Work Text:
Keeley’s been a model long enough to understand a good contract from a bad one, with or without an agency involved. Technically, all her work is meant to go through her agency, but when she’s craving a little added flavour in her portfolio, she indulges in under-the-radar test shoots.
While commercial gigs may pay the bills, the work bores her to tears. Unfortunately, the best contracts often lead to the dullest call sheets; wholly uninspired, from concept to crew. Lately, Keeley’s itching to get a little weird with things – not in the commercial-weird way, which typically involves something low-brow or embarrassing. Keeley wants the good sort of weird: a fashion-forward shoot that centres collaboration, celebrates creativity, and aims to break a mold. A project with a clear vision, coming to life with editorial fashion clippings, bold colour palettes, and styling that’s far from standard, garments often unsuitable for everyday wear. Unless you’re a professional model and you don’t give a flying fuck what’s considered “suitable”, which Keeley often doesn’t.
So, Keeley finally forgoes sorting through contracts and call sheets for inspiration, and decides it’s high time to organize her own test shoot, time-for-print. She links up with two new creatives she’s been dying to work with: a budding fashion designer met through a mutual friend, and a makeup artist she follows on Instagram who’s known for crafting otherworldly, avant-garde looks every Fashion Week. When Keeley secures the shoot location with the photographer, her confidence in the concept soars; all the paid work she’s done with him in the past turned out incredible. And that’s all it takes to get Keeley out of her rut.
Speaking of disregarding suitability, Keeley is infatuated with the final wardrobe. On set, she slips into an all-black bodysuit composed of mostly latex with a few sheer windows at the waist, and turns giddy when she gets a glimpse of herself. She feels like Eartha Kitt, sexy and sleek, the contours of her body emphasised. As the designer experiments with elaborate accessories and dramatic coats, the makeup artist excitedly shows Keeley a photo of a baby-blue eyeliner look. Keeley loves playing with colour, and loves all the creative energy on set whenever money’s not involved, so she lets her have at it.
It’s a fucking great shoot. Keeley squeals as she snaps photos of the camera monitor for her Instagram story, and then exchanges numbers with the makeup artist, Uma, to link her to an upcoming gig with Redbull. It’s Keeley’s favourite thing about this industry: connecting talented people by word-of-mouth and collaborating all over England. A close second has to be trying on a new identity for the day, feeling dollish and doted on at the start, then powerful and playful in front of the lens. It’s liberating, embodying a new alter-ego on set, and sometimes she even carries a whole new vibe over into her life, off-set.
“I look so fucking hot, I don’t even wanna take this off,” Keeley says after the shoot, turning to admire the shine on her bum in the mirror. “Could I buy this off you?”
The designer, Eden, looks up from her phone, seeming suddenly affronted. “Absolutely not,” she says.
Keeley tries not to pout. She knows the crews for time-for-print shoots tend to prefer holding onto the wardrobe and props; could always be used for a paid gig, after all.
“Oh, pet, I’m tellin’ you it’s yours,” Eden says, waving her hands. “Wouldn’t let you give me a penny for it.”
“Oh my god, Eden — are you sure?” Keeley asks, hand on her chest. “I swear, I’ll wear the fuck out of it and tag you on Insta.”
“You’ve already done that,” Eden reminds her with a smile. “But yes, babs, I’m sure.”
“Let me buy you a drink, then,” Keeley bargains.
“Ooh, now you’re talkin’,” Eden says, coming over to fuss with Keeley’s neckline, though the shoot’s long over. “I’m going to meet some friends at this new nightclub near Richmond tonight, if you’re free?”
“I’m in,” Keeley says with a grin. After she gathers her belongings, she gives herself another look in the mirror, wondering how it’ll look with her Prada platforms. “You think I can wear this out?”
Eden’s dark, glossy lips spread into a smile. “ You can wear anything anywhere, babe.”
On the way to the nightclub, Eden mentions that her newest love interest will be there, along with his best mate, who works in finance, or stocks or something equally dull.
“Boring work, but he’s funny, and tall, and you’d be dead fit together,” Eden says, zooming in on a group photo. He is, indeed, well fit. “You interested?”
Keeley’s trying to break old habits, which includes getting out of her normal dating routine. So, what the hell. He’s not a footballer, which is good enough reason to say yes.
After they breeze past the line at the door, Keeley fills Eden in on her footballer woes, but doesn’t need to give much context.
“Oh, trust me, I've been there and back again, many times,” Eden says, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. “Now I’m back to business blokes with big dicks, praying they don’t have secret families.”
