by Lainey Davis
Hard Edge
Copyright © 2017
Lainey Davis
All Rights Reserved
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Chapter One
I can't believe it's come to this. I'm basically forced into tutoring some hockey star, and all because my deadbeat dad couldn't get his shit together to sign off on my financial aid papers. I've been trying to get myself declared an independent for four years, but it never seems to matter. My dad's income is the basis for my aid package, which means he has to sign off on the forms I prepare for him each semester. All of a sudden, my awesome work-study job with the math department evaporates because my dad lost the damn form under a stack of empty beer cans.
By the time I re-filled out all the paperwork and drove it to him at work to sign, before zooming four hours back to the university bursar's office, all the work-study jobs were allocated. Except one.
I can still hear the department chair's nasal voice as he pressed his fingers together. "Well, Ms…Ward…zinski is it?"
I nodded. Of course he stumbled over my name. "Just call me Dahlia," I huffed, massaging my temples. At the sight of his raised eyebrows, I remembered my tone and added, "Professor Myer," tacking on a smile for good measure.
"Right! Good, good. Dahlia! I know you've spent the past…six? Really all six semesters? Goodness, this must come as a blow. I know you've spent your entire college career so far leading the freshman math study groups. But the timing of this snaggle is really rather serendipitous! We've got a special case on our hands and I think you're just the right student to help us out."
So then he went on to tell me allllll about this super special hockey player who is a big hit with the special alumni boosters, destined for the pros, yada yada, and oh yeah! He sucks at math and his GPA is skirting the line for academic ineligibility. My new mission, should I choose to accept it (which…duh…I have no choice because I can't pay my tuition otherwise) is to make sure Neal Sweeney remains academically eligible to play hockey for Stone Creek University.
I have now been waiting in the student union for Neal Sweeney for 14 minutes. I don't give a shit what they say. I'm counting this waiting time towards my paid tutoring time. I've just about reached peak annoyance when I see him swagger in. I know it's him both because I googled him and also because he's about twice the size of everyone else wandering around the coffee cart.
He looks around for half a second, sees me, and sits opposite me without comment. He doesn't even have anything with him. Who the hell walks around a college campus with no backpack? I find myself wondering where he even keeps his student ID, but that leads me to stare at his mesh shorts looking for a pocket. Staring at Neal Sweeney's mesh shorts makes me blush, which makes me lose my composure.
I knew he was good looking from his picture online. He's got a strong jaw and bright blue eyes. When I saw the picture online I thought maybe it was just a trick of the monitor, but no. His eyes really are a vibrant, glowing blue. Neal's eyebrows and lashes are dark brown, but the hair on his head is multi-toned. Some of it is so blond it's nearly white, but other streaks are the same dark as his eyebrows. All of it curls wildly from his head, falling all different directions. I've never seen hair like his, and to my horror, I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers through those springy curls.
I'm staring at him, flushed and open-mouthed, when he raises an eyebrow and finally speaks. "Do I have something on my face?"
His voice startles me back into professional mode. I put on my stern voice and say, "No. I'm staring at you because I've been waiting for you to apologize for being late. Do they not teach manners when your coach talks about sportsmanlike conduct?"
He scoffs and settles deeper into the chair. "There was a line for the trainer after practice."
There is a prolonged pause where I realize he's not going to apologize to me, and I feel a power struggle emerging. "Look, Neal, you don't have to like what we do here and it's actually no skin off my back if our work doesn't help you bring up your math grade. But you do have to treat me respectfully or I'm out."
Another long silence. We're up to a half hour past our scheduled start time. I decide I'm going to bill for the full hour and I sigh, shove my notebook back in my bag, and rise to walk out. As I pass his chair, he shoots a massive hand out and grabs my knee. He doesn't touch me harshly, but the electric shock I feel from his hand throws me off guard and I can't help myself. I gasp. Loud.
People stop their conversations to stare and Neal promptly retracts his hand. "Ok!" he shouts. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Will you please help me?" I stare at him, but people have resumed their chatter and the room feels normal again. "Is that what you want to hear?"
I nod my head, still reeling from the unexpected explosion I felt when Neal Sweeney's hand touched my body. I shake my head a few times and sit back down. "Thank you for your apology. I'm going to give you my cell number. I would appreciate it if you can let me know if you're running late next time."
He nods. I'm back in control of myself now, barely thinking about the proportion of his massive fingers to other body parts that must be equally massive, hidden inside his mesh shorts that surely don't have a pocket for his ID. Before I can help it, I'm staring at the bulge in the center of his shorts. No, Dahlia. Do not think about mesh shorts and potential massive penis size. No. You are here to talk about equations.
"So," I say, ripping some pages out of my notebook and handing him my pencil. "You'll also need to bring school supplies when we work."
