No surprise to Gwen that I can’t relax. I promised her I wouldn’t think about school. I wouldn’t think about how bad marketing and The Party Girls are stressing me out. As soon as I get back to civilization, I’m calling them in for an emergency meeting.
In our group chat yesterday, Nayvee suggested birth control panties when we were all brainstorming product ideas. Fortunately, Bailey stepped up and told her that made literally zero sense. I think she might have been talking about a chastity belt.
So far we have a fancy Solo cup, which already exists, chastity panties, and a douche for men which I’m pretty sure is just an enema. And I am not bringing a re-packaged enema to my professor. Why is this so hard?
I drink the second shooter then grab a beer out of the fridge. The perfect product is out there. It’s probably right in front of me, yet I can’t recognize it. Something useful, yet simple, the kind of idea that makes people go: why didn’t I think of that?
The beer starts to go down as easy as the shooters. Regardless of my performance on that bottle of wine the other night, I’m not a big drinker. I’m really not. My parents were big enough drinkers that they basically convinced me never to touch the stuff. However, given that I’m locked in a room until morning, I figure I can make an exception. It’ll pass the time anyway.
Masturbate.
Gwen texts me her advice for everything. Failed a test? Rub one out. Bad date? Flick the bean. Indigestion? Break out the vibrating dildo. Once Gwen bought me this comically expensive vibrator for my birthday. I tried it once and decided it was way too ridiculous for me to even get in the mood. Besides I don’t really have many fantasies to speak of. The only thing I dream about is walking across stage to get my diploma. That’s not exactly spank material.
Sorry didn’t bring that vibrator.
When I text her back, I assume it’s the end of the conversation. For some reason I’m being optimistic because I know that things are never over until Gwen gets her way.
Soon my phone lights up with a picture of Logan basically naked. He’s holding a towel around his cock. His big, hard impressive cock. The same cock that I accidentally touched and the same cock that bumped up against my leg in front of his parents house.
Every other inch of him is completely naked and sweaty. Then I realize it’s not sweat, it’s water. He’s coming out of the shower in what looks like a locker room. Even though most of his face is obscured, it’s obviously him. Gwen, that bitch, is breaking out the heavy artillery.
You don’t need a vibrator to masturbate.
I giggle at the very thought of the picture. It’s so ridiculous.
Where did you even get this?
I’m waiting for her reply when I realize that my phone is no longer getting a signal. That lightning I noticed on the ride over strikes in the near distance, and I figure that makes my room a dead zone. Without Gwen as my lifeline, I’m really alone.
With nothing else to do but slowly drink a beer, I slip out of my t-shirt and shorts. Down to my bra and panties, I set the beer on the nightstand and poke my head into the bathroom.
The connected bathroom might be bigger than my apartment bedroom. I’m starting to get billionaire envy something fierce. There’s a bath and a shower. For a moment, I think about taking a bath to really unwind.
First, I decide to check out the bed. It’s incredibly soft and warm, and the silk sheets under the velvet duvet feel incredible against my bare skin.
There’s a TV on the wall opposite me, so I turn it on, find the news and keep the volume low. A little background noise is all it usually takes to settle me down. Granted I haven’t slept anywhere but my own apartment since I lived in a freshman dorm.
Logan was right. I feel like I’m staying in a hotel, all expenses paid. There are worse ways to spend my weekend than getting away from my ratty, Gwen-occupied, apartment.
Despite the fact that my phone has no service, I find myself playing with it anyway. Again and again, I can’t help myself, and I flip back to Logan’s naked shower picture.
I find myself salivating to every single inch of his muscles. His rock hard abs and fiercely powerful pecs. Whoever took the picture must have done so right after a workout because Logan’s biceps are so full of power and energy that they look about ready to burst.
The blood of a fierce workout pumps through every part of him, making him hard and firm all over like his cock. Shit, why am I thinking about his cock again?
Suddenly, a great thunder crack shakes the house. Immediately following that a burst of rain rushes down from the sky echoing all around me.
