All Played Out (Rusk University #3)

by Cora Carmack

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he says. “I want to feel like you’re all the way around me.” I do, and it makes my chest drag over his with every pump of our hips. Even through all the layers, the grazing touch draws the tips of my breasts to a hard point.

  He kisses me for a long time, tasting and sucking at my lips and my tongue. And just when I start to wonder when he’s going to really touch me, just when I start to long for it, his hand sneaks under the back of my shirt, and with one quick twist, he unhooks my bra. Then both his hands are gone from my hips, cradling my breasts instead. He kneads and squeezes, pausing every few seconds to roll my nipples between his fingers, and there’s a line of lightning directly between his hands and my sex. He continues kissing me the whole time, and I continue rubbing my center against his length. Desperation builds high enough that I have trouble maintaining a rhythm because I want to move faster and slower both at the same time.

  When the buzzing between my legs is so strong that I’m panting and my hearing sounds like I’m underwater, he says, “Lean back. Keep holding on to my neck and lean back.”

  I whimper, unwilling to stop the rhythm of our hips, but he grips my waist, moving me how he wants me. My bottom slides closer to him, until I feel the hard ridge of him nestled flat against me. If my arms weren’t around his neck and we weren’t in a vehicle, I could probably lie all the way back on his knees. When my arms are stretched taut, and my body is how he wants it, he reaches between us and passes two fingers over the damp fabric of my underwear. He does it again, this time pressing down against the sensitive nub at the top. I close my eyes and bite my lip, and his other hand tightens on my waist in response.

  “Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t withdraw. Look at me. Focus on me.”

  I try, but looking him in the eyes makes my heart race unbearably fast. So fast it scares me, and I have to close my eyes. Have to.

  “If you can’t look at me, then listen. Tune out everything else except for my voice. Concentrate on that.”

  I close my eyes, deciding this is the much safer route. That is . . . until he starts talking.

  “You’re so fucking wet for me, Nell. I wish I could describe what that does to me. It’s the best kind of misery, knowing I did that to you.” He pushes the fabric aside and eases two fingers inside me. “And God, you’re so tight. So unbelievably tight. Someday you’re going to take me here.” He pushes deeper inside to emphasize his words, and I gasp. “Are you listening to me, Nell? Are you with me?”

  “I—I’m listening.” And dying because of it. Each time he touches me, each time he says something, it feels like I’m whispering against dynamite, like I’m a hairsbreadth away from utter destruction.

  With his fingers still inside me, he circles his thumb against me, and I squeeze my legs against his hips.

  “Don’t fight it. I know you want to tense, you feel like you have to prepare, but you don’t. Let it come to you. Let me bring it.”

  I try to relax, try to loosen my legs and my arms and everything. I lean my head so far back that it touches the steering wheel. I just breathe. I don’t try to describe what I’m feeling, don’t try to catalog it. I don’t analyze what makes his touch so different from my own. I just let it wash over me.

  “That’s my girl. Christ, you’re beautiful. And you feel so good. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about you like this the last few weeks? Do you know how often I’ve stroked myself raw thinking about your mouth, your nipples, this pussy? That’s it. You’re close, aren’t you? You’re shaking.”

  I am, I realize. I’m trembling so hard, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold myself up, that any second my fingers are going to slip from around his neck and I’ll fall into the floorboard.

  “I’m going to fall,” I say. “I can’t hold on.”

  “So don’t. Come, sweetheart.”

  I smile. “No, I’m actually going to fall. My hands are slipping.”

  He tugs me up and against him, and I bury my face in his neck. The movement changes the angle of his fingers inside me, and all it takes is one more stroke, and I’m gasping out his name, squeezing him with my hands and my arms and my legs and all of me. And the explosion I’ve been flirting with goes off in my brain, somehow silent and loud all at once, and the aftermath tears through my limbs.

