FIC: Anyone for tennis?
Title: Anyone for tennis?
Pairing: David Cameron/Nick Clegg
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,123
Disclaimer: Don’t own, never happened.
Summary: When the Prime Minister invites Nick Clegg to play a game of tennis in the insufferable heat, the deputy leaps at the chance to get out of the office, but is victory the only thing on David Cameron’s mind, or does he have a hidden agenda?
Author’s note: I love tennis and I love Clameron so I...wrote tennis and Clameron.
Nick looked up from his report at the sound of a bag thudding onto his desk which almost made him smudge his writing. He frowned in irritation; already this incessant heat was making him cranky, and he didn’t need someone waltzing in and interrupting-
Oh.
“Prime Minister!”
“Nick!” David greeted him jovially. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie gone and his shirt rolled up to the elbows. He looked, in short, nothing like a man who was entrusted with the most important, not to mention stressful, job in the country.
Then Nick noticed what was in the bag. Tennis racquets.
“I thought we might play a little tennis!” David said brightly. “It’s a beautiful day, I’m sick of being stuck in the office and I know you play, so let’s head on down to my club for a game.”
“What about the country?”
“The country is currently out at the beach or in a beer garden, drinking ice-cold pints and eating ice-cream, which is where we should be too. I’m pretty sure the country will survive for a few hours without us.”
Nick thought about this, before leaning back in his chair so he could see outside. The heat was shimmering, the asphalt of Downing Street blurring into the lush greenery of the trees; birds were singing and the sky was that sort of Mediterranean blue that makes you long for the coolness of the ocean. In short, it was the perfect day for spending outside; certainly not slaving over the budget deficit in a tight, starchy shirt with rapidly growing sweat stains.
“All right,” he agreed. So he’d be playing tennis with the Prime Minister, and leader of the fucking Tories no less, which probably meant he knew every dirty trick in the book, but Nick could certainly think of worse ways to spend a few hours. He didn’t like admitting it, but he and David had become almost friends since the Coalition was agreed two weeks ago. It was certainly the case that they’d found much more in common than he’d ever thought possible. But he wasn’t going to let David know any of this, so with a sly grin, he looked the Prime Minister in those bright blue eyes of his and retorted; “Just promise me you won’t wear your denim tennis kit!”
David made a noise which was something like a cross between a splutter and a gasp as he realised his deputy had seen the rather embarrassing photo of him playing tennis an entirely denim ensemble. And not just denim; different shades of denim. Hemmed shorts and a baggy denim shirt!
But David Cameron wasn’t the Prime Minister for nothing; he swiftly recovered and replied with a similarly damning jibe.
“So long as you don’t wear your hot pants!”
Nick was stunned for a moment, before the two men eyed each other good-naturedly and shared a laugh.
“It’s a deal, Prime Minister!”
*
David’s tennis club was exactly what Nick had expected; discreet, spotlessly maintained, and very, very Tory. He fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes as he eyed the svelte, middle-aged, charity-organising ladies with their perfectly coiffed hair, facelifts and sparkling tennis whites, barely breaking a sweat on court or sipping lemonade and Pimm’s in the shade. David, to his credit, was studiously ignoring the nudges and whispers as the two most powerful men in the country strolled through the club.
“There you go,” David fumbled in his carry-all and brought out a neatly folded set of tennis whites (of course, it was that sort of club) and a racquet for Nick. “Meet me back out here when you’re changed.”
Nick was pleasantly surprised to find the clothes fitted him perfectly, as David was slightly bigger than he was. Then he realised how new they felt, with those fresh creases and smell that comes from never-before worn clothes. He almost laughed. David had bought these especially for him? Or, more likely, sent one of his aides to do the job. But instead of scorn and amusement, he suddenly found the act incredibly thoughtful and sweet. Hurriedly shaking his head of any other such thoughts, he grabbed the racquet and headed outside.
The sun was beating down savagely as they took to a secluded corner court, the trimmed hedges throwing shadows across the perimeter of the court. David threw down his bag in the corner, along with several bottles of water and towels.
“I thought you had a leg injury,” Nick remarked, grabbing one of the bottles and taking a swig, relishing the coldness and the droplets of condensation against his sweaty palm.