“Best part about dating footballers, easier to track their dating history,” Keeley says while eyeing the VIP lounge, typically crawling with footballers and other rich fucks. “Much harder to hide a secret baby or wife.”
“You’re talking yourself back into it,” Eden warns, grabbing Keeley’s elbow. “It’s a trap!”
Keeley laughs into her drink. They chat about Eden's new lad for a few minutes, but when Eden orders another round, she's pulled into a bit of banter with the bartender. Keeley looks around, a little restless, then nudges Eden. “Alright, so where are these boys?”
After tapping on her phone for a moment, Eden rolls her eyes. “Christ, they’re stuck at the door, hold on.”
Keeley waits at the bar, sipping her cocktail and scrolling on her phone. Blind dates aren’t usually her thing, but at least she’ll have the nightclub’s endless distractions and diversions if she’s gotta turn him down. Thing is, sussing out the worst ones is a skill, for one-night-stands and contracts alike. For as long as Keeley’s been dating, she’s managed her own career, with her agent spinning far too many plates to have eyes and ears everywhere. Forging a path for herself between footballers and photographers, Keeley learned how to negotiate, to know her limits, and, most importantly, to set boundaries.
Like clockwork, a lad materialises at her side.
“Hello there.”
“Hi,” Keeley says, making brief eye contact and nodding in his direction. She eyes Eden’s path to the entrance, hoping for the tall businessman of her dreams to emerge, already working out what she’s gonna say to this guy to get him to fuck off.
“You look like Eartha Kitt,” the lad comments, which makes Keeley turn. He nods at her, holding her gaze with a smirk. “Looks absolutely sick.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling politely. “My mate’s the designer. I’ve got an eye out for her now.”
“And I’ve only got eyes for you.”
Keeley snorts. “God, what a line.”
Still, she gives him a proper once-over. He’s wearing an outfit almost opposite hers: white trousers and shirt in soft, touchable cotton. The fit of both, however, is also quite tight, showing off all his muscles, surely as intended. His cropped quiff is brown and unremarkably styled, but when she meets his eyes — impossible to tell the colour, in this lighting — a cheeky glint in them holds her.
“Mind if I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
“Is it still a bad chat-up line if it’s true?”
She smirks, taking a sip as she considers. “Maybe,” she admits. “Too full-on will run ‘em off. Shouldn’t have to tell you that, though.”
He frowns, squinting a bit, then raises a brow. “Well, isn’t being too full-on a better graft, rather than letting someone special slip away?”
Keeley lifts a brow, too, then tilts her body towards him for the first time. He seems to pick up on this, grin etching into his features. “You’re calling a girl you’ve just approached at a bar ’someone special’? Like, dead serious?”
“Yeah, I am,” the lad replies, not missing a beat. He doesn’t seem drunk; he’s not even holding a drink, and she wonders if he'll offer to buy her one. “And, you know, it’s like, at least they’ll know what I think, yeah? If it don’t work out, maybe I made them feel good about themselves for a moment. So it’s worth it, to me.”
“Because a compliment from you means so much,” Keleey says, rolling her eyes, but she is at least a little amused.
“Maybe not. But I am fit, and I like to let other fit people know they’re fit. And you’re fucking next-level fit, you know. Couldn’t help meself.”
“My, putting in quite the shift, tonight.”
He smirks, biting his tongue when he winks. “I work hard.”
Keeley hums, then looks over her shoulder to see Eden at the other end of the bar. No business bloke in sight. Eden waves, then makes a face of interest towards the guy at Keeley’s side. Keeley shrugs and makes a silly face in her direction. When she turns back, the lad is still smirking, and she notices his dimpled chin. It’s a weird thing for her, but it is a thing. And he is rather fit.
“Am I running you off, then?” he asks.
“I’m waiting for someone,” Keeley says, tilting her head as she raises her glass. “Think you can handle a little competition tonight?”
“I love to win,” Jamie replies confidently, and she can practically feel the athleticism radiating from his body. Figures.
But he is passing Keeley’s mental checklist for a one-night-stand, and with flying colours, too. No overfamiliar pet names, no excessive comments about her body at early doors, no unwarranted allusions to shagging, and mercifully, no tedious trading of questions. He’s got banter, charm, and a hell of a face. She glimpses down at the space between their bodies. He’s close, but not once has he crossed into her personal space.
Keeley takes another long drink, holding his gaze. She lowers her glass and nods. “Right then, what’s your name?”
“Jamie Tartt,” he says.
It suits him. “Keeley,” she says, offering her hand.