  My body jerks and arches, and I have absolutely no control over it. I’m all reflexes, all reactions, and through it all Mateo is whispering in my ear, calling me beautiful, perfect, hot. And somehow just the sound of him prolongs it. The knowledge that it’s his lips against my ear, his fingers inside me . . . it keeps my body clenching and clenching until it hurts so beautifully.

  Then slowly, the maelstrom recedes like the tide, drawing me with it until I collapse exhausted and unable to move against Mateo’s chest. His mouth stays pressed to my temple as I try to catch my breath, but I’m not sure I’ll ever breathe the same way again.

  He was right. Undeniably the best orgasm of my life.

  Chapter 18

  Mateo

  Damn, Speedy.” Ryan claps me on the back as I wipe at my face and neck with a towel. I’m in such a good mood that I don’t even mind the nickname that he’s been calling me since last year. It hasn’t caught on, but that hasn’t stopped him from using it day in and day out. Persistent, that one. Not that it’s a bad nickname, per se, certainly better than “Blocks,” which is what he calls Brookes. But between “Torres” and “Teo,” I’ve got enough different names. Anything else would have to be really good to be worth the hassle. “Hell of a game,” Ryan says. “Keep playing like that, and we’ll be in for a bowl game for sure.”

  I grin as I pull off my pads. It was a pretty awesome game. My best since starting at Rusk. Everything had just clicked. McClain and I were practically of one mind, we were so on fire. And no matter who the defense put on me, I kept managing to break away. Everything that could go our way did, and we won by forty, and on the other team’s turf, too. And considering this game put us at seven wins for the season, officially past last year’s record, our locker room is louder than I’ve ever heard it.

  Coach keeps his speech short and sweet, as he tends to do when we win. After a quick round of showers, we load up on the bus to head back to the hotel. It was an evening game, and too long of a flight for us to head back tonight, and I can tell by the knowing glances the coaches keep giving one another that they know it will be hard to keep a handle on us tonight. I should be as eager to party as everyone else, but at the moment I just wish we were taking a red-eye flight home. I can think of much better ways to celebrate this win.

  The Rusk crowd at the game was small, but a ton of them stuck around, and they’re chanting “Bleed Rusk Red!” as the bus pulls away. We yell with them for a while, banging on the ceiling and the seats. We even keep it up when we’re long out of the parking lot and on the highway heading for the airport hotel where we’re spending the night.

  The overhead lights come on, and Coach stands next to his seat at the front of the bus. We yell for him, too, and he laughs, raising his hands to try to get us to quiet down.

  “All right. All right. Settle down. A few housekeeping things. We’ve got a late-night supper already set up for you guys in Ballroom A in the hotel. If you want to run to your room before you eat, it’s at the back of the hotel, past the workout area. Our flight home leaves at seven thirty in the morning, which means we leave this hotel at five thirty. I won’t tell you how late you can stay up, because you guys deserve to do a little celebrating. But I sure as hell better not have to come find any of you guys in the morning. If your ass isn’t on a seat in this bus at five twenty-nine A.M., you better believe you’ll regret it. And your teammates will, too. So roommates, take care of your own. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The usual rules apply. No leaving this hotel. No drugs. No alcohol. No girls in your room. You can make use of the pool and other hotel facilities until they close for the night, but I better
not get any calls from the hotel about any of you causing problems. Is that also clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He smiles, and we pull up in front of the lobby of our hotel. “Well, then gentleman, enjoy your food and enjoy your win.”

  If anybody in the hotel was already asleep, they most likely aren’t now. The noise we make as we leave the bus is enough to wake the dead. As soon as I climb off, Coach Cole falls into step beside me.

  “Oz gave me your final stats. Eight catches for two hundred and eight yards in total. An excellent game, son.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” I like Coach Cole. I know I can be a pain in the ass, and I rarely know when to shut my mouth, and he’s been cool about it. But we’ve not really had that much one-on-one interaction. It’s mostly just been him telling me to be quiet or calm down or quit dancing. He gives me a serious look now, and I don’t know how Carson doesn’t piss his pants every time he’s near Coach. I find him intimidating, and I’m not dating his daughter.

