Watching Duncan put on a show was like watching poetry in motion—savage, hypnotic poetry that aroused your spirit for battle . . . and I had to admit, at the time, my spirit for passion. I was hard pressed to keep my mind on my duties during the game, especially when he tipped me a wink during the fourth quarter. Damn him.
I’m cleaning up the water tables when I feel a presence behind me, and I turn around to see Duncan standing there, his uniform soaked through in spots, turning the bright green home jerseys to nearly black. "Hey. How was your first game?"
"Interesting," I say, trying my best to not get angry. I can still feel his lips on mine from before, and inside, a little voice that doesn't get to talk much says it wants more. "You played well."
“Against these scrubs? They'd lose to our second-stringers, but yeah, it was fun," Duncan says, glancing back at the rapidly diminishing stands behind him. "Whew, that’s the best part, though, but it's always sad to see them go."
"What's that?" I ask, intrigued even though I don't want to be. "The crowd?"
He nods, then shrugs. His eyes kind of open wide, and I see something that I've never seen in him before. He's showing me something about himself, something that I doubt few people have ever seen. "There's something about being out there, knowing that today, there were eighty thousand people here, and there were times today when I could feel their eyes on me. They got to see me, who I am, making my name. It's a powerful feeling. I felt . . . complete."
"Is that why you do it?" I ask. “Just for the fame?”
Duncan stops, his eyes and face clouding over as he recovers his normal cocky bravado. Instead of answering, he smirks and takes my hand. "There's a party over at a house off campus," he says. "I was thinking, since you helped me so much over the summer and all, maybe I’d take you.”
"You're inviting me to a party?" I ask, and despite my misgivings, I'm flattered. But I won’t be a PAT. I have more self-respect than that. Somewhere, I find the resolve inside me to pull my hand from his. "Sorry, maybe another time, when I'm not some trophy to celebrate a win."
Duncan's face falls for a moment before he regains himself. He comes close, and I can't move. For some reason, my feet are frozen to the ground as he strokes a thumb down my cheek. He leans in, and his warm breath sends shivers down my spine as he whispers in my ear. "Oh no, Carrie. You're not just some trophy or a PAT. You’ll see.”
He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, and I shiver again. Oh God, he's so sexy, and his words . . . is there any truth to them? "Have a good evening, Carrie. I'll see you Monday."
I'm in my dorm room, struggling to try to study after the game. I can't get Duncan's words out of my head, and finally, after rereading the introduction to The General Physical Properties of Organic Compounds four times, I slam my book shut, groaning in frustration.
"Seriously?" I mutter to myself. "One kiss, a touch, and a whispered promise, and he’s got you right where he wants you. Get your shit together, Carrie."
But there's nothing wrong with a little fantasy, a voice in my head whispers, and I know that voice. It's the same voice that came to life earlier today when his lips found mine, and his large, powerful hands pulled me closer to him.
"Argh!" I groan, leaning back and grinding the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I look up at the ceiling, a half-smile coming to my face as I think of seeing him again.
He’s interested in you. Who cares if it's just a booty call? This booty needs to be called, and more often. Besides, if you take care of these needs now, you can get back to Organic Chemistry and not . . . organic chemistry.
I can't help it. I smile at my little joke to myself. My hands drift down over the tops of my breasts, circling and stroking them through my t-shirt. I'd ditched my bra—I was in my dorm room anyway—and the sensations shot through me, electric tingles that added to the warm wetness rolling around in the pit of my stomach.
"You're beautiful," Duncan says, his eyes sparkling and his lips writing hot trails on my neck. We're in a grand bedroom, a four-poster bed surrounded by lacy curtains, limiting my view of the rest of the world, but in the distance, I can hear the crash of waves and the call of tropical birds and smell the ocean on the breeze. We're together, alone in this paradise, and I'm happy to be here with this dream of a man.
My breasts are crushed against his chest, his arms pulling me against him, his hands kneading the flesh of my ass. We're rolling back and forth, teasing and running our hands over each other's body but still leaving our clothes at least somewhat on until we reach this plateau where there's no turning back, and I don't want to, anyway. I'm helpless against his strength, and I don't care. I want this man. He senses my desperate hunger and raises his lips from my neck to whisper in my ear, "Give yourself to me."