“That’s what I told Sarkozy,” David explained, performing a few warm-up stretches. “I mean, he’d bought me this brand new racquet as a gift, and he was obviously gagging for a game, but I couldn’t, could I? I was there on a diplomatic visit - if I’d beaten him, which I’m sure I would have, there would have been an international incident! I hear the President has a little complex about people being better than him.”
Nick raised his eyebrows at the confident arrogance emanating from the Prime Minister. However, he’d said it in such a way that gave the deputy no reason whatsoever to disbelieve him, and he had to laugh at the thought of David beating President Sarkozy, on his own court, with a racquet he had given him.
“But you’re perfectly okay with beating me?” he asked, placing a hand on his hip.
“Naturally,” David flashed Nick a grin. “You’re not going to declare war on me if I do.”
“The question is, David,” Nick retorted, his competitive spirit roused as he jogged lightly on the spot. “Are you going to declare war on me if I win?”
*
The match was tightly contested. Both men were excellent players and of similar fitness, so balls fairly zipped across the grass in fierce rallies and winners were flying off both their racquets. Neither man relinquished their serve, so they found themselves into a tie-break at the end of the first set.
Nick wiped the sweat from his brow that was slowly trickling into his eyes and down the back of his neck into his polo shirt. Christ, it was hot - it was the middle of May for fuck’s sake and the mercury was pushing thirty. A slight breeze ruffled his soaked hair, but other than that, the sun beat down mercilessly onto the court and his skin. His mouth was dry and his vision blurry, and he thought wildly of lying on a picnic blanket in the Downing Street garden with David and ice-creams. But these delirious fantasies were quickly replaced by his reflex kicking in as David served to his backhand. Throwing his body to the side, he was able to get his racquet squarely onto the ball and watched as David came to net, completely underestimating his opponent’s return. The satisfaction as it screamed down the line and past the Prime Minister for a stunning winner was something Nick knew could never be beaten. He clenched his fist and couldn’t prevent a roar of approval ripping from his throat, before realizing who he was playing. But a swift glance at the Prime Minister saw him lightly applaud the winner and shoot Nick a look that seemed to say ‘Whatever you can do, I can do better! Bring it on!’.
Nick was only too happy to.
*
The Deputy Prime Minister won the set, but David went on to win the next. It was as they were locked in battle in the third and decider that Nick began to look at David differently. He no longer saw a slightly disagreeable, over-confident Tory whom he had fallen into business with and just about managed to maintain a friendly relationship, but the man himself, stripped down to the bare bones; his basest level. He saw the determination behind those blue eyes as he stretched for a return; the same determination that caused him to fight for this coalition, because he knew it was the best thing for the country. He saw the strength of character as he launched himself into an aggressive forehand; the same strength of character that would be called on time and time again when the government entered a crisis. He saw the deep love in his face as he poured his heart into the game he adored; the same deep love he felt for every inch of British soil under his leadership.
Nick saw all these things in him, clearer than he’d ever seen another person before. David’s hair was soaked with sweat, falling across his eyes and curling at the back of his neck over skin that was starting to blush pink in the harsh sunlight, mouth set in a thin line of concentration which broke out into a smile as he hit a backhand winner. He wasn’t just the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland any more. He was David, and it made Nick’s heart race just that little bit faster.
He quickly attributed this revelation with being far too invested in the game, which had now turned into a fierce battle of wills, as if Nick was facing up to David over PMQs (which he still hadn’t quite ruled out as he quite fancied going toe to toe with the Prime Minister and he was pretty sure he’d win), but the green benches had morphed into a grass court, and the argument was scored in love.
5-6. 30-40. Break and match point on David’s serve. The two men hadn’t given an inch, but a couple of inspired winners from Nick brought the deputy to the brink of victory. They stared at each other across the net and time seemed to slow; blurry and thick in the oppressive heat. The surroundings seemed to hum - far away was the clink of ice in glasses, silvery laughter and bees in the hedges, but for now, held fast in their quest for glory, enclosed in a grass rectangle, thirty six feet by seventy eight feet. Silence but for the thudding of Nick’s heart against his chest, roaring in his eardrums as he readied himself for David’s serve.
And in that moment, as their eyes locked, Nick knew which way David was going to go. He knew. The only question was: did he follow him?
Of course he did. His racquet connected perfectly with the serve down the T and Nick watched in satisfaction as his return landed neatly just inside the baseline, just beyond David’s reach. Victory.