  “You keep matching that level of play, stay consistent, and you’ll be in good shape for the draft when you graduate in two years.”

  My heartbeat thunders in my ears, loud enough to drown out even the overwhelming noise of my teammates. Draft?

  “That something you’re interested in?”

  I stumble over the words because I try to get them out so fast.

  “I—I am. Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Good. Right now, concentrate on the next game, on this season. The best way to get you noticed is to get this team noticed as much as possible. But keep up the good work, stay serious, and we’ll talk in the off-season about what else we can do to get you ready.”

  I’m still saying my thank-yous when Coach nods and turns back toward the bus.

  It’s the kind of thing you dream about hearing. I can still remember being in high school and thinking that it was only a matter of time. I was going to get recruited, play some college ball, and then go pro. I was so certain that all I needed was a shot, and it would happen. Certain enough that I made it my everything. Then there were scouts and recruiters, but they weren’t the big schools I always expected them to be. The powerhouses. Instead, it was a mix of Division II schools, and a handful of Division I schools with less than stellar programs, like Rusk. Then suddenly things didn’t seem so certain anymore.

  Lina had pushed hard then, tried to get me to admit that maybe deciding my life based on football didn’t make that much sense anymore. I didn’t listen. I buckled down and shut her out, shut everything out. But that didn’t stop her words from ringing in my head day after day. So that when I started freshman year here at Rusk, I was dragging the weight not only of a broken heart with me, but of Lina’s doubts heaped atop my own. And the only way to deal with it, the only way not to drown under it had been to pretend like it didn’t matter. I had to pretend that nothing mattered. That everything was a joke because if you can laugh about something, it can’t hurt you.

  But now everything could be about to change. And I’m scared to think about it because . . . getting my hopes up over something like this? Over something that matters? That’s a hell of a lot of hurt I’m risking.

  AFTER DINNER, a group of about ten of us end up in McClain and Moore’s room. We’re crammed onto the beds, the chairs, and anywhere else we can fit. I settle myself against an open spot on the wall. Last year, we would have been down at the pool or with the girls that somehow always know where the team is staying. But now half my friends are among the girlfriend-ed, and well . . . I don’t have much of an interest in flirting with groupies tonight. Before I can join the conversation, my phone buzzes with a text. I smile when I see it’s from Nell.

  A pillow hits me in the face, drawing my attention back to the room.

  “Dude,” Keyon says. “I called your name like five times. Don’t tell me you searched your name on Twitter again.”

  I flip him off. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. So, leave me alone with my adoring public.”

  I get nailed with another pillow. “Seriously, guys? What are we, children?”

  “Wait. Hold up. Did Torres just accuse someone else of immaturity? Is the world ending?” Silas asks, and everyone bursts into laughter. I throw the two pillows back at them.

  “Who are you texting?” Brookes asks.

  “How do you know I’m not on Twitter like Keyon said?”

  He just raises an eyebrow, and damn his creepy perception.

  I sigh. “You guys are the worst, you know that?”

  “Wait,” McClain says. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying, Brookes? Does Teo have a girlfriend? An actual, real-life girl? Not just a booty call?”

  I glare at Brookes, and he shrugs.

  My phone buzzes, and I stand up. Stretching, I say, “It’s late. I’m gonna crash.”

  As I head for the door, I hear groans and prods behind me to stay, to spill about the girl. With my back turned, I wave and leave for my room. When I’m settled onto my own bed, I look at the text from Nell.

  Chapter 19

  Nell’s To-Do List

  • Normal College Thing #11: Go on a date.

  • Figure out how to reply to Torres’s text about whether or not I’m wearing panties without sounding like a complete idiot.

  • Make sure to actually wear cute panties just in case he checks.

  • Oh God. Stop freaking out. Stop it.