"I do," I whisper, reaching down and cupping the huge rock between his legs.
He pulls my shirt up so that he can taste the skin of my breasts. I'm lost, tossed and turned by the feeling of his tongue on my body, his lips wrapping around my nipple and teasing it.
He pushes my knees apart, and I can't resist him. My body needs him, and I push my shorts and panties down, exposing myself to him.
"Duncan . . ." I nearly sob, the feelings of his lips on my nipples and his hands on my now naked ass leaving me in overload. I throb for more of him, hungry for the dangerous pleasure that he can bring me.
Duncan lifts his head from my breasts to look down at me, towering over me as he reaches for the waistband of his jeans. He unsnaps and pushes, and there it is . . . his perfect, steel-hard cock. I've never seen anything sexier or scarier in my life. I don't know if I can take it all, not with the power and danger wrapped up in the rest of his body.
“Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it.”
I'm nodding, knowing that he’s telling the truth. Duncan's grin tells me that he knows my thoughts, and he guides himself inside me, my pussy spreading and wrapping around his cock until he's all the way inside me.
Holy shit. Just a single, deep stroke, and I'm nearly coming already, my hands clutching at my breasts and pinching my nipples. I can't help myself. He grins and slips a finger into my mouth, and I suck while he starts to thrust in and out, my mind obliterated with each movement of his cock inside me. I've never felt something like this before, complete and total pleasure, my body taken by this powerful man who knows exactly how to light every nerve in my body on fire.
I'm making noises, noises I never knew I could make, animalistic and thick as he slides in and out of me, his cock sending tremors up my spine each time. "Can you take it all?" he asks suddenly, and I look to see that he's still restraining himself, his fingers shaking because he's keeping himself under such tight control.
I look into his beautiful gray eyes and nod, smiling. “Don’t hold back.”
The look in his eyes at my words lights a fire in my heart as much as his cock is lighting a fire in my pussy, and his hips speed up, powerfully driving his cock into me. The first shocking impact sends me into spasms, nearly convulsing as he hammers into me over and over, driving me insane with sensation. My God, it feels so good, and he's still going, those hips and legs giving him immense, overwhelming power that crushes me into the bed. He takes my other leg and pushes it up, pinning me as his cock slams over and over into me, his eyes boring deep into my soul.
"You can come now," Duncan whispers, and suddenly, I'm there, as if I was waiting for his permission, riding the immense wave of my orgasm as Duncan shudders right along with me. I'm being bred like some sort of bitch, and I know that for Duncan, I'd be his bitch if he wanted it. Anything to feel this good. "You're mine."
"Yours . . ." I whisper, slowly coming back to reality as I realize I'm not in a bed surrounded by white gauze curtains and tropical birds, and the whisper of the ocean breeze is actually the fan on my laptop. My hands are damp and my room reeks of sex, not the heady sense of real sex, but just the lonely aroma of my masturbation.
Damn Duncan Hart. Damn that cocky bastard.
Duncan
Two weeks, two away games, but it doesn't matter as I run onto the field at Farmington University, our away whites gleaming in the sun. They can't stop me, and the only bad thing about coming to Farmington is that they have a smaller stadium than Western, holding only sixty thousand instead of our eighty.
"You gonna put on a show again today?" Charlie Peters, one of our defensive backs, asks as we all gather on the sidelines for the kickoff. "I've got fifty bucks saying you get two touchdowns."
"Hope that means you took two and up," I shoot back, smiling. "You keep doing that, and you'll make plenty of money this year."
"We'll see. Nobody can keep up the pace you're on for a whole season," Charlie replies. "I mean, you're going to be breaking records by Thanksgiving if you keep this up. Shit don't work that way."
"You mean it doesn't work for other people," I reply. I look around at the crowd, and feel their power soaking into me and filling my body with their energy. Nobody understands the power of the crowd that way, the rush . . . the recognition. Duncan Hart, world-beating tight end, not Duncan Hart, son of Winston Hart.