Nick wasn’t sure how to react. He was shivering in elation over beating the Prime Minister, but his tact and diplomacy prevented him from celebrating in David’s face. He didn’t know if he was a bad loser - he certainly didn’t want a Sarkozy on his hands. Approaching the net, each judging the others movements, scrutinising every flicker of emotion. They reached each other and David immediately reached out to grasp Nick’s hand, sweat-lined palms crashing together and mingling. The air was noticeably hotter, energy literally radiating from them, and Nick was finding it difficult to breathe, or think for that matter. David was panting softly, and they were so close that he could feel the warm breath settling on his exposed neck. So close he could see the droplets of sweat that clung to David’s temples, and felt an overwhelming desire to stick out his tongue and taste him.
Woah.
“Good match, deputy,” David said, his gaze boring into Nick as he asserted his dominance, letting him know that he may have beaten him in tennis, but he was still boss. It sent a shiver down Nick’s spine and he struggled to form a reply.
“You too,” he said faintly.
He wasn’t sure if it was the tension or the heat that prevented him having any control over his body or mind. All coherent thoughts seemed to have left his head as he saw David’s mouth curl into a smile, not altogether friendly.
Still gripping his hand, David led Nick into the shaded corner of the court and, with the merest hint of force, flicked his wrist so Nick was propelled back slightly, stumbling against the hedge.
“You beat me,” David said, his voice low and dangerous as he stooped to pick up a bottle of water, taking a long drink before pouring the rest over his head, a stream glinting in the sunlight. The motion was quite possibly the sexiest thing Nick had ever seen, and he had to physically stop himself from whimpering.
But he now knew what he wanted.
“Are you going to declare war on me?” he asked softly, expressively, pointedly.
“What’s that old saying?” David replied steadily, never taking his eyes off Nick as he walked forward slowly until he was so close, the two men were sharing the same thick, muggy air. “Make love not war?”
“David-” Nick began weakly, but was suddenly cut off by the Prime Minister’s warm mouth enveloping his own, so roughly that they drew sudden, sharp breaths. Nick felt himself pushed further backwards into the rough, thick hedge scratching the base of his neck; a sign that this was actually real, and the Prime Minister’s claiming caresses in his hair were actually happening.
They were.
The kiss lasted until neither man could stand the closeness any more, cloying, sweat-soaked clothing rubbing and rumpling with pressed bodies and wandering hands. Nick had gasped as the Prime Minister had nipped his bottom lip, then dragged his teeth along the pink flesh, completely relishing his assertion. He had groaned when David’s hand had travelled south and fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts. He had bucked his hips when those fingers had cupped between his legs, feeling the hard cock in his pants. He had beckoned for more when David had finally stepped back and Nick immediately missed the desperate heat.
“Somebody might see us,” David breathed, stepping forward again and showering kisses along Nick’s jaw. The Deputy Prime Minister smiled and stuck out his tongue to David’s neck and tasted him. Faded, expensive aftershave, sweat and grass. Summer days.
“Yeah,” Nick murmured, inhaling that scent and pulling David closer. “They might.”
“I knew playing tennis would be a good idea.” There was a hint of smugness in David’s voice that betrayed the fact that this might not have been a mere unstoppable impulse.
“Wait…you…?” Nick could hardly get the words out, not least because he was starkly aware of David’s hand snaking back down into his shorts and it was difficult to concentrate.
“You don’t know how fuckable you look working at your desk, or explaining one of you fucking liberal schemes to me,” David said gruffly in his ear, the vibrations of his voice sending the blood in Nick’s brain directly to his groin. The word ‘fuck’ rolled off David’s tongue in a practiced, easy motion, and the deputy tried, and failed, to stop himself imagining another situation in which to use it.
“Speaking of desks - fuck - why don’t we go back?”
They were so close now, every part of them touching and pressed firmly against the shaded hedge, with the sound of balls whacking back and forth from the next court, a mere five metres away, but completely hidden. They seemed suspended in this position, safe in this secluded corner where the outside world had no idea that the Prime Minister and his deputy were kissing and groping and panting and doing just about anything in desperation that wasn’t ripping each other’s clothes off and fucking, even though it was quite patently obvious that was the thing both men wanted most of all.
