by Rylee Swann
Even as the harsh whisper fills my awareness, his hand creeps up my thigh, the calluses scraping over sensitive skin. I whimper.
“Is that what you want, Becca?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”
I open my legs more, inviting him in. Pain shatters through me as the palm connects with my sore ass.
“Did I say you could move?”
“N-no, S—”
I wail as two fingers plunge inside me, twisting and curling, the knuckles sliding across my inner walls. The assault is so fast, so unexpected, so carnal and raw, I detonate, my orgasm hitting with such intensity that white explodes behind my eyes.
Then I’m up and on my feet, but not for long. As if I weigh no more than a child, he positions me on the bed, the hand in my hair shoving me down until my face hits the silk of the duvet.
“Mine,” he growls. “Understand?”
“Only yours, Sir.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and I smile at his praise. “Time for your reward, I believe.”
I sigh in relief as a finger trails down my slit, not stopping until he circles my aching clit. Pinching it between his thumb and index finger, he squeezes the swollen bud, tugging, and twisting until I start to lose my mind. I’m no longer in control of my body as it spasms, and I buck and writhe, my hands digging into the mattress, the sheets balled in my fists.
“So wet for me.”
I moan again, writhing face down on the bed, lifting my ass a little higher for him. He’s right. I’m always wet for him. I can feel my desire leaking down my thigh in a hot little river.
Please touch me, I silently beg. Please give me release.
He does.
Growling, he fills me with one long, hard stroke, his hips crashing into my still smarting ass as he stretches me wide, each thrust sending a new form of pain along my nervous system.
It’s everything he promised. Hard. Fast. Possessive. Passion in its purest form.
Our bodies slam together, filling the room with the brutal drum beat of our sounds. He leans over me, his sweat-slicked chest gliding over my back. Hands slide up my ribcage, then around to cup my breasts. He doesn’t break his pounding rhythm, even as he pulls and tugs my hardened nipples, twisting them until I cry out.
All I can do is grip the sheets and blindly follow where he leads me. The cliff of another orgasm approaches, and I’m powerless to do anything but fall.
“Is this what you want, Becca?”
I try to make my mouth work, try to answer, to tell him what he needs to hear.
“Becca?”
I’m falling… exploding…
“Becca!”
Needing him to…
“Becca!!”
I jerk upright, lost as reality hits me. Where am I? Startled, I whirl around as my name is shouted again.
Reality hits, and I’m face to face with Rob.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I’m torn out of my daydream as suddenly as if cold water had been dumped on my head.
Daydream?
Holy shit.
Where had it come from? Me… tied up, being spanked. No, abused. And liking it. Loving it. Craving it.
I press my thighs together. Craving it even now.
“Are you okay?” Rob asks again, and I blink, forcing myself to focus on him. My ex-boyfriend. My boss. The editor of our college newspaper, a man who is looking at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat with embarrassment, “totally zoned out for a few minutes.”
He smirks, his handsome face twisting in scorn. “Zoned out, huh. Is that what that was?”
God, how I wish this jerk had never seen me naked.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I attempt to pull us back to neutral territory. “What were you needing?”
His eyes flick down to my breasts but meet mine again just as quickly. I don’t allow my expression to change, just sit patiently waiting.
“Um, oh… I was just dropping by to see if you got my email about the new story.”
I turn to my laptop and tap the mousepad, bringing it to life. Clicking my email, I find the message from Rob.
“Football?” I murmur as I read it. Slowly, I turn to him. “You want me to do a feature on our football team?”
The smirk returns as Rob leans his shoulder against my office door. Well, ‘office’ is being generous for the six-by-six-foot cubby I use to research articles for my college’s newspaper. The janitors’ supply closet is bigger than my ‘office.’
“Is there a problem?” he asks, ogling my breasts. “Or are you suddenly too important to cover our football team’s winning streak?” The way he phrases the question makes it not really a question at all. He knows this isn’t the sort of assignment I want.