I put my Dad out of my head and focus on the game. We're going on defense first, so I slap Charlie on the shoulder as he straps up. "Go get 'em. I hate trying to play both ways."
"Yeah, right!" Charlie calls, jogging out on the field as Coach Bainridge calls for the starting defense. I watch him go and settle into the game, flexing my arm as I feel the tape. Coach Taylor did the job this week, and it feels different, not quite right, but it'll get there. Still, it's not Carrie's work, and I'm not sure I like it all that much.
Pretty soon, though, we get the ball, and it's my turn. Let's go to work.
Three weeks into the season, and Western's knocking on the door of a top ten ranking in the polls, and it's all due to me. Tyler, our quarterback, is even getting some sniffs from pro scouts, who are wondering if his play is because of him or because of the talent surrounding him. Of course it’s the talent around him. “On three. Ready, BREAK!"
Tyler spreads the ball around a bit in the game. I mean, he can't just throw it to me every single time. Farmington's not a bad team. In fact, they went to a bowl last year, but they can't stop me, and because they can't stop me, they can't stop the Western Bulldogs.
I line up on the right side, squaring my feet. I look across and see that the linebacker covering me is number 47, a guy I've burned two times already for big chunks of yardage. Farmington runs a 3-4, and their outside linebackers tend to play close, only a couple of yards off the line to jam guys like me . . . if they can. "Don't worry, 47, it's all going to be over soon," I call, grinning, making sure to keep my voice low enough that the ref won't throw a flag on me. "Thirty minutes at most, and you can go crawling back home."
“Fuck you, bitch!" he yells, and I've got him. He's distracted, not playing smart, and it’s just a matter of time.
I can see Tyler out of the corner of my eye smile as he starts his count. He knows what's coming, I've used it enough before. It's not a particularly original taunt, but fuck it, it works.
The ball snaps, and 47 is out of control, so pissed off he charges instead of waiting for me to come to him. I slap his outside shoulder, sending him past me while I slide my hips and body to the outside.
I'm uncovered as I turn back, just in time to catch Tyler's pass. I’ve gotta give it to him. He's not the strongest armed QB in the conference, but he's got laser precision, and I don't need to break stride at all as I draw his pass in and turn upfield.
I see the free safety coming to try to stick me and I lower a shoulder, taking him on my left side while I send a quick angled step that puts my entire weight into him, and the hundred and ninety-pound bitch goes flying while I spin off, already accelerating upfield again. There's only one guy who has a shot at catching me. He's got the pursuit angle, and as a cornerback, he's pretty fast. He’s closing the distance quickly, but I've only got twenty yards to go.
Fuck it. We're up by two touchdowns already, one of them mine, and I want to have some fun. When the cornerback gets close enough, we're nearly at the goal line, and I lay out, diving over top of him and flipping, completing the front flip to land on my feet in the end zone, the cornerback left lying on the turf with a chunk of grass for a snack, and the roar of the fans is a physical wave that lifts me while the rest of the team comes rushing toward me.
Someone hits me from behind, and I realize that 47 isn't willing to let my taunt go, but as he drives into me, I roll with it, flipping him over and landing him on the turf underneath me, face to face.
"Don't worry. I'll seal the deal of making you my bitch after the game. Just make sure you've got lots of lube," I taunt him again as the mob of players on both sides tries to pull us apart.
The late hit costs Farmington fifteen yards on the kickoff, and 47 gets thrown out of the game. As I head off the field, the ref gives me a warning. "Watch the trash talk, 83. Any more of it, and I'll throw a flag on you."
Like I care. I've already broken their starting linebacker, gotten two touchdowns, a fucking ESPN highlight reel catch, and I've still got a quarter to pad my stats. I jog off the field and take a seat on the bench. I look around for a moment, then remember that we're on an away game, so the training staff is light. Carrie's back at Western.
"Looking for your PAT again?" Tyler asks, taking a seat next to me and pulling off his helmet. "You know she's probably back at campus, watching the game and dreaming of you. You hit that yet?"