“Yeah,” David reluctantly stepped back from their cocoon, fingers trailing down his back, ghosting over damp hipbones. “But what about...?” he gestured the bulge in Nick’s (and his own) shorts. It wouldn’t exactly do to go wandering about a tennis club of this stature with raging hard-ons.
“Help me,” Nick pleaded, and the desperation in his voice was almost enough to make David come there and then. He stepped forward once more with renewed purpose, crashing his lips into Nick’s and pushing his groin to meet the deputy’s, grinding his hips and enjoying the friction. Nick was moaning into his mouth, and fuck, if it wasn’t the hottest thing David had ever heard. All it took was a warm palm to grasp his cock and he was shuddering and biting down on Nick’s shoulder in a bid to keep his cries to a minimum.
“Come for me, Nick,” he whispered in his ear, biting down on the lobe as his fingers toyed with the deputy’s erection.
Nick’s fingers scrabbled into his hair, nails almost piercing his skin as he came, eyes tightly closed and mouth open in a silent cry, before collapsing slightly into David’s arms.
David smiled.
*
The two men met up again outside the changing room, back in their usual uniform of loose-fitting white shirts and pressed smart trousers. They were suddenly transported back to their previous forms: the Prime Minister and his deputy. Had anything else returned to the default mode?
Nick’s heart thudded against his chest as he approached him, terrified that what he had just experienced had been a dream, but David touched his hand briefly and gave Nick an absolutely filthy glance.
“Let’s get back shall we?” the question was laden with double meaning.
Nick nodded fervently, and they turned to go.
“Oh Prime Minister, won’t you stay for afternoon tea?” a cultivated voice rang out and the two men stopped dead in their tracks. One of the ladies had seized her opportunity to collar David before he left.
“I think I’d rather die,” David murmured and Nick stifled a laugh.
“Excuse me??” the lady looked taken-aback, before David turned to her, his most charming smile plastered across his face.
“I’m afraid the deputy and I have urgent business to attend to. Next time, maybe? Come on, Nick.”
Nick couldn’t prevent the smile from seeping across his face as he walked, too close, next to the Prime Minister, their arms brushing every so often. He was suddenly transported back to his youth. The happy smiles of boys, yellow tennis balls scuffed grass-green, and irises as blue as the summer sky.
Pairing: David Cameron/Nick Clegg
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,123
Disclaimer: Don’t own, never happened.
Summary: When the Prime Minister invites Nick Clegg to play a game of tennis in the insufferable heat, the deputy leaps at the chance to get out of the office, but is victory the only thing on David Cameron’s mind, or does he have a hidden agenda?
Author’s note: I love tennis and I love Clameron so I...wrote tennis and Clameron.
Nick looked up from his report at the sound of a bag thudding onto his desk which almost made him smudge his writing. He frowned in irritation; already this incessant heat was making him cranky, and he didn’t need someone waltzing in and interrupting-
Oh.
“Prime Minister!”
“Nick!” David greeted him jovially. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie gone and his shirt rolled up to the elbows. He looked, in short, nothing like a man who was entrusted with the most important, not to mention stressful, job in the country.
Then Nick noticed what was in the bag. Tennis racquets.
“I thought we might play a little tennis!” David said brightly. “It’s a beautiful day, I’m sick of being stuck in the office and I know you play, so let’s head on down to my club for a game.”
“What about the country?”
“The country is currently out at the beach or in a beer garden, drinking ice-cold pints and eating ice-cream, which is where we should be too. I’m pretty sure the country will survive for a few hours without us.”
Nick thought about this, before leaning back in his chair so he could see outside. The heat was shimmering, the asphalt of Downing Street blurring into the lush greenery of the trees; birds were singing and the sky was that sort of Mediterranean blue that makes you long for the coolness of the ocean. In short, it was the perfect day for spending outside; certainly not slaving over the budget deficit in a tight, starchy shirt with rapidly growing sweat stains.
“All right,” he agreed. So he’d be playing tennis with the Prime Minister, and leader of the fucking Tories no less, which probably meant he knew every dirty trick in the book, but Nick could certainly think of worse ways to spend a few hours. He didn’t like admitting it, but he and David had become almost friends since the Coalition was agreed two weeks ago. It was certainly the case that they’d found much more in common than he’d ever thought possible. But he wasn’t going to let David know any of this, so with a sly grin, he looked the Prime Minister in those bright blue eyes of his and retorted; “Just promise me you won’t wear your denim tennis kit!”
