He wanted all of Chelsea, damn it. If his family had fucked this up for him, he’d never forgive them.
She gazed up at him, head cocked. “Wanna come to the bout tonight?”
Sebastian was surprised at her offer. “You’re sure? I don’t want to intrude.”
“It’s probably going to be crowded. And people are going to be rowdy. And I’m probably going to get a few smacks to the face, so I don’t want you rushing on the track to save me because I’m a girl.” She said the words derisively.
“First of all, I would never rush onto the track to save you, because you can kick everyone’s ass out there.” At her delighted laugh, he continued. “And second of all, I’m fine with you getting a few smacks to the face as long as you elbow them back.”
“Elbows aren’t allowed,” she teased as she slid past him. “Everything else is, though.”
“Well, then, I have to go to cheer on my derby wife, don’t I?”
“Oh, my god, that’s so cute.” She turned and patted him on the chest. “But Pisa’s my derby wife. You’re just my man. You don’t get a special title.”
He toyed with a lock of her blonde hair. “I don’t know. I kind of think being your man is a pretty special title.”
Her expression softened and her gaze slid to his mouth for a long moment. Then she pulled away, smiled, and bounded down the stairs. “I’ll tell them to hold a ticket for you at the front. Tell them you’re Chesty LaRude’s piece of ass.”
“I shall wear the name with pride,” he called back, and chuckled.
A few hours later, he was back in the bleachers, seated next to Diane, Morning Whorey’s real-life wife. They drank beers and chatted and he sketched as the bout went through jam after jam. Chelsea took a few hard knocks at the beginning, but she’d found her stride and was delivering a beat-down to the other team’s blockers. Diane gave him play-by-plays since he still didn’t know the rules of the game. Not that it mattered. He spent most of his time watching Chelsea and suppressing inappropriate feelings of lust every time she bent over and flashed her yellow panties under that impossibly short skirt. She was kicking ass, though. The bout had been tight the entire time, and when they hit the halfway mark, Chelsea looked up in the stands, scanning for him. He waved, and she blew a kiss in his direction before skating off with her team for the halftime powwow.
“So how’s married life?” Diane asked, peering over his shoulder at his sketchpad. Her beer sloshed over her hand. “Oh, my god. Holy shit. Is that Chesty?”
He slid away a foot, edging away from her beer. “It is. I just sketch for fun. It’s not very good.”
Diane thumped into the bleachers next to him. “Are you kidding? That’s fucking incredible. Do you think you could do a sketch of Whorey when she comes back out? Please?”
“I can try,” he said, switching to a fresh piece of paper. “What’s her number?”
“Sixty-nine, of course.” Diane giggled. “God, that’s amazing. You should do the trading cards for the girls.”
“What? No—”
“I’m serious,” Diane said. “They hired a photographer for the trading cards but he sucked ass. All of the girls hated the photos. They’d probably love drawings of themselves.”
“I’ll think about it.” Sebastian demurred, picking up a new pencil and watching the halftime show with mild interest. His thoughts were on Chelsea and his sketches. What would she think of him doing sketches of the other girls?
She’d tell him to go for it and to be brave about his art, because she was fearless.
Maybe he needed to be more fearless, too.
When the girls skated back on the track, he looked for Morning Whorey, and then began to sketch her angular face and the expression she made when the jam started. At his side, Diane squealed and clapped her hands, beer forgotten. “That’s so her! That’s amazing, Sebastian!”
He grinned and took a sip of his beer, feeling a bit more relaxed about his art. Someone else had seen him draw and the world hadn’t ended. Wasn’t so bad.
The Rag Queens fell behind for a time, and his sketches were forgotten as the stands erupted between each jam, cries of disappointment erupting every time the jammer banged her hands against her hips, calling off the jam. Then, Good Whip Lollipop managed to score a Grand Slam on the other team, bringing the score within two points and three minutes left.
Then, the Rag Queens tied them on the next jam.