"Fuck you, Paulson," I seethe unexpectedly for some reason. I’d already warned him once. "I told all of you to stop calling her that."
"What, PAT? Fuck it, man. She's just another slut," Tyler continues, his words cut off when I grab him by the shoulder pads and jerk him to his feet. "Whoa, what the fuck, man?"
"I said . . . stop calling her that," I hiss, my face inches from him. "She ain't no slut. Back off, or the only thing you'll be doing the rest of the season is learning how to jack off left-handed."
"Whoa, whoa!" Coach Thibedeau, our tight end coach and offensive coordinator yells, getting in between us. “You two, calm the fuck down!"
"Just remember what I said," I finish, letting go of him. "Not a word."
Tyler's pissed, but he lets Coach Thibs lead him away while I sit back down and stew. What the fuck am I doing? I know that sort of blowup is going to be caught by the cameras, and even if I'd told Tyler before to not call Carrie that, we'd done shit like that with each other lots of times. Coach Thibs isn't in a good mood either when he comes back.
"What the hell are you doing, Duncan?" he yells, barely restraining himself from popping me in the shoulder pads as he echoes my own inner thoughts. "Are you trying to get yourself benched or something?"
"I won't take any disrespect from anyone," I reply, looking Thibs in the eye. "Not from Tyler, not from Farmington . . . not from anyone."
"Yeah, well, if you want to catch any more balls this game, you’d better cool that shit off right now," Thibs replies, squatting down so we're eye to eye. "What the hell's gotten into you, Duncan? Talking shit to the other team, sure. Talking the same in practice, I don't like, but we can't seem to get you to stop. But you've never started shit with a teammate in the middle of a game. Don't get cocky. Farmington's a good team, and we could still lose this."
"No chance in hell of that," I say, looking up at the scoreboard as the crowd roars, contradicting me. Farmington's offense just connected on a deep pass, and they scored quickly, bringing them back within two touchdowns. Twenty-eight to fourteen, with one minute left in the third quarter. I look back at Thibs and pull my helmet on, snapping up.
"Okay, you're right. Fine. I'll keep it under control."
After the game, which we do win thirty-five to fourteen, I find Tyler in the shower area, where he's styling his surfer boy hair to perfection. He's currently dating one of the cheerleaders and probably looking forward to some quick couple time before we all get o
n the plane back to Western. "Yo, Tyler."
He glances over, then turns back to the mirror. His voice is tense, like he isn't quite sure how to handle me approaching him. Tyler's a tough guy for a quarterback, but I’m way too big for him. "Yo, Duncan."
"Hey man, I just wanted to say . . . my bad on the sidelines. I shouldn't have jerked you around like that."
Tyler brushes his hair one more time, then sets his comb down, turning to look at me. "Okay. Let's get this straight between us, Duncan. I know you're the biggest reason I'm putting up numbers like today. I know that, and I'm grateful for it. But that's beside the point. This girl, Carrie . . . she's getting to you. You need to get your head right. You're getting away with it the past two weeks, but come next week, we can't have it. We're playing Clement, remember? Their defense is all hard core motherfuckers."
"They always are. At least they aren't as bad as they used to be," I say, thinking back to my freshman year. Back then, Clement had beasts at linebacker, especially in the middle. Biggest ass whipping I've ever taken in a game. "But yeah, they’re good.”
"Damn right. Unless you want to be punked in front of a home crowd next week, including Carrie, you’d better have your shit tight come game time," Tyler says, finishing his hair. "Yo, we're friends, right?"
“I guess,” I reply, checking out my own hair. I'm not as picky as Tyler, but I'm not going to look like a mop coming out of the locker room either. "You know how I roll."
"Nobody's your real friend. I know. But you know what I mean. Just... make sure you're doing what needs to be done. The League's calling your name next year, while I'm hoping to get a spot up in Canada or on someone's backup roster. Ah well. No matter what, I've still got one thing on you."
"What's that?"
Tyler flips his hair and flashes me a cocky surfer boy grin. "I'm still better looking than you."
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