Instead of shaking it, he lifts her hand, meeting her gaze for a nod of approval before giving it a light kiss, full lips brushing her knuckles. “Pleasure’s mine,” he says, voice lower. He lets go of her hand with some hesitance, eyes burning into her.
Whew, this one is smooth.
Keeley bites her tongue to hide her smile and turns. She finishes off her drink, glancing over her shoulder again as she slides the empty glass across the bar. “Well, Jamie,” she says, letting his name warm in her mouth. “You’ve not got a latex allergy, do you?”
He frowns, then his jaw drops a bit, looking suddenly uncertain. “You… you’re not talking about condoms, are ya?”
Keeley barks out a laugh. Even his pout is charming. It smooths out as she clarifies, “I’m talking about dancing. You and me, and this little number.”
She gestures to her outfit, which is the first time she catches his eyes following the line of her body. They don’t linger too long, but they’re positively sparkling when they meet hers again, his brows raised in appreciation.
“I’d fucking love that,” he says before biting down on a grin.
Keeley lifts his chin with a finger, then nods to the dance floor. “Alright. Come on, you cheeky chap.”
Jamie follows, all but stumbling behind her. As they pass Eden, Keeley leans in to whisper, “Just a dance with this one, and I’ll be back,” before looping her hand around Jamie’s wrist to guide them to the dance floor.
Once immersed in the action, Jamie waits for her to move close. She slides her hands up his chest to his broad shoulders, resting her wrists at the back of his neck.
“I’ve got to admit something,” he murmurs in her ear.
Keeley pulls back, sirens in her head suddenly raging. “Please don’t tell me you’ve got a secret family.”
He scrunches up his face in a confused pout. “Don’t think I’m old enough for that.”
More sirens, fucking hell. “God, please tell me you’re at least, like, twenty.”
“Twenty-two,” he says.
She relaxes, leaning back in to press their cheeks. “Right, I’m out of guesses,” she says. “What is it?”
“Well… I’m a fan of your work, Ms. Jones,” he says, lips brushing her ear.
Something in her brightens; she’s not often name-recognisable, and her ego is stroked sufficiently. “You are?”
“I follow you on Insta.”
Keeley hums. “Bet you tried to slide in my DMs.”
“Nah,” he says. “Eh, maybe. Alright, yeah. I did. A few times,” he adds with a shrug. “I can be patient.”
Keeley likes that. She pulls back to get a good look at him again. “You’re a footballer,” she decides, raising her voice a bit over the music.
Jamie smiles. “You remember me, then.”
“No, but I can always pick ‘em out.”
He lifts his chin. “How’s that?”
“Can smell it,” she says, scrunching her nose playfully. “I’ve got a bit of a type.”
Keeley shifts when someone passes behind, Jamie’s hand travelling lower. It’s firm on the small of her back as they move together, and her fingers slip under the back of his collar.
“Don’t know if I’m any type,” Jamie says, hot breath in her ear. “Not anyone like me, babe.”
“You seem quite confident about that.”
“Have to be,” he says, moving closer as the song slows. “Gotta make a name for meself, don’t I.”
Keeley begins to have her doubts about him, then. After a long career filled with clashing egos, Keeley’s aware that overconfidence is often overcompensation, or, worse, absolute denial. Sometimes they’re shit in bed, or massively insecure, or overgrown man-children who refuse to practice even a degree of meaningful self-reflection.
Reasonable doubt aside, this big ego packed into even bigger muscles is fun to dance with. They spend less time talking and more time moving together, but after a sufficient amount of sweaty grinding, Keeley decides the dance floor has become a little too claustrophobic for her liking. “I’m gonna head back to the bar,” she says in his ear.
Jamie follows close behind, hands ghosting against her waist along the way. When they reach the bar, Eden gives Keeley a suggestive brow wiggle, gesturing to the bloke at her left. Fuck, he is tall. He waves at Keeley shyly, and she waves back, smiling sweetly. She turns back to Jamie to break the news.
“You want another drink?” he asks.
“Well,” she says, with some hesitance. “My mate actually wants me to meet this guy, and I’ve been a bit rude, I think.”
Jamie shrugs. “Then go chat with him. See what he’s about.”
This stops her in her tracks. “You’re not jealous?”
“Don’t get jealous,” he says with an easy smile. “Told ya, no one’s like me, so I never gotta compare meself.”
Keeley winks at him. “Alright, I’ll see how he measures up, then,” she jokes.
Just as she starts to step away, Jamie catches her waist, looking down at her, eyes dark. “Won’t take long, will it?” he says, voice dipping.
