t defend myself. He trusted me implicitly. And you and Degaré were at his side. How can I not
do this?”
Matthew nods. Steve doesn’t miss the quiet sadness in his eyes, the almost-suggestion of
jealousy, but there is nothing he can do or say to make it better.
The press room is packed to a point that several journalists have to stand. It’s not easy to
ignore the rising panic for Steve, but Daniël touches his shoulder in a gesture of support. He doubts he
will be able to say anything coherent in the next hour. Staying on his feet until he’s ready to
manoeuvre himself on to his chair is hard enough as it is.
“Could have been at least twice as many, with the amount of requests we received,” Matthew
whispers in his ear. “But that’s not really helping you, is it?”
Steve can’t help but smile.
He hears Degaré cracking a few jokes with some familiar faces to break the ice; to distract
them. He never liked being the centre of attention, and he managed to avoid it with a certain aptitude
but this time, most eyes will be concentrated on his face, even if one of the others is actually doing the
talking.
He feels Daniël’s face very close to his own, their foreheads touching, and his lover’s hand
gently resting on his arm. And for a few blessed seconds there’s no one in the room but them.
Whatever happens over the next hour, he knows what does and doesn’t matter.
Like always, the questions are asked in polite voices. They’re professionals, doing a job.
First it’s Arnaud Degaré and Matthew Kirkby talking, giving Steve an opportunity to gather his
thoughts. The usual and well-meant words, he has to admit, are a palatable mixture of club politics
and friendship.
Mr Degaré, you’re reconsidering Daniël Borghart’s future with the club?
“Any consideration has to do with his performances during training and matches. I expect him