After the Scrum (6 page)

Ordering himself to behave, Caddock spoke casually about the work remaining on the bar. He offered Francis one of the custard tarts while tossing a peanut butter biscuit to Sherlock. The two eyed him suspiciously while he leaned against one of the support pillars in the bar with his own pastry in hand.

Fragile.

It was one of the words that struck him whenever Francis was near. Not that Caddock believed him to be weak. There was an immense amount of strength in the man, but fragility as well.

He'd been avoiding Francis for this precise reason. The fire of desire in his belly ignited further each time. He couldn't afford to want him.

They were all wrong for each other. Caddock was an overgrown brute of a man, older and experienced. Francis likely preferred someone more refined, and certainly younger.

"Caddock?"

But, oh, the things that voice makes me want to do.

He blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from his sudden desire to drag breathy, pleasurable moans from Francis. "Something wrong?"

"Well, not wrong, but you've smashed a custard tart in your hand." Francis gave him a cheeky smile. "Did it need to be punished for being a naughty tart?"

"Naughty tart?" Caddock coughed on the bit of pastry he'd just taken. His eyes darkened at the bemused innocent grin sent his way. "Tarts often need a firm hand. I'm sure Stevie is familiar with it."

Francis gaped at him before collapsing into fits of laughter. He bent over at his waist, clinging to a chair for support. "I'll
never
be able to look Ruth in the eye again, not without giggling like a loon."

They shared a laugh while Caddock wiped the remnants of the custard from his fingers. He hesitated on the last one. Making a quick decision, his eyes stayed on Francis while he slowly and rather obscenely licked his thumb clean.

"I would—should—maybe." Francis spun around, walking straight into a table. "Must finish up here."

Caddock watched, completely amused while the man stumbled around, studiously avoiding him. "Can I help?"

"No, no."

"You certain?"

"Yes." Francis muttered "'Oh, God" under his breath, though Caddock heard him in the quiet of the pub. "It's all under control."

Maybe there is hope after all.

Chapter Nine

Francis

"Oh, God, drown me in the sea." Francis sat in Watson, staring at the open door of the pub where Caddock was struggling with a large box. "And now he's bending over. Look at that arse."

Sherlock simply blinked at him, clearly unimpressed by the fine specimen before them. He also seemed anxious to get out of the Fiat. Francis wanted to take a few moments to compose himself.

It didn't help when Caddock seemed to take his time standing up straight. Finally, he did, pausing to stretch slowly. And
that
visual would be going straight into Francis's fantasies.

Dragging his gaze away from the immensely attractive man, Francis lectured himself sternly on avoiding doing anything even remotely humiliating. Running into furniture didn't evoke a sense of confidence in anyone. Cool and calm was required.

Cool.

And calm.

So of course, the moment Francis strolled casually into the pub, Sherlock cut in front of him. They stumbled over each other while he tried to avoid stomping on his menace of a dog. The move finally sent him hurtling towards the hard edge of the nearby wooden bar.

Strong hands caught him by the arms and lifted him up on his feet. Francis's eyes met Caddock's. He cursed his fair skin for blushing at their sudden closeness.

Francis cursed other parts of his body when they also reacted to the scent of Caddock. It was all male, a heady, complex combination of all the little things that meant Caddock. He found himself wanting to wallow in it.

And in Caddock, with his lovely muscled rugby body. Francis found his hands gripping those strong arms shamelessly. The Brute peered down at him with his lips quirked up slightly in amusement; neither appeared in a hurry to release the other.

"Morning." Caddock's gruff whisper sent a warm tingling down Francis's spine. He tugged Francis against his body tightly for a moment before finally releasing him. "I brought an extra coffee for you."

Francis thought several double shots of espresso wouldn't be enough to shake him out of this stupor. This pub job needed to be over. It was hell on his emotions, never mind the rest of him.

"You've done brilliant work." Caddock gestured with his cup around the bar. "Can't thank you enough."