I stare up at Rob, my thoughts churning. Sure, it was stupid to sleep with my boss; dangerous for my future too. His father owns the big paper in town I want to work for when I graduate. Fat chance of that after I broke up with Daddy’s little boy. In addition to sabotaging my career, our break-up made the job I once loved a living hell. Where I used to write thought provoking editorials and front page stories, I’m now relegated to fluff pieces and lifestyle articles on where to get the best mani-pedi. I’m not dumb. I know it’s because we aren’t together anymore.
But football?
I sigh. In reality, it isn’t that bad of a story, and I know it’ll end up at least on the second page, maybe even the front. The students love their football heroes, after all. Sure, it beats covering the cat show that’s coming to town next week, but I don’t relish talking to some meathead jock, not when I’m passionate about politics and in-depth investigative reporting.
I pick up my pencil. “Well, tell me about this quote-unquote winning streak.”
As Rob rattles off percentages and win-loss averages, I take notes, but most of what he’s saying means nothing to me. And the bastard knows it. He knows I don’t like sports. He knows I don’t like arrogant players. This entire assignment is motivated by childish revenge, I’m sure of it.
“On top of that,” he continues, “the quarterback is on track to break some records this year. He has a .628 completion percentage so far this season with nineteen completions per game.”
What the hell does that mean?
“On top of that, he passes almost two-hundred yards per game, and the mother can run, rushing close to seventy-five yards most games.”
That doesn’t seem like much. And where is he rushing to?
“The guy’s a beast, scoring nearly two touchdowns per game himself.”
Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do?
Rob barks out a sound that could have been a laugh. “Why am I telling you all this, Bec? It’s your story. You research it. I can’t hand feed you everything.”
I stifle the growl burning in my throat, swallowing it down to sweetly answer, “Yes, I’m an excellent researcher and an excellent investigative reporter, if you’ll remember from the time I was actually assigned anything newsworthy.”
He narrows his eyes at me, another reminder of why I had to end our relationship. His arrogance.
Our break up took place a few months ago, after a year-long relationship. It wasn’t ugly, but I could tell he was pissed and disappointed, and that he clearly didn’t understand. Rob not understanding things is a big part of the reason the breakup happened in the first place. At least, it’s part of the reason. There’s more I just couldn’t tell him. A lot more. Things I couldn’t admit to myself. The breakup took him by surprise, but for me, it had been a long time coming.
I break eye contact with him and stare back at the email, feeling dread and annoyance squeeze around me, tighten my throat. Rob even used his old pet name for me. Bec. It doesn’t matter that I’ve asked him to refer to me as Becca now that we’re no longer we. Rob does what he wants. I just wish he wanted to assign me a really important story.
Rob shrugs and pulls on the sleeves of a preppy-assed sweater that prob
ably cost more than I make in a week. Good looking and clean cut, he comes from a wealthy family. Beside him, I always felt second class, and he never seems to take me seriously.
“I’d like this by the end of the week so that it comes out a week before homecoming.” With that, he walks away, leaving the spicy scent of his expensive cologne in his leather loafered wake.
Slumping in my desk chair, I sigh loudly and try to think of how I can turn this article into something more important than fluffing the team’s ego, which is clearly what this is. Sure, even if it made the front-page and is better than the fluff I’ve been writing, this is how these stories usually go. I don’t expect to get any hard-hitting, political articles in my small university paper, but I want to at least feel like I’m being challenged.
I shoot off a quick email, thanking Rob for the story as I’d forgotten to do that while he was standing at my door. I try not to roll my eyes too hard. I hate being disingenuous, but again, it isn’t a story I can turn down. And I refuse to let his bad manners affect mine. Closing my eyes, I rub my temples. He’s testing me.
I go to my morning classes, jogging across North Carolina U’s sprawling campus, and try to put my failed relationship and story deadline out of my mind. I need to focus. Finals are coming up, but all I can think about is how annoyed I am. I don’t have an angle for the story, and it’s eating at me.
