SemiTough Luck: A Motocrossed Romance

by Jackie Barbosa

  Now my only mission is to make her come before the orgasm building in my balls overtakes me. I focus on the way her body responds to each stroke of my cock, the way her pussy contracts and releases as I move, the way her breath catches when I do everything right. She likes it not just hard, but relentless, almost brutal. I’d be afraid of hurting her if she weren’t so obviously enjoying every second of the pounding I’m giving her. And God help me, but I love the hell out of being able to fuck her like the beast I really am underneath all my honorable intentions and civilized veneer. Right now, in this bed, there’s only her and me and no illusions of goodness or decency or gentleness. It’s goddamn perfect.

  Her body goes rigid, and her eyes fly open. Our gazes meet, and there’s a moment of complete understanding between us. She’s mine. I’m hers. Forever and always. And then she shudders and comes and closes her eyes, and the moment is gone, replaced with the sensation of her muscles squeezing my dick as I pump into her once, twice before surrendering to the mind-blowing pleasure of my own climax.

  Nothing is ever going to be the same again.

  I wake up craving. That’s nothing new.

  What’s different is what I’m craving.

  Sylvia.

  She’s lying next to me on the too-small bed we’ve miraculously managed to share all night without one of us falling on the floor. Her back is snuggled up against my side, her naked skin warm and soft and already achingly familiar. I’m pretty sure from the rhythm of her breathing that she’s awake.

  Damn it, the counselors at the rehab facility were right. I’ve replaced one addiction with another. Because all I want to do is roll her underneath me and take her again. In spite of the fact that I’ve already done that three times. Well, okay, technically we finished the last time with her on top, but you know what I mean.

  But as much as I want one more for the road, we’re out of condoms.

  First order of business: find a drug store and stock up.

  I crack an eyelid. The room is mostly dark except for a small slit of sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains and a pale bluish glow coming from Sylvia’s side of the bed. At a guess, it’s at least eight in the morning. She’s probably been awake for hours, but instead of bothering me, she’s been reading on Megan’s Kindle.

  “Hey,” I murmur, my voice thick with sleep, “you should’ve woken me up.”

  At my words, Sylvia stretches and sets the device down on the nightstand, its backlight still glowing, and rolls over, propping herself up on her elbow to gaze down at me. Her hair is a riot of curls that frames her beautiful face like an untidy halo. She looks like an angel who fell from heaven….and then got fucked six ways to Sunday. “I thought you probably needed your sleep.” Her lips, still dark pink and kiss-swollen, curve into a teasing smile. “That was an…energetic performance last night.”

  Reaching up, I brush my thumb across her mouth. “You weren’t exactly a spectator,” I point out.

  Her laugh is husky. “Which is probably why I didn’t wake up until after six o’clock. That’s practically sloth territory for me.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Almost nine.”

  I groan. “Shit. It’s a three-hour drive from here to Yellowstone, and we haven’t even had breakfast yet. We’re not going to have more than a few hours in the park before it starts to get dark.” Throwing off the covers in disgust at how much time we’ve wasted, I get ready to spring off the bed.

  Her hand closes around my biceps. Or tries to, anyway. The contact manages to make me stop and look at her, though. “About that,” she says. “I did some research while you were sleeping—”

  “Research?” I interrupt. “How?”

  Sylvia gestures toward the still-glowing device on the bedside table. “With the Kindle. They can get on the internet, although the display is pretty limited.”

  Huh, I had no idea. But then, I’m a Luddite who still reads print books.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “while I was checking out what we might want to see today, I discovered they still have rooms at Canyon Lodge, which is inside the park right next to the Grand Canyon of the Yosemite, which is where that waterfall you always see in photos is. What if we spent the night there? That would give us some time to explore in the morning? All the best sights will probably be less crowded if we get to them early anyway.”

  “Hm.” The idea has some appeal. Even if we’d managed to leave as early this morning as we did yesterday, we wouldn’t have made it to Yellowstone until ten-thirty or eleven. By that time, the big attractions, especially the geyser basin around Old Faithful, are probably a zoo. Better to get up early and hit that before most tourists are out of bed.