I love the rain. It puts me at ease. Between the dull thunder and the constant pitter-patter of droplets, I fall into the silky, king-size bed. I slip between the sheets, staring at Logan’s mostly naked picture, and I find myself getting very comfortable.
Before I know it, my hand creeps absently down my naked tummy. Closing my eyes, I find myself picturing Logan walking into the room like that, all hot and bothered, dripping in a mixture of his own sweat and steamy, shower water.
In my mind, he’s holding the towel around that massive cock, gripping himself tightly. I’ve felt it twice. I think I can approximate it’s size. Then he drops the towel. Maybe it’s on purpose. Maybe it’s an accident. Either way his huge manhood comes out.
He’s even bigger than I thought, or so my mind decides. I picture him smiling at me, his own gaze glancing down to his cock to draw my attention there.
My fingers sneak under the elastic band of my panties, and as I fantasize about Logan’s naked, wet body, my naughty fingers find my sex, wet and wanting. By now I’ve dropped my phone. A mental image is all I need. My other hand teases my breast, sensitive now that I’m all excited.
In my fantasy Logan’s naked body walks powerfully through the room, his muscles rippling with every step. At the foot of the bed, he stops to flex for me, pressing his chest out, framing his body with those enormous biceps. When I can’t take anymore, my dream Logan mounts the bed.
Then my imagination runs wild. I feel like I’m at the mercy of an apex predator, and I’m the prey. Gwen keeps telling me that athletes are different. That you can only take them once or twice before it becomes too much.
Similarly my imaginary Logan climbs on top of me with intense ferocity. His muscles flex with power as he prepares to thrust his huge, hard manhood into me. He’s marked me for his and there’s nothing I can do but offer myself up to him.
I spread my legs for real on the bed, touching my sex firmly and sensually, knowing it’s only a small imitation of Logan’s true power. Logan would be rough not gentle, he’d be selfish, he’d take what he wants, and I’d have to keep up to please him.
As I picture him plunging his throbbing cock into me, I can feel the passion stirring within me, suddenly and violently coming to a climax.
“Logan,” I murmur to myself.
My toes curl, and I let out a deep, rumbling sigh.
Just friends right?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Logan
Dad gives me a beer. It’s an IPA that Jeffery brews on the mansions grounds. Tasty and hoppy. It comes with all the bitterness of the best IPAs. Bitter. I feel like dad is trying to send me a message.
This is one of several kitchens in the mansion. Even when my older sisters lived here, it was hard to justify all the space. Guys like my dad rarely justify their decisions.
This particular kitchen serves only the family and is mainly used for lunch or late night snacks. This would fall in the latter category. I’ve raided beers here on many an occasion. Our maid tends to restock the fridge before my parents ever notice. Made getting through high school a lot easier.
Dad takes off his formal jacket and loosens his tie. Then he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His idea of dressing down. For dad, image is everything. He’s so unlike other oil men in the area. A lot of those guys are good old boys, cowboys, rough and tumble guys. Real Texans.
Dad never wanted t
o be a real Texan. He wants to be considered upper crust. New England. Posh. So we live like that, and the family maintains those expectations.
Carolyn and Jillian are the lucky ones, studying abroad in France because that’s what upper crust girls do. The real reason is that they took the first opportunity to get as far away from our parents as possible. Even when I make it to the pros, I’ll still be their kid brother.
Dad wants me to marry Katerina Prescott for the prestige. There isn’t a single girl at the University of Southern Texas with the breeding that would meet his expectation. When I get drafted? Then all bets are off. I’ll be able to have any girl I want, so why would I settle for someone who’s fully bought into my dad’s stuffy, boring lifestyle?
“You’re being foolish. You’ve upset your mother,” dad says. Not even a word about Tamber. She’s been shoved off to the guest room where he can forget about her for the rest of the night.
“Tamber and I are in love,” I say. When I say it, I convince even myself.
