He doesn’t give me time to spout off another lie. His mouth slants over mine, aggressively domineering in that very Ace way. He likes to take control—on and off the field. He plays hard, loves hard. I should’ve been prepared for him, but I wasn’t.
I try to keep a firm grip on the desk, some sort of tether in the real world instead of that magical place his touch always seems to be able to transport me to. But it’s as if he knows that if he overwhelms me with sensation, I can’t resist.
His hands grip my bottom, pulling me up and away from the desk, forcing me to cling to him. Maybe my hips arch toward him, maybe he thrusts against me, but either way our bodies collide. His hot, hard length rubs against my wet, needy core.
I whimper into his mouth, hang tight against his shoulders. Against my will, my body starts writhing against him. The silk blouse, the lace of my bra, the cotton of my skirt all impediments to what I really want—his skin against mine.
What does another bout of lovemaking hurt? the saucy devil whispers. Let him make you feel good. You can leave after.
The department of good sense tries to rouse itself from a lust-drunk stupor. You’re in too deep, girl. Get out now, while your heart and sanity are intact!
“You need to stop thinking so hard,” Ace mutters, his mouth wet against mine. He swings me toward the bed, my ballet slippers falling off my feet as his long legs cover the distance in two short strides. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. Let me do all the work tonight.”
“I think I should—”
His large hand comes up to cover my mouth. “Like I said, you think too much.” He bends down, blocking out all the light in the room, filling my field of vision with nothing but his green eyes, cut cheekbones, and reddened lips. “You said you weren’t scared. I’m making you feel good.” He shoves his hand up my skirt to feel the evidence of arousal coating my thighs. “Real good, aren’t I?”
I suck in my lips to keep the moan from slipping out. The devil keeps whispering. If you’re not scared, then this isn’t a problem at all. Two fingers push inside of me, the depth blunted by the fit of my panties.
“You’re so primed right now, I bet I could get you off with just my thumb on your clit.”
Said thumb circles my sensitive bundle of nerves over the useless cotton.
“You think I’m a good guy now, right? That’s why we’re over?” He keeps talking while he taunts me with his fingers, jacking two of them shallowly inside me while thumbing my clit like it’s a guitar string and he’s plucking the slowest song that country music ever invented.
“You are a good guy,” I gasp, wondering if I could die from lack of direct flesh-to-flesh contact. My body, so disconnected from my head, squirms under his touch, wanting nothing more than for his fingers to pull away the sides of my panties and slide all the way inside of me. The ache between my legs is spreading, a slow moving drugged poison that dulls my senses, stifles my wits.
“Then let this good guy make you feel good. What do you think, Bryant? Do you trust me?” he asks, his mouth running over my cheekbones, tracing down the side of my jaw. “Or are you too weak and scared?”
Taunts shouldn’t work, but my eyes flick open to stare back defiantly. “I’m not scared.” I set my jaw. “Do your worst.”
His lips curve and a spike of fear does shoot through me. He shoves off the bed, goes to his closet and returns with a red tie bearing a small gold embroidered horse logo at the bottom center, the one that all the players are given when they sign on to be a Renegade. “Close your eyes.”
I laugh nervously. “Halloween is over.”
“Only treats tonight,” he promises and swings a knee over my legs. Lightly, he straddles me, his heavy erection tenting his sweatpants in a mouth-watering fashion. When he leans forward to place the tie around my eyes, his shaft rubs against my skirt, a maddeningly elusive touch that has me arching off the bed.
The tie goes over my eyes. Then his hands fall to the buttons of my blouse. The silk loosens. The backs of his knuckles brush against my breast. Soon, the two sides of the shirt fall open. Another swift tug and my skirt is gone, leaving me lying on my blouse with my panties and bra providing a thin, ineffective barrier to his gaze.
Even though I can’t see him, I feel his hot stare like a physical touch. “Do you know how fucking beautiful you look?”