  On the other hand, I have about zero confidence that I’m going to be any less tired tomorrow morning than I was this morning. Unless, of course, Sylvia’s decided once—well, technically, thrice—was enough. But if that’s how she feels, why would she suggest a plan that’s going to extend the time we spend together?

  Which reminds me... “What would that do to our timetable? Remember, I have to report to training camp on Monday morning.”

  “Depends how early we get up tomorrow, how much sightseeing we do, and how long you want to drive after we leave. We could stop anywhere between Ogden and Provo tomorrow night, which should be about five to six hours’ drive. On Saturday, we’d head to Vegas, which is—” She pauses, frowning in concentration, and I can tell she’s checking the mental map in her brain she’s undoubtedly developed from spending so many years on the road, “—another six to seven hours, depending on how far we make it tomorrow. Then it’s seven hours or so to San Diego with a stop in L.A. So you’d still make it by Sunday, but probably not until early evening. Is that going to be a problem?”

  I shake my head. “No, Sunday evening’s fine.” What I’m not sure is fine is the part where I drop Sylvia off in Los Angeles and never see her again. Talk about going cold turkey.

  But that’s going to be a problem no matter what we do tonight—or tomorrow night or the next night. From a practical point of view, there’s no way to make our lives fit together for the foreseeable future. And if there were, would it even be fair to ask her to try? Once she knows what I’ve done and how far I am from being trustworthy, she’d be smart to stay as far away from me as possible. Besides, I can’t ask her to risk a relationship with me when I can’t even be sure what I’m feeling is more than a rebound, so to speak. I’d like to say I can trust my own emotions, but in the cold light of day and in light of recent events, that seems pretty foolish.

  No, there’s no future. It’s all heading to the same ending, give or take a few hours.

  Might as well take them.

  Breakfast, not condoms, winds up being the first order of business.

  We’re both ravenous, which isn’t surprising, given the amount of exercise we got last night. While I work on large plate of steak and eggs with a side of biscuits and gravy, Sylvia puts away her second short stack of pancakes. I love the fact that she’s absolutely unselfconscious about her appetite.

  I love a lot of things about her. Hell, maybe I love her.

  But that’s crazy, isn’t it? Normal, stable guys don’t fall in love with someone they met three days ago. I certainly didn’t, back when I was a normal, stable guy. Although maybe I never was, even before I got into the cycle of injury and pain that led to my fall from grace.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Sylvia says gently from across the table.

  I realize I’ve stopped eating and started scowling. Damn. The last thing I can do is confess what’s been going through my head. I need to come up with a plausible explanation for what my face has been doing that doesn’t involve giving her the impression I’m on the verge of becoming some kind of lovesick stalker.

  Shaking my head, I do my best to relax my expression without putting on a smile that would be obviously false. “Just thinking about how much the next few weeks are going to suck.”

&
nbsp; She tilts her head to one side. “Why? I thought you loved playing hockey.”

  “Oh, I do.” At least now I can manage a genuine smile, even if it is wry one. “But we don’t start actually playing hockey until late next month. Until then, it’s just the daily ten- to-twelve-hour grind of training camp, which is way more work than fun.” After taking a sip of coffee, I add with a sigh, “Also, this will be my first season with the Coyotes, and let’s just say it’s never easy to be the new guy on the team.” Especially when you come with my baggage.

  “I can imagine that would be tough. Have you changed teams a lot?”

  “Actually, no. This is the first time since I got bumped up to the majors that I’ve been the new guy, and even then, it was all inside the same organization, so it was a little easier.”

  “So you played in the NHL?”

  “For a few years, yeah. Until I got injured.” Until it all started to go sideways. “Since I had my ACL surgery, I haven’t managed to get back to the level of play they need at that level.” Not fast enough. Not strong enough. Just not enough. Hence the need for the chemical enhancements that got me where I am today—not just stuck in the minors, but traded to another team and starting from scratch.