The rest of the day slips out of my fingers like smoke as I think about it all. I’m about to cave and ask Rob if he has a specific angle he wants for the story when it comes to me.
I’ll do a focus piece on the quarterback. Whoever that is.
After class, I go back to the paper’s office and do a quick search of the archives to make sure a story hasn’t already been written about the quarterback. There have been several articles interviewing the coach and a few of the other players, but nothing other than a scant few quotes from Cole James.
A twenty-two-year-old senior from rural Tennessee, Cole was the star of his small town’s football team and received a full athletic scholarship at NCU. His image stares back at me from my laptop screen. Gorgeous. Clear, baby blue eyes are framed by a heavy brow and square jaw. He’s smiling in the picture, flashing dimples, and I’m suddenly thinking about my X-rated daydream from this morning.
I cross my legs, but the friction only makes heat rise to my cheeks before trailing a winding path to my core. I need to focus and try to laugh this off, but I’m aroused… really aroused, I realize with a sigh.
He doesn’t look like the guys I usually date. I prefer educated men. Older men. Though lately, I’ve been too busy to date. Not that I’m short on male attention; I’m short on time. I’m trying to get all my basics out of the way so I can move on to my major, journalism. Men just aren’t my passion, but writing is.
My best friend, Mia, is always saying that I’m a twenty-one-year-old fuddy-duddy, much too serious for my age. But I’d gotten a late start on school and feel like I’m playing catch-up all the time. First with my classes, and now with the stories I want to write.
Seriously… football?
I huff. Nothing front-line about that.
It often surprises people when I tell them my ambitions of being an investigative journalist, and that I want to be on the front lines of the action. When people look at me, I know what they see. A good girl. Vanilla. Pretty and young, but naive. They can’t be more wrong. I just don’t have the desire to explain myself. Not to people who judge me too quickly. I don’t owe anyone anything, which is what I told Rob when I broke it off.
Letting out a long breath, I try to put it out of my mind and focus on my computer screen again, which is a mistake.
Wow.
Cole James may be the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Reaching out a finger, I trace the square line of his jaw, then snatch it back. What the hell am I doing? Creaming over some football jock I don’t even know?
Starting to feel like an internet stalker, I close the picture and click out of the archives, then stare at the ocean sunset picture on my screen. Hmm… that beach would be the perfect place to have sex with Cole James. Would he like it rough like the guy in my dream?
Gah!
I slam the laptop shut and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
Think, Becca. With your head and not with your vagina.
Lowering my hands, I reach for pen and paper and begin to jot down notes. First thing first, I need to find the quarterback. How in the hell do I find the quarterback?
Inspiration strikes, and I pull out my phone, tapping my best friends number.
“Hey, Becca.” Mia’s happy voice makes me smile.
“Need some information. Is this a good time?”
“If good time means saving me from studying, it’s an awesome time. Whatcha need?”
I gave her a brief summary of the story I need to write.
“Mmm… Cole James is incredibly yummy.”
I’m surprised by the flicker of jealousy that hits me and ignore it. “He’s probably also an incredibly giant dick.”
Mia laughs. “Well, I’ve heard he has a giant dick.”
I squirm in my seat. “Any idea where I can find him? Do I just show up at the stadium or the locker room?”
She snorts. “I’ll go with you if you crash the locker room. I’ll be the one with the GoPro on my head.”
I laugh. I love Mia so much. She’s always good for some giggles. And tea. The girl can brew a good cuppa.
“Wait!” she yells, “I know exactly where you can find him.”
I grab my pencil. “Where?”
“Well, rumor has it that Cole is at this old dive bar just off campus most nights. It’s where most of the football players hang out.”
Great, a guy with a steady drinking habit.
“It’s called The Wild Rose. I’ve been there several times myself. It’s old as hell, but the drinks are cheap, and the eye candy is first rate.”