I inhale shakily. Not gonna lie. There’s something magical about hearing these words from a man as hot as Ace, but I’m not sure how to respond other than, “Thank you,” which sounds weird and wrong as soon as the two words leave my mouth.
Ace laughs, a dirty, low chuckle. “I love how prissy you are even when your panties are soaked and your tits are nearly busting a hole through your bra. Every inch of your body is this pretty, pretty pink.” His finger starts at the base of my neck and moves downward in a straight line with each word, stopping at “pink” to skip over to the gusset of my panties. With the tip of his finger, he tugs the damp cotton aside. “Especially here.”
The bed dips as he leans back. Is he staring at me? I hear the rustle of fabric and then the sound of skin rubbing against skin. Is he…touching himself? Suddenly, this darkness isn’t as intriguing—not if Ace is rubbing himself while he’s staring at me. That’s an erotic sight that I want to preserve in my memory bank.
I reach up to tug the tie off.
“Uh uh uh,” he tsks, grabbing my hands. “This is my show. You can blindfold me next time.” He hops off the bed again, the mattress bouncing in response to his movements. I strain to hear him. Drawers open. The small light that I could see from the bottom of the tie flickers off as he douses the lights.
The macho confidence in his voice that there’s going to be a next time prompts a mutinous statement. “There’s not going to be a next time.”
“Sweetheart. Stop with the dirty talk. You know I love a challenge.” His voice is closer now, the warmth of his body signaling his return. He reaches out and helps me out of my blouse, one arm and then the other. The bra comes off next. Each action is completed by the lightest of touches. Goosebumps pimple where our flesh makes momentary contact.
I feel like I’m in a dream. Because I can’t see, my mind starts playing images. Filmy ones, behind a gauzy curtain. Ace kisses my shoulder. His hands skim down my arms. One hand palms a breast. The other pulls my wrists together.
“You trust me, right?”
“Yes.” The admission slips out. It’s the truth, but I know if I said no, he’d stop. But I don’t say no, and he doesn’t stop. He winds a soft strap around my wrists.
“What is it?”
“Bathrobe tie. It’s never been used. My mom bought it for me because she didn’t want me to have to walk around the dorms nude.”
That draws a sharp laugh from me. I’ve never met an athlete who wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. He sticks two fingers under the knot and lifts my bound wrists up. “Does this hurt?”
“No, but I really don’t think it’s necessary.” I wiggle my wrists around to see if the knot loosens, but it stays put.
“You’re not supposed to think, remember?” This time when he joins me on the bed, it’s his bare skin against mine. “You’re just supposed to feel.” The mattress dips when he kneels between my legs. His long fingers grab my panties and drag them down my legs. “I like you blindfolded and tied up. It’s sexy as hell, but now I’m going to see how you taste.”
I part my legs instinctively. I’m wet and anxious for him, and we’ve barely done a thing. His mouth lowers, making a slow circuit around my clit, down along the seam of my lower lips. My hands push against the wall behind my head, as I seek more pressure than the light flicks of his tongue that he’s currently delivering.
“You’re going too slow,” I whine.
“I can stop,” he threatens, pulling back.
“No, no,” I say, panicked. “I won’t say another word.”
Humor fills his voice. “Nah. Don’t make promises you won’t keep because in about five minute
s, you’re going to come so hard that you’re not going to be able to hide it, like you hide everything else. I’m going to eat this pretty pussy until you can’t think about tomorrow or yesterday, five minutes ago or five years from now. The only thing in your head will be how hard you came all over my tongue.”
I don’t have time to sort what he means, because in the next breath, he attacks me. I try to brace myself, digging my fingers into the mattress, digging my heels into the bed, but there’s no defense against his tongue and his fingers. He knows me, better than I know myself. Where to press hard, where to circle lightly. Where to bite, where to lick.
He drives me up and over the edge. My toes curl, my thighs shake, my hips arch off the mattress as I try to push myself harder against his mouth.
“That’s right,” he growls, “ride my tongue.”
The graphic words, ones I’m too embarrassed to think half the time, let alone hear out loud, do me in.