By that time, the crowd was on their feet, and Sebastian was caught up in the excitement. “This is the last jam,” Diane yelled in his ear. “Time’s gonna run out so they have to hustle.”
His gaze flicked from the jammer to the pack, just ahead of them. The women were tense, ready to start. The whistle blew, and the pivot moved out in front. Then, a second whistle, and the jammers took off. As he watched, Chelsea skated in front of the other team, then widened her legs as she skated, deliberately blocking as much floor as she could. The other team’s jammer tried to jump her extended leg and managed to knock both of them to the ground. He held his breath as Chelsea went sprawling, his worry for her overriding his enjoyment of the game. But she quickly picked herself back up and skated back to the pack. Meanwhile, Good Whip Lollipop was busy fighting her way through the pack to score. She passed one player—
And pounded on her hips with her hands, signaling the end of the jam.
It was over. The Broadway Rag Queens won by one point. The audience roared their appreciation as the women skated a victory lap around the track, arms raised in triumph.
The crowd surged forward out of the bleachers, moving to the floor, and Sebastian went with them, heading unerringly for Chelsea.
She spotted him as he approached the track and sped up, skating through the crowd to fling herself into his arms with a happy squeal. Her face was red with exertion, her ponytails damp with sweat, but she was exuberant. “We won,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck even as he lifted her into the air and hugged her.
“You were fucking amazing! I nearly lost my mind when you did that last move at the end to block the jammer—”
Her eyes lit up with pleasure at his compliment. Then her gaze flicked to his mouth, and she impulsively pressed her mouth to his in a hard kiss.
Sebastian was startled—Chelsea didn’t kiss impulsively. He knew now that she had issues with intimacy because of her past. He was resolved not to push her, to let her lead. He’d follow wherever she led. And if she wasn’t eager for kisses, he was fine with that.
But the lips on his weren’t hesitant in the slightest. They were excited, eager, and as her mouth slicked over his, she licked the seam of his mouth. She was asking—no, demanding—for more from him.
He gave it to her, then, his arms tightening around her body as he hungrily returned the kiss, his mouth devouring hers. His tongue met and clashed with hers, and their teeth banged together once, and then it was just endless deep kiss after endless deep kiss. A thrust of tongue, a sultry moan deep in the throat, the nip of her teeth, all of them drove the world out until it was just him and Chelsea, locked together.
And she wasn’t pulling away. She was totally into it, just as much as he was.
But he kept his hands carefully at her waist. He was the one who broke the kiss and opened his eyes to see Chelsea giving him a dazed look, her mouth swollen and wet from his kisses.
And fuck, he wanted to kiss her all over again. To press his mouth to hers over and over again until she was begging for more.
But . . . this was Chelsea, and Chelsea was the leader. So he smiled down at her and thumped her helmet. “What was that for?”
“I just . . .” She shrugged, then grinned at him. “I wanted to molest you with my mouth.”
“I am open for it any time at all.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth again, and she gave him another hot look. And . . . holy fuck, was she actually considering it?
“No one’s going to be in the locker room for a few minutes,” she breathed, then
grabbed his hand, dragging him to the back of the building. “Come on.”
He had to jog to keep up with her. Sebastian wasn’t sure if this was smart, but hell, if Chelsea wanted to fling him down on the track and have sex with him right then and there, in front of everyone, he was down for it.
They raced to the locker room, and Chelsea slammed the door shut behind them, then turned the lock. She skated toward Sebastian and then pulled him down to sit on the bench in front of the lockers. Then, she flung one leg over his hips and settled herself into his lap, wrapping both legs around him.
And she kissed him again. Deep, hungry, eager.
And fuck, his cock was rock-hard and aching like never before.
Chelsea rocked against his lap, then tugged at the front of her uniform, revealing her breasts. Then, she attacked him with her mouth again, kissing and licking and nibbling at his mouth. Her hips rocked against his, and when he continued to hold her at her waist, she took his hand and guided it to her breast. “Touch me, Sebastian.”