He nods. "I have all my stuff back in the locker room. I knew I was running late, so I came here as soon as I was done icing my knee." He starts twirling my pencil between his fingers. I notice that he is left handed, like me. "You see? I do have some manners."
I pull out the syllabus his professor sent me. I'm sort of shocked by how many privacy rules get broken for "special case" students like Neal, because I've got not only his entire academic and sports schedule, but also his math syllabus and the urging of his professor to maintain open communication. Literally everyone at this school is invested in this dude passing basic college math.
"Tell me how to say your name," he says. I had emailed him earlier, telling him where to meet me and to look for the short girl with the bright red pi t-shirt and orange glasses.
I smile at this. "What? Dahlia? You don't know that flower?"
"Very funny. I'm from Maine, not the Yukon. We've got flowers. No. Your last name."
But then Neal does something fully unexpected. Just as I'm about to open my mouth for my phonetic Polish name routine, he puts his massive hand back on my knee. Only this time, he starts rubbing his thumb along the sensitive skin beneath my jeans. I pull my leg away as if he'd burned me. Really, he did burn me. Never in my life has my body responded to another person this way. How the hell does he manage to set my insides on fire just by acting rude and touching my leg?
"Neal, it's really important that you understand that we need to maintain a professional relationship," I stammer, much less forcefully than I need to sound.
He
laughs and then sighs. I'm probably the first girl who didn't rip off her panties for him. He looks around the noisy student union and says, "Do we have to meet here each time? Most of the guys meet their tutors in the locker room building."
I shake my head. I'm about to start talking when he clarifies, "Not the changing rooms. There are actual offices in there. You know that, right?"
"Yes, Neal, I know there are offices in the hockey building. There are classrooms, too--I've given presentations in there before. More than once."
He seems halfway impressed, but presses on. "I can't concentrate here. I don't see why we can't meet in the Earl."
I furrow my brow. "Earl?"
"You know. East Area Locker Room. Earl. Those study rooms there are much quieter." He starts to lean closer to me. I'm pressed back into my chair as far from him as I can manage, and my brain betrays me again, dropping my thoughts back to his damn mesh shorts, and up his body to the muscles straining the seams of his SCU t-shirt. God, how I want to run my fingers through that curly hair.
"It wouldn't be appropriate for us to meet there," I say, my voice whisper quiet.
"Why not, Dahlia? Are you afraid of the angles we'd discuss in a private study room?" I feel myself swallow. His blue eyes are boring into mine, like he can see straight through to my thoughts. Damn my filthy mind and those distracting shorts he's wearing. He's whispering now, too. "I know it's not cold in here, Dahlia. So either the math turns you on or you're not as professional as you think you are."
I feel the flush deepen. I was afraid he could see my nipples erect through the fabric of my bra and worn t-shirt. Damn my body and its traitorous response to Neal Sweeney! His hand is back on my leg, only this time he slides his fingers lightly up my thigh until he's nearly at the crease of my hip. One of his long fingers sinks down in between my legs, where a moist heat simmers. As the tip of his finger brushes my clit through my jeans, I let out a moan involuntarily.
I close my eyes as the invading digit circles. To my horror, I realize I'm seconds away from orgasm in the middle of the student union. With one a tutoring client for my work study job. Shit! "Stop," I say, finding my stern voice at last and pushing his hand away.
I stand up and try not to think about how many other vulvas those hands have touched. I know how college athletes are.
"I'll text you tomorrow about meeting somewhere more quiet. Your coach sent my boss your cell," I add as an explanation for how I suddenly have his phone number. I hear him laughing as I really do walk out this time.
Chapter Two
"What an asshole!" my roommate listens sympathetically as I explain the whole saga, starting with my dad and the papers and ending with Neal Sweeney's finger in my crotch. I leave out the part where I'm deeply aroused by his attentions, so admittedly Linda has sort of the wrong idea about Neal. He's not some predator. He's just a hotshot athlete used to women spreading their legs for him.
I tell this to Linda, who shakes her head. "Nuh-huh. Dahlia, you need to tell your boss that he was inappropriate with you!"
"And what, Linda? He'll find someone else for the job? I need this position to pay my tuition this semester. I just need to wear iron underwear and tough this out for a few months. Hopefully I can get my old job back for spring semester…"
Linda plunks a plate of chicken and roasted potatoes in front of me. "There's got to be some other way, Dahlia. I don't like the sound of this guy. He's trouble." We've lived together since freshman year, and Linda has assessed every male figure in my life with much the same observation. "When have I ever been wrong about this stuff, hm?"
I sigh, digging into the delicious food. I love it when it's Linda's turn to cook dinner. She grew up with regular parents, so her folks actually taught her things like how to cook and how to take care of plants. "Never, Linda. You have a keen radar for spotting jerks."