I try to fight it. I squirm. I struggle. His arm comes up to clamp around my hips.
“Give in. Don’t fight it. I’m not going to let you go. You can trust me.”
My body does, at least. It wins the battle; the sensations are too powerful to deny. The orgasm grabs me by the neck and tosses me onto a giant wave that sweeps me far away from the shore. I swing my bound hands down to land on his hair. I grip the strands in my fists and haul myself back to this world. He’s the only anchor I can find, the only anchor I want.
He shifts again and this time it’s not his tongue between my thighs—it’s his heavy, hard shaft.
He rubs the rubber-coated tip against my swollen entrance and then plunges forward, spearing me in one long thrust. I wail at the delicious intrusion.
“That’s right. Let me hear it,” he demands. My body is not my own. It belongs to him. It responds to him. It is commanded by him.
His hands encircle my hips, pulling me down to meet his upward stabs. I don’t have time to breathe. He gives me not a moment of respite. Instead, he drives me from one peak to another to another. His cock is like a hot spike, branding me.
His mouth finds mine again, his tongue driving into my mouth with the same ferocity as his shaft. My body opens to him, welcomes him, expands to accommodate his length. The orgasms make me tight, and the broad head of his cock seems to know exactly where every excited nerve ending exists inside my sex.
There’s not a part of me that he leaves unravaged.
“You ready to come again?”
I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.
But I do anyway.
The electric shock of the umpteenth orgasm rockets through me. My entire body shakes and trembles from the power of it. Above me, I feel him tense, hear his own bellow of release, feel the hot rush pulse between us.
He pounds into me, relentlessly driving me crazy until his prediction is reality. I know nothing but him, his touch, his smell, his taste. He’s taken me out of my skin to some place new, and it is terrifying.
He collapses on me, pressing soft kisses on my neck, but the fear that has dogged me for the last several weeks crashes over me. I’m in over my head. The feelings he draws out are too strong, too overwhelming.
I’d lost myself in him just now. It can’t ever happen again.
I shove him off of me and sit up.
“These things need to come off.” I pull off the blindfold and wriggle my wrists until the makeshift shackles loosen enough for me to get free. Once my bindings are off, I jump to my feet and scramble around to find my clothes. I can already feel myself crashing, the ache between my legs arrowing straight for my heart.
“This is just sex. You had a ton of meaningless sex. You know how it is,” I babble carelessly, not even giving a second’s thought to how rude my statements must sound. My entire focus is now on escaping.
He rises, nude as the day he was born, and calmly helps me pick up my clothes—my ruined panties, my discarded bra, my rumpled silk shirt. “I do know how it is. And I know that’s not how I feel when I’m with you. Sex with you isn’t meaningless, Bryant.” He cups my face. “It’s not sex; it’s making love.”
“I can’t do this,” I say. I throw on my clothes as fast as humanly possible. Pity shines in his eyes as they track my movements. “We’re over, Ace. I don’t want to keep dating you. I’ve got other…I’m going to…” I can’t even finish a sentence. I grab my pocketbook and flee.
26
Ace
Football players are a different breed. I’m not saying we’re superior to other people—we’re just wired a little bit differently. We’re aggressive by nature, because our sport requires sheer physical dominance. We don’t give up easily, and we don’t let fear send us cowering into a corner. We face it head on, because that’s the only way to conquer it.
Bryant might be the daughter of a football coach and one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, but she’s no football player. Last night, her fear was so palpable I could taste it in the air. As I watched her snatch up her clothes in a panic and listened to her babble about how ‘it’s just sex’ and ‘we’re over,’ I was inwardly pleading with her to gather that steely courage I know she possesses and allow herself to face her fear.
But she didn’t. Instead, she walked out. I didn’t go after her. There would’ve been no point. She was too shaken up by what happened between us, too afraid of everything she’s feeling for me.
I know she feels something, and that’s not me being cocky or entitled. If anything, I should be the one panicking right now. Before I transferred to Southern U, the notion of some chick falling for me would have made me break out in hives. I didn’t want that headache.