I like eye candy. But I don’t like smelly, grimy dive bars. So not my thing.
Some might call me a snob, but the truth is that places like that remind me too much of home. Too many bad memories I’ve tried to put behind me. I grew up in a small, poor mining town and moved out before I graduated high school. There was no money from my parents, so getting into college was just a lot of hard work on my part.
Hours later, here I am… just outside one of the dive bars I hate so much, feeling really dumb for what I chose to wear. Trying to be classy, I pulled on my favorite sheath dress that hugs every curve of my slim body. Over it, an angora sweater I bought at a consignment shop keeps me warm. At least I didn’t do anything fancy with my hair and makeup. Instead, my long brown hair is down in a simple side part, and the only thing on my face is a bit of mascara and a swipe of cherry lip gloss.
I stand out. But I’m not sure it’s in a good way.
“Lost?”
My eyes dart to the bouncer, a big man easily twice my size. I clear my throat. “Not at all. Can’t a girl get a drink?” I ask with my brightest smile.
The guy’s dark eyes travel slowly down my body, seeming to take in every detail. He takes in my sling back stilettos, then travels back up, stopping at the fake diamonds in my ears before meeting my eyes again. “This ain’t the Plaza, darlin’.”
A group of three girls waltz out of the door, boobs and butts bursting from their skimpy clothes. I squirm in my consignment shop designer label and wonder if I should shrug off my sweater to show a little skin. My conservative clothes are another reason my friends think I’m a prude.
Maybe I am.
“Identification.” The word draws my attention back to the bouncer. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps popping with the stance.
“Excuse me?”
He exhales a long breath. “Darlin’, I need to see some form of ID before I can let your sweet little ass walk inside that door.”
I blush, but open my clutch and pull my driver’s license from the s
lot and hand it over. Above it is my credit card and two twenties in cash. In its own little slot is my lip gloss and a box of breath mints. My ever-present notepad and pencil are the only other items besides the keys to my apartment and car.
The order inside my little purse calms me, especially now in this dirty and smelly place.
Things in my life have a place. An order. It drove Rob crazy, how organized I am, and he accused me of using that to avoid letting people in. I sometimes wonder if he’s right. I’m not sure. I just know that right now, I’m going to keep my personal life just as organized. I’m not about to get sidetracked by another dead-end relationship. Or risk some raging STD with one of these studs.
“You gonna be okay in there?” the bouncer asks me as he hands my driver’s license back.
What a curious question.
I tuck the license away and grip my clutch tighter. “Hm, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He scoffs, his eyes flicking down my body again. “You’ll know why after about five seconds inside.”
My stomach churns as I try to peek around his bulking presence. “Is it really that bad?”
“You seem like a nice girl. I’m Pete. If things get out of hand, yell my name.”
Frowning, I swallow hard but lift my chin. I’m a damn investigative journalist, and if I can’t walk into a damn bar, I damn well deserve writer’s block for eternity. “Thanks. I’ll be fine, but I appreciate the concern.”
He holds the door open. “Just remember, you’ve been warned.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles as I step inside. Immediately, all heads seem to swivel toward me. Ignoring the stares, I pull my shoulders back and pretend I belong as I march straight toward the bar.
The music is louder, but a chorus of laughter drowns it out. I glance over to see a group of barely dressed co-eds looking and laughing at me. And that’s not paranoia speaking. They are seriously pointing in my direction, sharp giggles floating from their collagen enhanced lips. I straighten my shoulders, and emotionally bubble wrap myself from the mean-spirited hate darts the meanies are tossing at me.
I’m not like them anymore.
I refuse to be like them ever again.
Pulling my attention away from the girls, I scan the bar. There are a lot of older men here too. Biker types. I feel them staring, undressing me with their eyes. They probably think I’m lost too. Little do they know, I spent a lot of time in bars like these back home with my fake ID and loser boyfriend. I know my way around a pool table and can hold my liquor. I just try to make better choices these days.