And another blush.

Cursed genetics.

Distracted by his frustrating skin, Francis failed to realize Caddock had moved closer. He started in surprise when a hand plucked the cup out of his hand. It returned to capture his chin to tilt his head up.

"I plan on kissing you." Caddock towered over him by a few inches. His eyes glinted with what could only be desire. "Now would be the time to punch me for being such a forward bastard."

"I might resort to violence if you don't kiss me." Francis hadn't enjoyed a decent snog in ages.

He felt dwarfed by the brute who wound his arms around him. His expectations were for a power kiss to match the man. Caddock drew him in with a teasing brush of their lips together. His tongue then teased Francis's lower lip. The light kiss had Francis searching for more. He opened his mouth and then Caddock struck with a practiced ease.

His arms were iron bands around Francis. Caddock's lips and tongue took control of the kiss. He explored every inch of Francis's mouth with a sensually dominant possessiveness.

"Better than coffee?" Caddock asked after tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth. Caddock's voice had dropped even lower which sent lovely shivers along Francis's spine. He'd never had a voice fetish before now. "I'm certainly awake."

The tight hold on Francis's chin didn't lessen at all. The Brute certainly preferred being in some semblance of control. Francis flicked his tongue against Caddock's lips, hoping for another snog or ten.

"Looking for more?"

Afraid his body would simply slump to the floor, Francis caught the sides of Caddock's striped rugby shirt.
Does he ever wear anything other than jeans and T-shirts of one form or another?
The arm around his back pressed in more tightly. It caused the hardening in his trousers to grind into the man's hard thigh.

"Devlin's off with his grandparents for the weekend." Caddock gained a firm grip on Francis with his fingers in his hair, dragging his head back. "I'll cook supper."

"For yourself?"

"And you."

"Are you asking me out?"

"In, actually." Caddock chuckled. "Say yes."

Smart arse.

Francis could frankly come up with a thousand reasons to say no, most of them involving some iteration of dating a client being bad for business. If it went horribly, the two of them would be stuck in a small village. Looe was filled with gossips. His gran was the chief amongst them.

He had a suspicious feeling the entire village would know about this dinner within hours of it happening.
Saints help me.
Was it worth all this for one date and some snogs? The confident smirk being sent his way took all his arguments and threw them in the rubbish.

"Yes." Francis took a moment to realize it had actually been his voice agreeing to dinner. "I'd love to have dinner with you."

Caddock's hands finally shifted away from him, tracing the seam of Francis's lips one last time before stepping back. "Good."

Good?

As if they hadn't been snogging five seconds before, Caddock disappeared up the stairs that led to the office above the pub. He caught a glimpse of the impressive bulge in the man's jeans.
Blimey.
It left Francis standing in the middle of the room for several minutes attempting to regain a semblance of composure.

Sherlock danced around him, trying to get his attention. The dog finally caught the sleeve of his cardigan in his teeth to drag his owner forward. He stopped when they reached the counter where the biscuits were sitting.

Spoilt-rotten mutt.

"Here, you overly indulged creature." Francis tossed one into the air, laughing when Sherlock leapt up to catch it. "Good boy."

How the hell am I supposed to focus on the last details of the bar with a hard-on the size of the Thames in my trousers?

Chapter Ten

Caddock

Supper.

It seemed simple. And it was with a four-year-old. Francis might not be impressed by toast soldiers with thick slices of cheddar cheese and a healthy dollop of beans, but Devlin loved them.

The cottage seemed awfully quiet without Devlin in it. Caddock had turned on the telly in the den and the radio in the kitchen in the hopes it would fill the emptiness. He had enough nerves to deal with about the date without adding worry over his nephew to it.

Devlin
would
be fine with his grandparents. They had promised to talk each night and to read a chapter of
The Wind in the Willows
over the phone
.
It had become a tradition between the two of them.