  Then again, better to be in the minors on a new team than not playing at all. I have to remember how lucky I am. Very few people can get paid to play a sport at all, let alone not lose their jobs when they fuck up as badly as I did.

  Sylvia sips her coffee and looks sympathetic. Which means it’s all I can do not to blurt out the whole sordid story. What would happen then? Nothing good, I feel sure. Or, at least, nothing good for me. I might be head over heels for her already, but she’s way too levelheaded and cautious to be in the same boat. Yeah, she was reckless enough to have sex with me, but even then, it was clear she’d thought it through very carefully before making that decision. Because she’d trusted me to take no for an answer. Would she still trust me if she knew the truth? I doubt it. Hell, she shouldn’t.

  “Anyway,” I continue as I cut another piece of steak, “having been on the giving end of what happens to new guys—especially old new guys like me—I have a pretty good idea of what I’m in for.”

  On the ice: getting lots of checks and “accidental” trips and few opportunities to make plays. Off the ice: being the butt of “friendly” insults/jokes and always being stuck with the check at the end of any team get-together. In my case, it’ll all be made worse by the fact that all my new teammates know of my disgrace and have no reason to trust me not to make the same mistake twice.

  She snorts with a combination of amusement and disapproval. “Boys are always boys, aren’t they? Don’t you know anyone on the new team?”

  It’s my turn to snort. “I know almost all of them, since I’ve played against them more than once over the years. The only players I won’t know will be this season’s rookies. But that doesn’t mean I’m friends with any of them. We’re not enemies, either, but…” I shrug, not sure how to finish the sentence. Pro hockey is a small community, and players get traded from franchise to franchise often enough that we’ve all met both on and off the ice. And we mostly get along fine, although there are a few real shit-heels in the bunch, including a couple on my old team.

  It’s just that it’s going to take a while for me to prove to my new teammates that I’m not the latest shit-heel to wear the same uniform.

  “Sounds rough,” she remarks as I put the steak in my mouth and chew. “You sure about loving this hockey thing? Because I can’t say I’m seeing the appeal.”

  I can’t say I’m seeing it right now, either, but that has more to do with Sylvia than it does with the hardships of training camp. I can’t see a way to have hockey and her. I’ve loved hockey for as long as I can remember. I’ve loved her for…what, a day? It’s an easy, obvious choice. Or it should be.

  Spoiler: it’s not easy or obvious. I want them both.

  Eleven

  Sylvia

  As soon as Ivan bought into the new itinerary, I used my borrowed Kindle to email Lucy and Romy to see if one of them will be home in the next day or so to overnight my passport to Vegas. I’d rather not spend a night in that city without being able to prove I’m over twenty-one. Not that I’m necessarily expecting a night on the town, but I’d like to be able walk through a casino without being hassled by security.

  I got a response from Romy almost right away, saying she’s working the flight from Maui today and should be able to get it out to me in the morning. Since all three of us spend a lot of time on the road, we’re pretty much masters of the General Delivery function of the U.S. Post Office, which allows you to send mail to anyone to be picked up at a post office. The tricky part will be that I won’t have an ID to show the postmaster until after I open the envelope. But I think it’ll be okay.

  With that handled, I used the motel’s phone to book a room at Canyon Lodge for the night. With one bed. At least it’s a queen instead of a full.

  After breakfast, we stopped at a pharmacy and picked up a box of twenty-four condoms. It’s probably way more than we’ll use in three and a half days, but I’d rather have too many than not enough.

  Then we went back to the motel and tried them out. That wasn’t the original plan, mind you. We meant to go back, brush our teeth, pack up, and get on the road. But one little kiss led to another and another and then to a lot more than kisses and… Well, suffice it to say, we didn’t leave until almost eleven.