“You can be patient,” she reminds him, patting him on the shoulder.
If Jamie thought she was bluffing — they so often do — he doesn’t show it, nodding as he lets her go easily, this time.
Another cocktail in, Keeley’s learned that the tall bloke — Toby, of all fucking names — is neither a professional athlete or big on footie, which should be points in his favour. He’s not much for dancing, but he’s got great chat, a crackin’ sense of humor, and giant fucking arms. She punches his bicep playfully as she laughs and laughs.
All the while, she keeps one eye on Jamie. She spots him packed into one of the VIP booths with a boisterous group chatting animatedly and ordering endless rounds of bottle service. She’s probably looking over too much; admittedly, she’s wondering when Jamie will get bored and start chatting up another girl. But he never does. When Jamie catches her eyes, he waves and smiles, then he goes on to send her frequent winks every time they meet eyes across the sea of sweaty, glittery, drunken clubgoers. Jamie sticks his tongue out at her once, and even rolls his eyes a couple times, but he’s always smiling.
Charming as Jamie is, Toby passes her checklist with flying colours, too. As the night unfolds, Keeley pretends her attention isn’t split between her more logical thoughts — try something serious with the business bloke , the angel on her shoulder seems to say — and tonight’s temptation — return to the dark side of dating and go fuck that fit footballer senseless , the devil counters.
It takes ages to find a lull in their banter, especially because after three drinks, Keeley completes a full metamorphosis into the world’s most engaging conversationalist. Keeley turns down Toby’s offer for another drink, and while he’s flagging down the bartender for his own, she realises it has been quite a long time. Jamie's mates have fallen away from the once-overflowing VIP booth, leaving him alone, scrolling on his phone.
The second Toby turns back to Keeley, she blurts, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.” She winces. “Sorry.”
He smiles politely, but she can see an edge of disappointment as he nods. “Can I help make sure you get home safe?” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, where Keeley catches a glimpse of Eden and her new beau making out. “I’m afraid those two won’t come up for air until they’re shooed out the door.”
Keeley laughs. “Oh, I’m alright. I’m gonna catch up with someone before I leave,” she says, feeling a little wiggly, all of a sudden. She wrings her hands, spins her head, and smiles apologetically when she meets his eyes. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Thankfully, Toby doesn’t bother her for a phone number, so Keeley slips away with ease and finds her way to the restroom. She’s fluffing her lashes in the mirror when Eden appears.
“Alright, what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” Keeley says honestly, digging through her bag. “Just… dunno. Not for me, maybe. Dunno what it is.”
“No ick?”
“No ick,” Keeley confirms, retrieving her lipstick. “Seems like he might be looking for something serious. At a nightclub, bless him. You should set him up on a proper date.”
Eden hums consideringly, touching up her own makeup in the mirror. “And it has nothing to do with that other bloke waiting on you?”
Keeley turns. “How did you know that?”
“He asked if you were still here,” Eden says, powdering her chin. “Just please don’t tell me he’s a footballer.”
Keeley focuses on her lipstick, ignoring Eden’s pointed gaze. She replaces the cap to the tube and tosses it into her bag, then looks back into the mirror, zhuzhing her hair, pushing up her boobs. “God, I loved that blush Uma used on me today, totally should’ve gotten the name of it.”
“Keeley!” Eden scolds, then nearly laughs. “Are you serious?”
Keeley shrugs, smiling cheekily. “Eh, old habits,” she says, wiping the corner of her lips. She turns to meet Eden's unimpressed look. “He seems proper sweet, yeah? Waited all night for me like a little puppy.”
Eden only sighs in reply. As they emerge from the restroom, Eden catches eyes with her own lucky lad, then perks up considerably as they draw nearer to him. Eden smiles at Keeley and rolls her eyes fondly, waving a hand. “Alright, alright, go have some fun with that footballer, you minx!"
Keeley laughs, leaning in to kiss her on each cheek before she parts. “Oi, let me know when you get where you’re going, yeah?" she tells Eden, then to both of them: “Have a good night, kids!”
Making her way to the lonely VIP section, Keeley spots Jamie chatting with another lad. She waves and Jamie makes eye contact with her almost instantly, gesturing to the entrance, and the attendant gives her access to the lounge without a word.
Jamie’s friend politely excuses himself when Keeley approaches. “Hi,” she sings to Jamie, dropping into the opposite side of the rather large, round booth.
“Hello there.”