David made a noise which was something like a cross between a splutter and a gasp as he realised his deputy had seen the rather embarrassing photo of him playing tennis an entirely denim ensemble. And not just denim; different shades of denim. Hemmed shorts and a baggy denim shirt!
But David Cameron wasn’t the Prime Minister for nothing; he swiftly recovered and replied with a similarly damning jibe.
“So long as you don’t wear your hot pants!”
Nick was stunned for a moment, before the two men eyed each other good-naturedly and shared a laugh.
“It’s a deal, Prime Minister!”
*
David’s tennis club was exactly what Nick had expected; discreet, spotlessly maintained, and very, very Tory. He fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes as he eyed the svelte, middle-aged, charity-organising ladies with their perfectly coiffed hair, facelifts and sparkling tennis whites, barely breaking a sweat on court or sipping lemonade and Pimm’s in the shade. David, to his credit, was studiously ignoring the nudges and whispers as the two most powerful men in the country strolled through the club.
“There you go,” David fumbled in his carry-all and brought out a neatly folded set of tennis whites (of course, it was that sort of club) and a racquet for Nick. “Meet me back out here when you’re changed.”
Nick was pleasantly surprised to find the clothes fitted him perfectly, as David was slightly bigger than he was. Then he realised how new they felt, with those fresh creases and smell that comes from never-before worn clothes. He almost laughed. David had bought these especially for him? Or, more likely, sent one of his aides to do the job. But instead of scorn and amusement, he suddenly found the act incredibly thoughtful and sweet. Hurriedly shaking his head of any other such thoughts, he grabbed the racquet and headed outside.
The sun was beating down savagely as they took to a secluded corner court, the trimmed hedges throwing shadows across the perimeter of the court. David threw down his bag in the corner, along with several bottles of water and towels.
“I thought you had a leg injury,” Nick remarked, grabbing one of the bottles and taking a swig, relishing the coldness and the droplets of condensation against his sweaty palm.
“That’s what I told Sarkozy,” David explained, performing a few warm-up stretches. “I mean, he’d bought me this brand new racquet as a gift, and he was obviously gagging for a game, but I couldn’t, could I? I was there on a diplomatic visit - if I’d beaten him, which I’m sure I would have, there would have been an international incident! I hear the President has a little complex about people being better than him.”
Nick raised his eyebrows at the confident arrogance emanating from the Prime Minister. However, he’d said it in such a way that gave the deputy no reason whatsoever to disbelieve him, and he had to laugh at the thought of David beating President Sarkozy, on his own court, with a racquet he had given him.
“But you’re perfectly okay with beating me?” he asked, placing a hand on his hip.
“Naturally,” David flashed Nick a grin. “You’re not going to declare war on me if I do.”
“The question is, David,” Nick retorted, his competitive spirit roused as he jogged lightly on the spot. “Are you going to declare war on me if I win?”
*
The match was tightly contested. Both men were excellent players and of similar fitness, so balls fairly zipped across the grass in fierce rallies and winners were flying off both their racquets. Neither man relinquished their serve, so they found themselves into a tie-break at the end of the first set.
Nick wiped the sweat from his brow that was slowly trickling into his eyes and down the back of his neck into his polo shirt. Christ, it was hot - it was the middle of May for fuck’s sake and the mercury was pushing thirty. A slight breeze ruffled his soaked hair, but other than that, the sun beat down mercilessly onto the court and his skin. His mouth was dry and his vision blurry, and he thought wildly of lying on a picnic blanket in the Downing Street garden with David and ice-creams. But these delirious fantasies were quickly replaced by his reflex kicking in as David served to his backhand. Throwing his body to the side, he was able to get his racquet squarely onto the ball and watched as David came to net, completely underestimating his opponent’s return. The satisfaction as it screamed down the line and past the Prime Minister for a stunning winner was something Nick knew could never be beaten. He clenched his fist and couldn’t prevent a roar of approval ripping from his throat, before realizing who he was playing. But a swift glance at the Prime Minister saw him lightly applaud the winner and shoot Nick a look that seemed to say ‘Whatever you can do, I can do better! Bring it on!’.
Nick was only too happy to.