  Which is why we’re starting back up the stairs from the Lower Falls at almost seven o’clock in the evening. Thankfully, there’s more an hour until sunset or I might be worried about getting back to the car before it’s dark. The plus side of the late start is that the trail hasn’t been crowded, and the views of the river, the iconic falls, and the canyon in the lengthening afternoon sun were—and are—exquisite. It’s a little like stepping inside of a postcard.

  The minus side is that it’s starting to get a little chilly, and the steep flight of stairs I now have to go up instead of down is a little daunting. I’m sure Ivan could do it Rocky-style, two stairs at a time, without even breaking a sweat, but I have to take it a more restrained pace, and not just because of the altitude. Despite my sedentary job—or, actually, because of it—I make it a point to go running a few times a week. I don’t particularly enjoy running for its own sake, but I discovered early on in my trucking career that sitting on your ass all day is harder if you’re totally out of shape than if you keep up a minimal degree of fitness. And since it’s hard to find a gym or a swimming pool regularly when you’re on the road, running is one of the only viable options. So I suck it up and do it.

  But Ivan is in the kind of shape that comes from of making exercise a full-time job, and I know I’m holding him back. He’s stayed a few steps behind me as I make the climb at a slow, methodical tempo that must be annoying to him.

  Glancing over my shoulder at him, I say, “You should go on ahead, and I’ll meet you at the top.”

  His lips twitch, and his blue eyes sparkle. “No way. I’m enjoying the view.” And then he looks very pointedly not at the scenery, but at my ass. Which, I have to say, is rather prominently displayed by the shorts I bought specifically for the purpose of enticing Ivan to notice that portion of my anatomy.

  At least some things go according to plan.

  I raise my eyebrows in mock criticism. “Oh? Is that why you wanted to walk behind me on the way down too?”

  Ivan raises his right palm. “I cannot tell a lie.” Then he waggles his eyebrows outrageously. “Yes.”

  We both laugh, which leaves me even more out of breath, so when we reach the next landing, I plop down on the bench there. “Shit, we aren’t even halfway up yet,” I pant.

  Sitting down beside me, he drapes an arm over my shoulder. “There’s no rush,” he points out. “We have plenty of time.”

  A family consisting of Mom, Dad, and three kids aged about seven to thirteen walks by us, chattering to each ot
her in Portuguese. I can tell from their accents that they’re from Brazil rather than Portugal, but since I almost never hear my family’s native tongue or get to practice its use, I greet the parents when they reach the landing by saying, “linndo, não é?” (Beautiful, isn’t it?)

  The mother, a gorgeous, dark-skinned woman who must at least be in her thirties but looks ageless, hesitates at the sound of her own language and then smiles uncertainly at me. “Yes,” she responds in slightly accented English. “Very beautiful.” Then she frowns. “You speak Portuguese?”

  “Not very well,” I admit in that language. “My parents are fluent, but I only know the basics. I enjoy hearing other people speak it, though. And I like to practice when I get the chance, which isn’t very often.”

  The dad, who has a lighter skin tone and hence appears a good deal older than his wife, relaxes noticeably at my words. I wonder if he thought I was going to be a dick American complaining about people speaking something other than English. I wouldn’t blame him, especially when I’m sitting with Ivan, who—if I’m being honest—is the physical embodiment of an entitled American white guy.

  “Your family is from Portugal?” the woman asks, sticking to Portuguese now. I’m pretty sure her English is better than my Portuguese, but she obviously took my word for it when I said I like to practice.

  I nod. “My grandparents on both sides.”

  Her husband, apparently satisfied that neither Ivan nor I is going to attack his wife, glances up the staircase to where their kids are disappearing from view around a corner, gives her a meaningful look, and starts up after them.

  “And him?” she asks, obviously meaning Ivan, although she doesn’t look directly at him.

  I purse my lips. “Uh, mainly Scandinavian.” I have no idea what Ivan’s family’s heritage is, but the name, as well as his appearance suggesting Nordic, is a good bet.

  The answer seems to satisfy her, though, because she smiles and then says, in a conspiratorial tone, “Well, he is very beautiful too, your husband.”