  I should be studying. Mateo or Torres or whoever he is won’t be here for another hour, and I should be studying because even though he’s promised not to distract me, he’s just naturally distracting, and I’m not sure how much work I’ll get done tonight.

  That’s what I should be doing. Instead, I’m putting on makeup. Real, actual makeup. On my face. Like a normal person. Or trying to anyway. I haven’t used my mascara in a couple months, and it’s gone all clumpy inside. I make a few passes over my lashes, but no matter how much gunk I wiped off the brush, it still comes out all clumpy and awful on my eyes.

  When I find myself actually considering running to the pharmacy down the street to buy a new tube, I press my hands to my face in frustration.

  I look at myself in the mirror and say, “Stop this. I don’t need this to impress him. I don’t need to impress him, period.”

  Clearly he hadn’t needed me to wear makeup the other night. Granted, it was dark, and he could probably only see the outline of my face, but still. Besides . . . it’s not as if I’m trying to . . . I don’t know, keep him. This isn’t about that. It’s about experience and discovery. And yes, maybe I’m no longer envisioning a future spent alone, married to my job; maybe that’s not what I want anymore, but I’d be crazy to start picturing a future with this particular guy.

  What if he goes on to play football professionally? I might not watch football on TV, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that all of those guys date supermodels and actresses and people much prettier and more interesting than me.

  I don’t expect to have a piece of his future. I’m just going to enjoy the piece of him I have now.

  After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash off the mascara monstrosity on my eyes, I decide to go ahead and start cooking. If I can’t be productive and study, I can at least do something useful. Originally I’d planned to wait to start dinner until Torres got here. I relished the idea of putting him to work. But it’s probably a good thing I’m starting now. Somehow I can’t imagine Torres doing anything in my kitchen except making a mess. An image pops into my head of my counter covered in ingredients, and the food burning, while he kisses me into oblivion.

  I shake away that thought and begin prepping ingredients. One of the things I did love about growing up in and around a restaurant was learning how to cook. It’s not as big a part of my life as it is for my parents and the rest of my family, but it’s something that puts me at ease. There’s a science to it that has always appealed to me. Measurements and mixes and observation. It engages my hands and my mind, and at the moment I could use
that kind of distraction.

  I’m making tortellini Bolognese because I figure since he’s an athlete, his diet is probably pretty carb heavy. And Bolognese is a sauce I used to help my mom make all the time. She used to spend hours on that sauce, letting it simmer and steep in flavor. She’d be horrified to know that when I make it these days, I’m usually done in a little under an hour.

  I focus on the vegetables first. Chopping and dicing my way through onions, carrots, celery, and garlic. It takes a little while, but eventually the motions of my hands and the concentration finally push the thought of Mateo (and his mouth and his hands) out of my head for the first time in days. By the time I toss the vegetables in the pan with olive oil and a little butter, I’ve lost myself in the task. I’ve made this dish often enough that I don’t even have to look at the recipe. I move on from the vegetables to the meat. Mom makes hers with ground beef, pork, and veal, but on my college-student budget, I’ve settled just for ground beef.

  I think of Mateo again, but this time I’m calm enough to do it objectively, to wonder what’s made me so nervous in the first place. It’s not that he’s coming over or that I’m cooking for him. It’s more about what happens afterward.

  Dylan texted just before the makeup debacle to say she was staying the night at Silas’s again. The words caused a stab of regret . . . until I realized what they meant. An apartment all to myself with Mateo. No one would be coming home to interrupt us. And after what happened in his truck earlier in the week, I was practically suffering withdrawals from his hands and his mouth and all of him.

  How is it that I could be addicted to him already? That I could crave him this much? I don’t know, but I do know I’ve never had this kind of physical connection with anyone. And maybe he is dangerous. Maybe he’s a much bigger catalyst than I bargained for, but I’m willing to risk it. For the orgasms. And okay, the laughs and the companionship and the adventure, too. And for him. That indefinable, overwhelming, annoying, and endearing thing that is just Torres.