He groaned. He didn’t know what had come over her, but he was game for it. Maybe it was the excitement from winning the bout, but if this was what she needed, he’d be happy to participate. “You remember your safe word?” he asked, even as he slid his thumb over her nipple. It was hard against his skin, and she pushed against his hand with a whimper.
“I don’t think I’ll need it,” she told him between quick, eager kisses. “Put your hand in my panties. Feel how wet I am right now.”
Damn, what an invitation. She shifted in his lap and he slid his hand down, searching through the layers of her uniform to find skin. When he found her stomach, he delved down and . . . god, she was soaking wet. So fucking wet that his fingers were coated. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured, and kissed her neck. She smelled like sweat and flowers and it was fucking incredible. “You’re wet as hell.”
“Feels good,” she murmured, and began to rock her hips against his fingers as she kissed him again. “I don’t know if I want your fingers inside me or your cock.”
He stilled, mentally going through the contents of his wallet. He hadn’t dated in a while and had taken out the last condom. “I don’t have any protection on me.” And since she wasn’t into sex before now, it was likely she wasn’t on birth control.
She rocked on his hand, her nipples scraping against the front of his shirt. “Then you finger me until I get off, huh? And then when we get home, I get you off?”
His cock pulsed in response to the offer. “Whatever you want to do.”
She bit her lip and then leaned forward and scraped her breasts against his chest again. “I think I want your fingers on my clit.”
He could do that. Sebastian slid his fingers through her warmth, then pulled back, seeking the tiny bump of her clit. He could tell immediately when he hit it, because she hissed with pleasure, and her hands went around his shoulders, clinging to him.
“Oh, god. Right there.” Her eyes closed and she tilted her head back. And god, she was fucking gorgeous and wanton, and it made his dick ache so hard he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stand again. He didn’t care, though. He just rubbed two fingers around her clit, circling it and trying to figure out what kind of stroke she liked best.
Her breasts jiggled before his eyes as she rocked her hips against his hand, and they were close enough to be a temptation, but too far for his mouth to reach. “Cup your breasts,” he told her. “Feed those pretty nipples to me.”
“Mmm,” she moaned, riding his hand. One of her hands slid up her uniform to cup her breast, pointing her nipple toward him.
He leaned forward and latched on to the peak, his hand at the small of her back to anchor her, the other still working her clit as she straddled him. The tiny bud was taut in his mouth, and as he flicked his tongue over it, she gasped. Her hips began to move faster, and then she was grinding against his hand, moaning his name. Encouraged by her wanton response, he scraped his teeth over her nipple, dragging them over the sensitive peak.
“Keep . . . touching . . . me,” she encouraged, her hand going to his hair and twining her fingers in it. He continued to lavish attention on her breast, stroking her clit with firm, quick movements as she rotated her hips against him. Her movements grew more and more frantic, until she was whimpering against him, and he could feel tension building in her legs as they clenched around him. “Oh, god,” she whimpered in a small voice. “Oh, god. Oh, Sebastian. Oh, god. I’m going to come. Oh, god. Oh, god.”
Someone tried to open the locker room door, and then began to bang on the door.
Sebastian ignored it. His girl was about to come so hard while riding him, and he wasn’t going to give that up for anything. His fingers moved faster, his strokes becoming rougher and deeper. He continued to work her nipple with his mouth, teeth, and tongue, flicking, licking, and then sucking on the hard little tip. She kept riding him, but she seemed to need more. So he thrust a finger deep inside her and seated his thumb against her clit, rubbing it back and forth.
A high, keening sound escaped her throat as someone knocked on the door. Chelsea shuddered against him, and her thighs felt like iron around his hips, squeezing him as she came. All the while, he kept working her with his hands and mouth, so fucking aroused and proud of her.
She’d rode him like a fucking champ.
And granted, it was only his hand, but it was a step in the right direction. She continued to rock her hips against his hand a moment longer, then let out a long, boneless sigh and moved both of her hands to his hair, hugging him against her. “Oh, god, Basty, that was incredible.”
He pressed kisses to her neck. “You’re trying to kill my erection with that shit nickname, aren’t you?”