She laughs and we dive into a conversation about our prospects for romance this term. It's only the first day of class, but Linda has her sights set one of the guys in the apartment upstairs. "Tim and his roommate are both single," she says. "Maybe we should go on a double date! They're both engineers I think…we could geek out about differential equations!"
It's good to laugh with Linda. I feel so at ease with her. I don't like that I have a secret from her--that everything about Neal Sweeney turns me on in a way I have no explanation for. I never go for guys like that. Beefcakes who care more about their bodies than academics. But man! Caring for his body has sure done Neal a lot of favors. Everything about him looked rock hard, including that ice blue stare. I try to find a way to bring this up to Linda, but decide against it.
Later, I go to my room and lie awake, unable to get the afternoon out of my mind. I remember the feeling of Neal's hand teasing my clit, how close I was to orgasm. Thinking of it sets me on edge again, and I feel desperate for release. I slide my hand down the front of my panties and quickly, ferociously strum my clit until I cum, shuddering. Afterward, I drift off to sleep, thinking about the tight springs of Neal's curly hair and how they'd look stuck to his sweaty face after sex.
In the morning, I scope out the library. The study carrels are all reserved by grad students, but there is a section on the fourth floor of the stacks that seems to have enough traffic to be public, but is quiet enough that I think Neal should be able to concentrate. Satisfied, I text the information to Neal and am able to spend the day in class with a clear head.
This afternoon, I make my way back and am shocked to find him sitting at the table with pencil and scratch paper. His eyes twinkle as I walk over, and I can't help but smile. "See," he says. "I take my studies very seriously." He makes a mock stern face.
"Sure you do, Neal," I joke back. "That's why you're a senior taking freshman math."
"Touché, teach," he says. I get started with the material, explaining everything that his professor plans to cover in the first week. I've made Neal some flashcards with the different terms, equations, and concepts. We go through each one and Neal is able to complete all the practice problems with ease.
"Neal," I say quizzically. "Why do they think you'll fail math? This seems easy for you."
He shrugs. "It makes more sense when you explain it." I'm not sure what to do with that compliment, so I just nod my head. He continues, "Also it just all feels really pointless to me. When the hell am I ever going to care about any of this shit?"
I can't help myself and I laugh at him. He furrows his brow. "Neal, are you serious? You play hockey." I'm stunned that he doesn't think he uses math. "What do you think you're doing when you bounce the puck off the boards or pass to a teammate in motion?"
He rolls his eyes, but I continue. "I'm serious. You're applying math concepts. You just don't realize it."
"So why the hell do I need to know the value of m if I can just apply it in real life without numbers? Hm, hot stuff?" His eyes are darker now and I realize this line of talking to him isn't productive.
"Look," I say, trying to steer this ship back on target. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten such an attitude. We're almost done here for today. I know math isn't everyone's thing."
I worry when he starts sliding his chair closer to mine at the table, and I think I feel his leg press a little more tightly against mine. Then I decide I'm imagining things, because Neal is all about business. We're on the last set of practice problems and I've finally decided yesterday was just a matter of getting started on the wrong foot, when Neal drops his hand onto my leg under the table.
"Neal," I say, pushing his hand back. I accidentally graze my hand along his mesh shorts as I do, which causes three things to happen at once. First, I feel the impossibly-firm muscle of Neal's thigh, rock-hard even under my glancing touch. Second, my pale skin bursts into a deep flush…again. And third, my nipples crimp up so tight I know Neal can see them poking through my shirt.
He shakes his head and slides his hand back to my leg, gripping my thigh a little more firmly now. His fingers slide along my inner thighs, an
d I close my eyes, swallowing hard, trying to remain calm as my body is erupting. I have no idea why I don't shove his hand away. I ball my hands into fists beside my legs when I feel wetness gushing between my legs and I draw in my breath as Neal touches my clit through my jeans, ever so lightly.
"I can't concentrate here, Dahlia," he says.
I swallow again as his finger continues to circle gently. He must feel by now how wet I am. God, it's got to be seeping through my jeans. I know it's futile to pretend I'm not aroused by him. By what he's doing. "It's not loud here," I manage to say. "I found the quietest place I could."
He chuckles, low and deep, leaning his head in until he's inches away from me. "It's not the noise that distracts me." He is rubbing harder now, with the pads of two fingers. He rolls his fingers along my slit and I feel my body bursting into flames, the shock waves pulsing with each movement of his hand. I look to either side, but nobody is walking by right now, thankfully. God, I want to die. I'm being fondled in public. In the library! And I'm basically encouraging Neal to continue by not shoving his hand away. I know I should, but it feels so fucking good.