For a lad that’s been waiting all night, Jamie’s not got much to say. He lifts an arm to rest on the back of the booth, smirking at her as he takes a sip of his beer. Keeley raises a brow. So does he. She waits for more. Crosses her arms, sighs. Still nothing. Christ. Might’ve made a mistake ditching Tall Toby, after all, since this one apparently can't carry a conversation.
With another pointed sigh, Keeley decides to fold. In her defense, it's been quite the build-up, with the two of them sending sneaking glances back-and-forth all night. She's curious, and she knows the right next question to ask. Won't be caught inadvertently slagging off this bloke’s team, especially on the off-chance she might know his mates, or, more likely, their exes.
He's finishing off his beer when she asks, “Alright, footballer, what’s your club?”
Jamie sits up at that, of course. “Man City, born and bred,” he replies, spinning the empty bottle between his fingers.
That’s new, for her. “Funny, my mum’s just decided she supports United,” Keeley says.
Jamie wrinkles his nose, brow furrowing. It’s a cute expression on him. “What made her decide that?”
“New boyfriend’s a fan,” Keeley says, rolling her eyes a bit. “Happens all the time.”
“Ah. How d'you think it’ll go over when you tell her about your new boyfriend?” he asks, punctuated by another cheeky smile.
She bites her tongue, squinting. “You’re awfully keen, aren't you.”
“Yeah, but so are you.”
“There goes that footballer ego,” Keeley says, rolling her eyes again as she leans back. She tilts her head, crossing her legs under the booth. “So you’re not even a little bothered that I spent the whole night chatting with someone else?”
Jamie shrugs. If he's faking indifference, he's an unnervingly skilled actor. "Nah. I mean, you’re not with him now, are ya?”
Walked into that one, Jones. She huffs a bit, sending a wry smile and shaking her head. He seems pleased with himself, donning that proud little smirk, and he keeps looking at her from underneath his lashes. It’s so annoying. And hot.
Keeley twists her lips and scans the club, the dance floor now only occupied by tonight's drunkest and most dedicated dancers. Jamie shifts until he’s got one foot out of the booth, his elbow perched like he’s ready to jump up at her word. And the truth is, Keeley’s fresh out of clever quips, and dying for a cigarette (though she really ought to settle for secondhand smoke, lest she indulge in another temptation tonight).
“I need some fresh air,” she announces, swinging out of the booth and onto her platforms. She digs in her bag for her phone as she shuffles away, knowing without looking that Jamie's following behind.
Once they’re outside, Jamie stuffs his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes trained on her. Like, he doesn’t take his eyes off of her, not once. She lets him look his fill as she shifts around the smoking area, having bummed a cigarette within two minutes of being outside. Ah, well. Vices and that.
“You wanna keep me on my toes,” he says, breaking the silence. “But I’m light on me feet, yeah. Fast, too. Footwork like you’ve never seen.”
Keeley takes a drag, squinting at him as she exhales. “Is that right."
“Yeah,” he says. “But, I fancy the fuck outta ya. Don’t care if you run me in circles all night, if it means I’ve got a chance with ya.”
“You’re loyal,” she says, flicking the ash of her cigarette. “Man City, born and bred.”
Jamie smiles, tongue pressing against his teeth as he nods. “Yeah, I am,” he says. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, and she watches him fidget a bit, blinking at the ground and licking his lips. “I — listen. I don’t wanna bore you with footie chat, yeah, but." He swallows, meeting her eyes again. "I’m being loaned to Richmond. For a year. Today was my last match with City, so I’ve got to go back to Manny, but... I’ll be in London soon.”
She blows smoke over her shoulder. “That your way of asking if we can do my place, tonight?”
The smile on Jamie's face is well past cheeky, now. “I mean, fuck yeah. That'd be sick. But... Can I — ” His grin falters, for a moment, biting his lip. “I’d like to take you on a proper date. Posh dinner and dessert, you in a sexy little dress that I’ll be dreaming about for ages," he says, nodding at her. "What d’you think?”
Keeley dips her head to hide her smile, taking another drag from her cigarette. Fucking hell, she’s got to keep her wits about her. “Oh, come on, now.”
“Say yes,” he begs, just.
Keeley looks at him out of the corner of her eye, then lifts her chin. “So what, you expect me to believe underneath all that blind confidence, you’re just an old-fashioned lad? A proper sweetheart?”
Jamie moves closer, tilting his head. “D’you like that?”
“Eh, might give me a toothache,” she banters, finishing off her cigarette. She catches him frowning as she puts it out, so she adds, “But… I do love my sugar.”