My father hesitates which he very rarely does. I’m a better actor than I give myself credit for. He takes a long slow sip of his IPA. Then he paces around the kitchen, rubbing his temples.
While my dad is being all dramatic, I think about my sisters. If anyone is going to see through my fake engagement, it’s going to be them. Despite the fact that we barely see each other anymore, they know me better than anyone else on this planet.
“I looked into this girl. She is absolutely not fit for this family,” dad says, finally finding his next thought.
“I told you about her eight hours ago, and you’ve already got your goons on her?” I ask.
Now I’m mad. I brought Tamber here to get her away from the paparazzi, only to apparently turn her over to my father’s private investigators. He keeps a couple of private dicks on retainer in case he needs to protect the family. Apparently this situation rates.
“Only some phone calls,” he says impassively. Nothing like violating a person’s privacy.
Rather than respond, I sip my beer because I can tell exactly where this is going. Dad comes to me, and puts his hand on my shoulder, gripping it tightly, getting my attention.
“Look son, you know I only want what is best for you. Tell me about her,” he says. He’s testing me, seeing how much I actually know about my so called fiancée.
“She’s from Eden. Her parents aren’t rich, so she worked hard and earned her way to college. She’s a total workaholic, and she’s getting her MBA. Hell, I could barely convince her to leave her studies for a couple of days to make the trip up here.”
I leave out the part about her dad being in prison. I may as well see what my dad’s heard so far.
“What do you know about her mother?” he asks.
Tamber was right. We should have been talking in the limo. What an idiot I am. Of course my dad would take this line of questioning.
Before I can answer there’s a huge crack of thunder outside. Immediately afterward the rain comes. It’s hardly a relief to me. Big heavy drops hit the window over the flawless stainless steel kitchen sink. Everything is so perfect in this house, so utterly taken care of by our help. Momentarily, I wonder what dad does all day long around here when he’s not at work.
“I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you about her mother. Girl like that? I’m sure she has all kinds of secrets,” he says. He leaves it at that. Instead he puts his still cold, half-finished beer down and starts to walk out the kitchen.
I get the hint. If Tamber has secrets, he’s going to figure them out. Tonight, his only goal was to feel us out.
My dad was never a football player. He’s always been a negotiator, and if there’s one thing I learned from him, it’s the art of the deal. Never show your hand, make your opponent reveal theirs. Then crush them.
Normally my dad has no problem crushing his opponents, but he’s never gone up against me. See the thing is being a quarterback is a lot like being a negotiator. You need to be able to stand tall in the face of the fiercest, deadliest opposition and call their bluff.
At the same time somehow I’ve managed to put Tamber in the crosshairs of something far worse than the paparazzi. Try as I might, I can’t maintain the cold, dispassionate face that my father perfected many years ago.
“Why can’t you ever be happy with things I do on my own?” I ask as he’s about to leave the kitchen. He stops and puts his hand on the door waiting for me to say something else.
“I don’t have to be the person you want me to be,” I say.
At that he turns around and looks me in the eye. However, he still refuses to take my bait. I’d rather have an honest conversation with him. I’d rather pour my heart out to him, but my dad has never allowed that.
“What you need to do is carry on this family’s legacy. That’s where you’ll find happiness,” he says. Dad does such a great job of sprinkling his own agenda in with his pep talks. Like I said, great negotiator.
“Football is my legacy,” I say. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever truly loved.”
“You throw the ball well. You can be the first pick in the draft if you don’t keep fucking up in the news. You’ll play for years. In that same time, you could have made quadruple the money in the family business. Without you Oliver Oil will be sold off to someone else because you’re too selfish to manage the family business, and I’m too old. And your poor sisters will be lifting twisting in the wind,” he says.
“You’re retiring?” I ask. The very suggestion hits me like a ton of bricks. Growing up I assumed that my father would work forever, or at least until the day he died.