*
The Deputy Prime Minister won the set, but David went on to win the next. It was as they were locked in battle in the third and decider that Nick began to look at David differently. He no longer saw a slightly disagreeable, over-confident Tory whom he had fallen into business with and just about managed to maintain a friendly relationship, but the man himself, stripped down to the bare bones; his basest level. He saw the determination behind those blue eyes as he stretched for a return; the same determination that caused him to fight for this coalition, because he knew it was the best thing for the country. He saw the strength of character as he launched himself into an aggressive forehand; the same strength of character that would be called on time and time again when the government entered a crisis. He saw the deep love in his face as he poured his heart into the game he adored; the same deep love he felt for every inch of British soil under his leadership.
Nick saw all these things in him, clearer than he’d ever seen another person before. David’s hair was soaked with sweat, falling across his eyes and curling at the back of his neck over skin that was starting to blush pink in the harsh sunlight, mouth set in a thin line of concentration which broke out into a smile as he hit a backhand winner. He wasn’t just the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland any more. He was David, and it made Nick’s heart race just that little bit faster.
He quickly attributed this revelation with being far too invested in the game, which had now turned into a fierce battle of wills, as if Nick was facing up to David over PMQs (which he still hadn’t quite ruled out as he quite fancied going toe to toe with the Prime Minister and he was pretty sure he’d win), but the green benches had morphed into a grass court, and the argument was scored in love.
5-6. 30-40. Break and match point on David’s serve. The two men hadn’t given an inch, but a couple of inspired winners from Nick brought the deputy to the brink of victory. They stared at each other across the net and time seemed to slow; blurry and thick in the oppressive heat. The surroundings seemed to hum - far away was the clink of ice in glasses, silvery laughter and bees in the hedges, but for now, held fast in their quest for glory, enclosed in a grass rectangle, thirty six feet by seventy eight feet. Silence but for the thudding of Nick’s heart against his chest, roaring in his eardrums as he readied himself for David’s serve.
And in that moment, as their eyes locked, Nick knew which way David was going to go. He knew. The only question was: did he follow him?
Of course he did. His racquet connected perfectly with the serve down the T and Nick watched in satisfaction as his return landed neatly just inside the baseline, just beyond David’s reach. Victory.
Nick wasn’t sure how to react. He was shivering in elation over beating the Prime Minister, but his tact and diplomacy prevented him from celebrating in David’s face. He didn’t know if he was a bad loser - he certainly didn’t want a Sarkozy on his hands. Approaching the net, each judging the others movements, scrutinising every flicker of emotion. They reached each other and David immediately reached out to grasp Nick’s hand, sweat-lined palms crashing together and mingling. The air was noticeably hotter, energy literally radiating from them, and Nick was finding it difficult to breathe, or think for that matter. David was panting softly, and they were so close that he could feel the warm breath settling on his exposed neck. So close he could see the droplets of sweat that clung to David’s temples, and felt an overwhelming desire to stick out his tongue and taste him.
Woah.
“Good match, deputy,” David said, his gaze boring into Nick as he asserted his dominance, letting him know that he may have beaten him in tennis, but he was still boss. It sent a shiver down Nick’s spine and he struggled to form a reply.
“You too,” he said faintly.
He wasn’t sure if it was the tension or the heat that prevented him having any control over his body or mind. All coherent thoughts seemed to have left his head as he saw David’s mouth curl into a smile, not altogether friendly.
Still gripping his hand, David led Nick into the shaded corner of the court and, with the merest hint of force, flicked his wrist so Nick was propelled back slightly, stumbling against the hedge.
“You beat me,” David said, his voice low and dangerous as he stooped to pick up a bottle of water, taking a long drink before pouring the rest over his head, a stream glinting in the sunlight. The motion was quite possibly the sexiest thing Nick had ever seen, and he had to physically stop himself from whimpering.
But he now knew what he wanted.
“Are you going to declare war on me?” he asked softly, expressively, pointedly.
“What’s that old saying?” David replied steadily, never taking his eyes off Nick as he walked forward slowly until he was so close, the two men were sharing the same thick, muggy air. “Make love not war?”
“David-” Nick began weakly, but was suddenly cut off by the Prime Minister’s warm mouth enveloping his own, so roughly that they drew sudden, sharp breaths. Nick felt himself pushed further backwards into the rough, thick hedge scratching the base of his neck; a sign that this was actually real, and the Prime Minister’s claiming caresses in his hair were actually happening.