She giggled, the sound so confident and sweet that it made his chest ache to hear it. “Like nails on a chalkboard?”
“Like plaid and sofas. Sex and that name do not go together.”
“Oh, baby.” She patted his shoulder. “There you go again with one of those terrible comparisons. We really need to get you a book on them.”
The door pounded. “Hey,” someone bellowed. “Open the fuck up! This is our locker room!”
“Gimme just a minute,” Chelsea called.
“That you, Chesty?”
“It’s me,” she yelled, and began to pull up her uniform. She reached into the front and tucked her breasts back into her bra, then sighed and gave one last wiggle when he pulled his hand free from her panties.
“How long until we make it home?” Sebastian asked as she got off his lap. He stood up and adjusted himself, tucking the head of his cock into the waistband of his pants to try and hide his arousal. It was uncomfortable as all fuck, but it was just another thing he’d endure for her.
He’d endure everything for her.
She giggled again and pointed at the front of his pants. “Um. There’s a wet spot there from me.” Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m not,” he said, untucking his shirt to let it hide the evidence. He leaned in and kissed her again.
“We’ll be home soon,” she promised, and there was an excited light in her eyes that promised very soon, indeed.
Chapter Twenty
Chelsea practically wiggled with a mixture of joy and anticipation the entire time Coach Black HellVet talked to the team. Sure, there was celebrating and cheering, as well as a few pointers on where to improve for the next game. All Chelsea could think about was Sebastian.
Sebastian with his hot, sexy mouth, his awesome fingers, and the way he’d pushed her to an orgasm after she’d climbed all over him. Oh, Sebastian.
She hadn’t even cared that the other Rag Queens gave her hell for locking them out of the locker room and then being mussed and tousled when she opened the door with a man in tow. She’d just grinned and sent Sebastian out to wait for her. They’d ride the subway home together and then she’d climb all over him again for round two.
She’d had an orgasm. She’d enjoye
d kissing.
These were milestones.
Chelsea felt alive again. Normal. She’d had no idea why she’d attacked Sebastian like that. She’d just been on a euphoric high after the buzzer went off and the Rag Queens had come back from behind to win. She’d skated around the track one last time and as the crowd had surged forward to congratulate them, she’d looked for Sebastian. His was the face she’d wanted to see more than anything, and when she’d saw the shining pride in his gaze and his excitement that she’d won . . .
It had been a major turn on for her. She’d grabbed him and kissed him, and she’d felt . . . something.
She’d felt all kinds of things, really.
And it had been incredible. She’d liked kissing him. No, scratch that, she’d loved kissing him. Loved it. Wanted more of it. Wanted to devour him on the floor right then and there. Wanted to grab him by the collar and kiss him until she was blue in the face and her lips hurt from mashing them against his. She wanted to kiss for hours and hours on end.
She wanted to cry with happiness. She liked kissing again.
And suddenly Sebastian wasn’t just her handsome, sensitive-souled friend-slash-husband. He was walking sex on a stick and she wanted to crawl all over him and rip his clothing off and lick every bit of him until he was screaming with need.
So she’d dragged him to the locker room and made him finger her until she’d come.
No regrets.
Well, okay, if they’d had more time, she’d have slid her face into his lap and given him the same happy ending she’d gotten. But she was going to do all that and more later tonight, now that she had her mojo back.
And she was excited about it.
When the coach released them, Chelsea jumped to her feet and threw her skates in her bag, hurrying out of the locker room.
“Whoa, slow down,” Cherry Fly teased, stepping in front of Chelsea. “We’re going out for drinks to celebrate. You want to come?”
Normally she loved hanging with her girls after a bout. It didn’t matter that she didn’t drink—she didn’t like the way getting drunk made her feel, that out-of-control, loopy sensation that reminded her of her rape—but she enjoyed the company. But tonight? Tonight she just wanted Sebastian and more kisses and more touches. “I can’t, my guy’s waiting for me.”
The Billionaire Takes a Bride Page 16