It’s hardly clever, but Jamie’s face splits into another grin, eyes brightening. It’s endearing, how quick it slips on his features, how open he is, even for all his bravado. “Then I’m gonna be an absolute melt, for a minute,” he says. Another nod, another step in her direction, holding her eyes. “You’re the most beautiful fucking woman I’ve ever seen, and I’d love to go home with you, but I don’t want one night. I wanna make you mine.”
It’s teetering the line of too eager, but to be fair, the lad's probably been fighting to pin it down all night. Keeley's shaking her head a bit, even as her doubts have already started melting away. “Bet you tell that to every girl you meet,” she says.
“Never,” he swears. “Just got a feeling about you, Keeley.”
Got a feeling about you, too, she doesn’t say. She steps in front of him, inspecting him. Thing is, he looks like trouble, objectively, but he’s just too damn cute, isn't he? He's still fidgeting a bit, but he hardly even blinks under her gaze, his expression cheeky but unflinching, like he doesn't know any way else to be. She does quite like that about him — no guessing games.
“I’ll tell you now,” she starts, leaning closer, then reaches out to lift his chin. “You’ve got a lot to learn about me before you go around calling me ‘yours’, Jamie Tartt.”
His grin widens at that and reaches for her waist. “Mm, looking forward to it.”
“I’m serious,” she says, even as she curls closer into his embrace. “I know how you footballers are, yeah, and a shag is a shag, but anything more will take more than a cheeky grin to convince me, yeah? Like, proper intensive training involved. If you even get to that."
Jamie hums, tilting forward to bump their noses a bit. “I’m very trainable,” he says, voice dipping.
Keeley really fucking likes that. She lifts her chin, tempted to meet their mouths. “Don’t think it’s gonna be so easy, now,” she murmurs.
“Don’t want it easy,” Jamie says, nearly whispering, hands on her hips as he guides her back towards the side of the building. “I like a challenge, remember?”
Keeley glances at his lips, then shifts back just enough to meets his eyes. “Alright, how about this, then,” she says. “Put the work in tonight, and in the morning, I’ll decide if you can take me on a date.”
“Perfect,” he whispers, licking his lips. The smirk is long gone; his mouth twitches, his eyes skip all over her face, and she can see his brain going into overdrive. “I can leave before morning, if you prefer that. Or I can stay, and we can go for breakfast. Or maybe we — ”
Keeley bites her lip, pressing her forehead to his. “Jamie.”
“Hm?”
“I think you should stop talking,” she says. “And give us a kiss, yeah?”
And just like that, their mouths finally meet. Jamie brings one hand up to hold her face, thumb ghosting over her cheek, and sighs into it. It’s a solid first kiss, somehow sweeter than she expected. Keeley’s not about to swoon, but she is a little breathless when she pulls away. Jamie’s eyes stay shut, like his head is still stuck in the kiss. He’s stupidly handsome, really; long lashes, high cheekbones, lips plush and pink. She giggles a bit. His eyes flutter open, hooded gaze soon crinkling into a grin. He wastes no time before diving back in, melting his chest to hers as he presses her body against the cool building brick.
—
On the ride home, Jamie keeps his hand on her thigh and chats up a storm. He’s quite expressive, a little silly and very sarcastic, more her type of humour. He's just the right amount of curious. He asks how long she’s been in London, about her favourite parts of the city. Jamie says he wasn’t really looking forward to moving to London, before tonight. She swats at him and lets him know he’s getting dangerously ahead of himself, he’s not even done anything to earn a single date.
“Not yet,” Jamie says, squeezing her thigh, once, and Keeley has to look out the window to keep from smiling at him.
—
“Your place is sick,” Jamie says, fussing with the switch on the lamp beside her sofa.
“Thanks,” she says, passing him a glass of water. She chugs her own enthusiastically, but Jamie sips slowly, gazing at her like she’s the thing worth drinking in. Suddenly remembering the state of her bedroom, she heads for the stairs. “Uh, give me a minute before you come up, yeah?”
Peeling off the jumpsuit is quite an adventure. It’s suffocatingly tight, and the hours of sweat sticking to her skin make the task near impossible. She could’ve used his help, but it’s not a particularly sexy or graceful process, and he doesn’t need to see her wriggling like an uncoordinated fish before they’ve even fucked. When she’s finally free, she moves to the bathroom to freshen up, throws on a pink satin slip, and scrambles around her bedroom, kicking stray clothes into her closet.
After ensuring her bedside drawer is well-stocked with more than enough lube, toys, and condoms to get the job done, she exhales, albeit a bit shaky. Fucking hell, she’s nervous. This bloke must suck all the confidence out of a space to hoard all for himself. She does not like that. She tries think of the other things she doesn’t care for about him, but can’t come up with anything yet.