“I’d like to, but so long as you’re running around out there in your white tights playing a child’s game, I have to keep our business afloat. The business that your grandfather started. He was a Logan Oliver. I’m a Logan Oliver, and you’re a Logan Oliver. The only difference is that you don’t understand the responsibility.”
My dad has never put it that way before. He’s never talked about his own retirement. Talk about being conflicted. I had this whole bullshit story concocted about how Tamber supports my goals when no one else in this family does. I planned on pinning dad to the wall about his complete and utter lack of support.
In typical dad fashion, he cut me off at the knees before I ever had a chance. I don’t even dare mention my sisters right now. They’re older than me, so I never thought of them as relying on me. Like I told Tamber, my parents are old school. First born son and all that.
He turns once more to leave the kitchen. Before he heads down the hall, he grabs the oaken door frame, looks me in the eye, and says, “Katerina’s a nice girl. You’ll like her.”
I want to bang my head against the wall. Goddamn it. What have I done?
The cold beer tastes good going down my throat as I chug the bottle. The IPA takes the edge of a little, but not enough.
The adrenaline I’ve been feeling since I fucking destroyed Ole Miss has not gone away. If anything arguing with my dad has only got me even more amped up. I can feel the testosterone in my veins. I want to hit something, or…
Then I’m overwhelmed by the urge to see Tamber.
We’re just friends.
But I care about her.
This whole bombshell from dad. I need to talk to her about it. She’s smart and kind and sweet, and she won’t steer me wrong. My mom and my sisters are all definitely going to be interested in keeping the business in the family. My fake fiancée might be the only person I can turn to right now for decent advice. The irony would be delicious if this was anyone else’s story but mine.
When it’s clear that dad is long gone, I sneak down the hallway toward the guest wing. So long as Jeffery doesn’t see me, no one will know that I visited her. I feel ridiculous sneaking around anyway since we’re both adults and kinda, sorta engaged. That’s how my parents are though: old school.
The room they put Tamber in is in the very center of the guest wing. They really wanted to lock her up,
I suppose.
Rather than knock and alert Jeffery or any other of the wait staff walking around like ghouls at this hour, I try the door. It’s unlocked. Pushing through I fully expect to find her working on homework.
“Oh shit,” I say out loud, so much for being discreet.
The first thing I see is Tamber’s incredible ass in her tight pink panties because she’s standing on top of the mini fridge, apparently trying to crawl out through the vents that line the upper part of the wall. She’s opened one of the vents, and her hand id stuck in it at least. Tamber’s sweating so much that her panties are practically see through.
She looks back and gives me an awkward smile.
“Hey Tam,” I say, my cock completely and utterly hard as a rock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tamber
The heavy rain continues to echo through the guest room and hallway. I’m feeling so hazy and good, and I can’t believe it’s all coming from a fantasy about Logan. I haven’t done that in years.
I can’t help but giggle like one of The Party Girls as I think about the way he’d look coming out of the showers in the football locker room. All ripped and jacked and ready to go, a small little towel barely containing his cock.
Maybe I could get a job as an athletic trainer. Nah, no good. They don’t let the female trainers into the guy’s locker room right? Maybe I take a wrong turn looking for the ladies’ soccer locker room, and end up stumbling upon him after a morning practice.
It’s official: I can’t be his friend. I can’t be his friend because I’m fantasizing about him. Gwen was so right. She always is. I have to tell her. Unfortunately, my phone’s service is still interrupted. Stupid rain.
I am well and truly distracted. How did this even happen? Then I remind myself that I actually haven’t done anything with him yet besides kissing him. For all I know he doesn’t even want more than that. He agreed not to try to get me in bed this weekend.
Either the drink or the orgasm gets me thinking stupid. It dawns on me that I can probably get better reception through one of the vents that line the top of the wall. They’re blowing cool air in now since it is so goddamn humid in this room. Classic Texas storm. My panties and bra stick uncomfortably to my skin, and I momentarily think about getting completely naked.
Third and Long: A Sports Romance Page 8