Putting his nephew out of his mind for the moment, Caddock returned his attention to the organized chaos in his kitchen, only to find his attempt at pastry had turned into crumbly gravel. Maybe beef Wellington had been too much of a stretch. It had seemed easy enough in the video tutorial his chef mate had emailed to him.

Francis might not notice beans on toast, right?

Get a bloody grip on yourself. You're the Brute. You don't cave in the face of a first date.

He tossed the remnants of what had been dinner into the rubbish. It was time for Plan B, since Plan A had gone so spectacularly. Five minutes staring into his open refrigerator told him one important thing—living with a child had ruined his ability to be romantic on the spur of the moment. The clock in the den sounded, informing him there was less than an hour to get his shite together.

Plan B.

He scrubbed his fingers through his short, greyish-brown hair. Any trips to local restaurants would set tongues wagging, something to be avoided this early on. Gawking would certainly ruin any sort of romantic endeavour, yet another reason to stay at the cottage where they had guaranteed privacy.

Searching his mind for an idea, Caddock remembered a meal one of his teammates used to make frequently. The dish had become a tradition before all their big tournaments. Rugby players could be a superstitious bunch of bastards.

A simple pasta bake with lots of cheese, spinach and chicken. It would be delicious, though not fancy
.
But then again, why be something he wasn't? It would be better to enter this—whatever it might become—solely as himself.

With the pasta in the oven, Caddock put together a quick chocolate mousse pie. It would set in the refrigerator while they ate. He could think of a number of things to do with the leftover chocolate so the bowl went into the cooler as well. Might as well keep it
just
in case.

Thoughts of Francis stretched out on his bed with a healthy dollop of chocolate mousse on his body flooded Caddock's mind. Getting himself so worked up before the date was a terrible idea. It was time to focus his attention on getting ready.

His hopes for the evening weren't overly grand. The two men had chemistry, explosively so if those kisses earlier had been any sign. Supper would hopefully expand on their tentative start.

And wouldn't it be nice to
not
be alone anymore? The majority of his retired rugby mates were all married with kids running around. He had the kid, maybe not the ideal way, but still, now he wanted a partner to share the madness with.

Caddock wandered over to the pull-up bar set up in one of the taller doorframes along the hallway. A quick set of chin-ups settled the uneasiness in his belly. He would sweep Francis off his feet.

It couldn't be harder than a tackle. He'd done it often enough on the rugby pitch. This would be less violent, and a hell of a lot more fun.

With twenty minutes left, Caddock had a quick shower. Not a vain man by any means, he still carefully selected jeans and a polo shirt that were ever so slightly tighter than necessary. Maybe Francis would stare at his arse again; it had been amusing to watch him in the reflection in the pub windows.

A knock on the door sent a surge of adrenaline through him. He sent a wicked grin at his reflection. It was time to see how many blushes he would earn this evening.

"Sherlock.
Stop it.
" Francis sounded more than a little frazzled on the other side of the door. The plea was followed by a thud and what sounded like glass breaking. "Please? We're trying to make a good impression.
No.
We don't eat the nice flowers. Mud isn't attractive. Naughty Sherlock, naughty. Wait until Gran sees us both covered in mud. I should've left you at home."

Holding back his urge to roar with laughter, Caddock opened the door trying to show concern and
not
amusement. Francis was frantically attempting to extract his dog from acquainting himself with the flower bushes that lined the outside of the cottage. Francis had dressed to impress, even wearing an intricately knotted cravat with his cardigan and jacket, but Sherlock in his exuberance had dragged the both of them through the mud.

They were
covered
in mud, flowers, and twigs.

It shouldn't have turned Caddock on at all. Yet, it did. A lot. He allowed the briefest moment of daydreaming about rolling around starkers in the mud with Francis.

Sodding hard-on.

"Need a hand?" Caddock returned his attention to his floundering date.

"Several." Francis blew out his breath in a rush, knocking loose a stray petal from his face. He gestured to a bag on the ground. "That
was
a bottle of wine. Sherlock apparently disapproved."