In the mirror, Keeley points menacingly at her reflection. “Only if it’s really, really, mind-blowingly good sex. Got it, Jones?" she says, mindful of the conditions of this prospective date. She nods to herself, then scuttles over to the stairs, muttering under her breath.
“Alright, come on up!” she calls.
When Jamie appears, his shirt has a few less buttons done up, revealing his smooth chest.
“Fuck, you look good,” Jamie says, running a hand through his hair. He looks proper flustered already, though he’s still hovering near the door, eyes skipping around her room.
On the bed, Keeley sits up on her knees. “What’re you doing over there?”
He looks at her, smiling a little less cheekily than she’s used to, and then, she realises he’s nervous. “Awaiting further instructions,” he says as he looks at her bed, shoulders shifting a bit.
In most nerve-wracking, awkward situations, Keeley's go-to is banter; so, she puts on a deep, grizzly voice, and barks, “Get on your knees.”
And, to her surprise — and immense delight — he does. Hardly even hesitated, licking his lips as a smirk begins to settle on his face again. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Fuck me, that’s hot,” she whispers, mind going wild with possibilities. “You weren’t kidding.”
He shakes his head, beckoning her over, and she climbs out of bed in a rush to get to him. He stays put, lifting his chin to look up at her when she’s close, and wraps his around her legs. She runs a hand through his hair, giggling when he leans into her touch. He hums happily when she takes hold of his jaw. “Jesus, how have I got you this whipped already?” she says in wonderment.
"Told ya I ain't afraid to put the work in,” Jamie says, turning his face to kiss her palm. “I like my lady in charge.”
“I’m into that,” she whispers.
“I’m into you,” he says, then looks up, eyes hopeful. “Can I please eat you out?”
“Very good manners,” Keeley praises, scratching his head. If Jamie were a cartoon, his eyes would go positively heart-shaped. “Good boy,” she adds, for good measure.
That hits a button. He moans, face pressed to her stomach, then begins nuzzling the satin of her slip. She sighs as he kisses her stomach over the material, and he moans again. “Please,” he begs, unanabashed.
Keeley nudges him up. “Alright, come on, you."
Jamie rises slowly, taking his time kissing up her torso, her chest, her collarbones, her shoulders, her neck. Breathy little moans erupt from her. When he’s standing, he kisses her deeply, then tucks his hands under her thighs and picks her up in one swift move. She squeals a bit, surprised, but locks her ankles around his waist and moans as his tongue slides into her mouth.
He drops her onto the bed, keeping his eyes trained on her as he unbuttons his shirt hastily, and she squeezes her breasts, giving him a little show.
“God, your tits are amazing,” he says, fumbling with his tight trousers.
“Maybe I’ll let you fuck them later, if you’ve earned it.”
Jamie swears, kicking his trousers off in a hurry before he climbs up the bed. He covers her body with his, and she indulges in the feeling of his strong back, his abs, his arms. As they make out, she feels his hard cock through his pants, rutting against her thighs, and as much as she wants him to eat her out — especially because he seemed so hungry for it — she’s looking forward to him inside of her, fucking her right, doing everything just how she asks, training hard to be hers.
Jamie breaks first, pressing their foreheads and grabbing at her tits. “Tell me what you want, babe.”
“Mm, touch me.”
His fingers find her clit easily — she hadn’t bothered with panties under her slip — and she shivers, a high-pitched little moan she presses against the side of his face.
“Is that alright, sweetheart?” he croons in her ear.
“Uh-huh," is her reply. She has to bite down on his shoulder to keep from flooding him with praise; she was already wet the moment he first touched her, and it’s a matter of pride. He’s hardly having to work for it, which is maddening, so she pushes his shoulders until he gets with the program.
Between Keeley’s knees, Jamie looks angelic, another thought she keeps to herself, and she blames the soft, warm glow of her bedside lamp for making him look so fucking good. His pupils are blown, his full lips are kiss-bitten and swollen, and he wags his tongue a bit, letting her see what he’s working with before he dips it inside. It is a big tongue, and fuck, does he know what he’s doing with it. His fingers quickly join to work in tandem, fucking inside of her, and she’s never had to intentionally try to hold off so many moans with a bloke before — she’s never wanted to, but fucking shitting fuck, she refuses to let this be that easy for him, it’s barely been any time at all.