Now, the mere thought of Bryant Johnson actually being in love with me makes my pulse race—in a good way. I’ve come a long, long way since my days at Western State. I’m still an asshole, but I like to think that these days I’m a lovable one. Or that at least one person in particular loves my asshole self.
What I’ve learned from my time with Bryant is that while the girl has the biggest heart in the world, she keeps a lot of it locked up. She goes out of her way to help people, but she doesn’t let them help her. She showers them with affection, but she’s reluctant to accept affection in return. Deep down, she’s terrified of being vulnerable, of getting hurt. Once upon a time, I probably would’ve been a man who’d hurt her, but not anymore. Now I’m the one who’s going to love her.
But first I have to convince her to let me, and I’m not certain I can do it alone.
“This about Zane?” Ty asks as he lets me in to the apartment he shares with Travarius
I peer past him and am satisfied to find that Samson and Remy, our running back, are also in attendance, lounging on the living room couch. I specifically requested their presence for this meeting, too. I hadn’t invited Carter, though I’m sure he wouldn’t have come even if I had. He’s been in a foul mood ever since Zane left the team and moved out of the apartment.
Carter cursed Zane ever being a Renegade, but I recognized Carter’s anger for what it was—hurt. So I did what Bryant would do. I listened to my roommate. I sat with him while he raged out loud and brooded in silence. Carter will come around. Not talking to Zane was killing him.
As for Zane, he’d confessed all to Mae, who quickly forgave him and made room for him in her apartment. He wasn’t ever planning on going into the NFL so his future as a pharmacist is still achievable. But we all know he’s missing out on something special and that’s a bigger punishment than any governing body could hand down against him.
After Zane quit the team, I went to Coach and told him everything. Coach gazed at me with his steady brown eyes, and said I wasn't my dad. And then I was instructed to go watch tape of the Western State Warriors. Case closed. I did what I was told.
“Nah, it’s something else,” I answer, following him into the living room. I glance at the other guys. “Thanks for coming.”
“So if it’s not Zane, then what’s up?” Travarius asks curiously.
“We have a serious problem,” I say in a solemn voice.
Ty settles in the armchair opposite the sofa, eyes narrowing in my direction. “Your dad?” he guesses.
I shake my head. “This problem is huge. Massive.”
Samson looks concerned. “Jesus, Anderson, did you kill someone?” His face pales. “Did you fucking recruit us to help you bury a body?”
I swallow a laugh. “No, asshole. But I’m not joking here—we’ve got an issue.” I sweep my gaze over each of my teammates before saying, “Granola bars.”
They all blink.
“What the fuck?” Ty sputters.
I’m not done. “Donuts.” I give Travarius a pointed look and say, “Peach pie.” To Remy, I taunt, “Oatmeal raisin cookies.”
They finally get it.
“This is about Bryant?” Travarius exclaims. “Geez, bro, why didn’t you say that from the beginning?”
“Because I wanted to remind you of what you’re going to be losing if you don’t help me out.”
Ty frowns at me. “Help you with what? What happened with Bryant?”
“Oh, shit! She dumped him!” Samson’s horrified gaze swings to me. “Did she dump you?”
I nod slowly.
Travarius’ jaw drops. Even Ty looks startled.
“It’s okay,” I assure them, shrugging to convey my complete lack of concern. “It was a self-defense thing.”
Ty shoots to his feet, his face red and livid. “If you fucking laid a hand on her, I’ll—”
I silence him with a scowl. “For fuck’s sake, Masters! You really think I’d hurt her?” Shaking myself out of the momentary bout of anger, I take a breath and continue. “She was protecting her heart,” I clarify, still glaring at Ty. “She’s in love with me and it freaked her out, so she ended it.”
Relaxing, Ty sinks back onto his chair. “Ah. Okay.” Remorse flickers in his eyes. “Sorry. That was a dick thing to insinuate.”
“Yeah, it was. But I forgive you—because this just means you have no choice but to come on board.”
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 23