They were.
The kiss lasted until neither man could stand the closeness any more, cloying, sweat-soaked clothing rubbing and rumpling with pressed bodies and wandering hands. Nick had gasped as the Prime Minister had nipped his bottom lip, then dragged his teeth along the pink flesh, completely relishing his assertion. He had groaned when David’s hand had travelled south and fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts. He had bucked his hips when those fingers had cupped between his legs, feeling the hard cock in his pants. He had beckoned for more when David had finally stepped back and Nick immediately missed the desperate heat.
“Somebody might see us,” David breathed, stepping forward again and showering kisses along Nick’s jaw. The Deputy Prime Minister smiled and stuck out his tongue to David’s neck and tasted him. Faded, expensive aftershave, sweat and grass. Summer days.
“Yeah,” Nick murmured, inhaling that scent and pulling David closer. “They might.”
“I knew playing tennis would be a good idea.” There was a hint of smugness in David’s voice that betrayed the fact that this might not have been a mere unstoppable impulse.
“Wait…you…?” Nick could hardly get the words out, not least because he was starkly aware of David’s hand snaking back down into his shorts and it was difficult to concentrate.
“You don’t know how fuckable you look working at your desk, or explaining one of you fucking liberal schemes to me,” David said gruffly in his ear, the vibrations of his voice sending the blood in Nick’s brain directly to his groin. The word ‘fuck’ rolled off David’s tongue in a practiced, easy motion, and the deputy tried, and failed, to stop himself imagining another situation in which to use it.
“Speaking of desks - fuck - why don’t we go back?”
They were so close now, every part of them touching and pressed firmly against the shaded hedge, with the sound of balls whacking back and forth from the next court, a mere five metres away, but completely hidden. They seemed suspended in this position, safe in this secluded corner where the outside world had no idea that the Prime Minister and his deputy were kissing and groping and panting and doing just about anything in desperation that wasn’t ripping each other’s clothes off and fucking, even though it was quite patently obvious that was the thing both men wanted most of all.
“Yeah,” David reluctantly stepped back from their cocoon, fingers trailing down his back, ghosting over damp hipbones. “But what about...?” he gestured the bulge in Nick’s (and his own) shorts. It wouldn’t exactly do to go wandering about a tennis club of this stature with raging hard-ons.
“Help me,” Nick pleaded, and the desperation in his voice was almost enough to make David come there and then. He stepped forward once more with renewed purpose, crashing his lips into Nick’s and pushing his groin to meet the deputy’s, grinding his hips and enjoying the friction. Nick was moaning into his mouth, and fuck, if it wasn’t the hottest thing David had ever heard. All it took was a warm palm to grasp his cock and he was shuddering and biting down on Nick’s shoulder in a bid to keep his cries to a minimum.
“Come for me, Nick,” he whispered in his ear, biting down on the lobe as his fingers toyed with the deputy’s erection.
Nick’s fingers scrabbled into his hair, nails almost piercing his skin as he came, eyes tightly closed and mouth open in a silent cry, before collapsing slightly into David’s arms.
David smiled.
*
The two men met up again outside the changing room, back in their usual uniform of loose-fitting white shirts and pressed smart trousers. They were suddenly transported back to their previous forms: the Prime Minister and his deputy. Had anything else returned to the default mode?
Nick’s heart thudded against his chest as he approached him, terrified that what he had just experienced had been a dream, but David touched his hand briefly and gave Nick an absolutely filthy glance.
“Let’s get back shall we?” the question was laden with double meaning.
Nick nodded fervently, and they turned to go.
“Oh Prime Minister, won’t you stay for afternoon tea?” a cultivated voice rang out and the two men stopped dead in their tracks. One of the ladies had seized her opportunity to collar David before he left.
“I think I’d rather die,” David murmured and Nick stifled a laugh.
“Excuse me??” the lady looked taken-aback, before David turned to her, his most charming smile plastered across his face.
“I’m afraid the deputy and I have urgent business to attend to. Next time, maybe? Come on, Nick.”
Nick couldn’t prevent the smile from seeping across his face as he walked, too close, next to the Prime Minister, their arms brushing every so often. He was suddenly transported back to his youth. The happy smiles of boys, yellow tennis balls scuffed grass-green, and irises as blue as the summer sky.