“Just your mouth, for now,” Keeley manages, a request made in a whole-hearted effort to regain her breath, and his fingers vanish. “Slower, babe,” she adds, and he starts fucking his tongue in a deeper rhythm. Her efforts all backfire, because her moans only grow louder. She fights to smother them, turning her face in the pillow. He switches tactics after a moment, tickling the tip of his tongue against his clit before he sucks on it like he’s savouring the taste. Then, a long, lavish drag of his tongue down until it’s urging in her pussy, curling up at an angle that feels impossibly good.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, one hand pressing on her lower stomach, the other still tugging at his hair. “Fucking hell, Jamie. Keep doing that. Fuck, that’s good.”
Jamie moans, the sensation warming against her cunt, and the more she encourages, the more he moans, the more heat — so the praise all but floods out of her.
“Fucking hell, you’re so, so good, babe. Perfect, yeah. Oh — god, that’s it, yeah. Mm… Good boy.”
Suddenly, she feels Jamie trembling, and realises he’s rutting into the bed, his palm pressing down his cock. His tongue returns to dance against her clit masterfully without pause, and he whimpers when she tugs on his hair, and then she absolutely loses it.
“Fuck, Jamie, I’m gonna — ”
She comes with a shout, orgasm crashing through her in wave, feeling wild and taken. He keeps a delicious rhythm as she rides it out, keeps moaning and humming against her. She fights to find her breath, grip on his hair weakening, then shudders when his tongue slides down the folds of her labia.
“Holy shit,” she says, oversensitive for the moment but nowhere near finished with him for tonight. She laughs, feeling a little delirious in the afterglow, and peers down at him.
He nuzzles her bush, then kisses down the crease of her bikini line. “Mm, could do this forever.”
"Fuck yeah, you could," she says, dropping her head back to the pillow.
“Told ya I’m amazing,” he says, mouth brushing against the inside of her thighs.
“Didn’t tell me you were amazing at fucking head,” Keeley says, throwing an arm out and sighing again as her eyes fall shut. "Fuck, I can’t believe I’ve already come.”
“What’s the most you’ve ever come in one night?” he asks.
"Hm... Five or six times, maybe,” she says, glancing down when he doesn't respond. She shrugs at his raised brow. “I date girls, too.”
“I’ll beat that,” he promises, kissing her pussy sweetly once more before sitting up just enough to slide his fingers up her torso, then back down across her thighs.
“Mm," she says, legs spreading wider. "Think you can come with your tongue in me?"
“Were fighting to hold it off,” he admits.
“Mm, I like you waiting for me,” she says, reaching for his hair again. His eyes fall shut, and he whines when she tugs. “That really does it for you, huh.”
“Yeah, fuck,” he says, eyes still shut, brow pinched. “You’re so fucking sexy, it's unreal. Just want to make you feel good.”
“Go on, then, babe,” she says, and Jamie wastes no time, getting right back to work.
He comes before she does this time, which is impressive, considering he’s working his tongue furiously and expertly the entire time. He doesn't pause for a moment, even as his orgasm shakes through him. It’s hot as hell, and she’s quick to follow.
After some sweet kisses that lead into a bit more teasing and giggling, Keeley pulls Jamie into the ensuite and lets him fucks her in the shower. They don't bother with clothes after they towel off, and keep giggling and fooling around on the bed after, greedy hands against skin, sighing into each other’s mouths. Keeley pulls away to tuck her face into his neck, fighting off a yawn, and he nudges her. “Still trying to beat a record?”
Absolutely insatiable. She sighs, nudging her knee between his thighs and letting him pull her closer. “Another time," she says. "Had a long shoot earlier, 'm exhausted.”
“Another time,” Jamie echoes, mouth curving into a smile against her shoulder. “Can’t wait.”
—
Jamie takes his well-earned first date the morning after, holding her hand as they walk to her favourite breakfast place just a few blocks over. He’s quiet before coffee, but he smiles every time their eyes meet, listening as she chatters about yesterday's shoot. Over their meals, Jamie tells her where he wants to take her to dinner when he gets back to London, and spends the rest of the morning asking her questions about modelling, about branding and all her strategies for connecting with the right people in the right places.
On paper, dating a footballer like Jamie is standard for Keeley. In practice, it’s so far out of her norm: the wildest sex of her life by far, followed by the weird-in-the-good way pillow talk that usually only comes with someone she's been dating for much longer. Their date nights are spent giggling hysterically over their appetizers at stuffy restaurants, earning glares from the other patrons, and by the end of the month, Keeley’s calling him her boyfriend.
In some ways, Jamie’s like every footballer — straightforward, plenty of money and ego, a relentless competitive streak — but in more ways, he is, as he says, like no one else.