by Stacey Lynn
“Of course,” he replied. “Every day when we were done working on the farm, he’d have me out in the backyard throwing passes.”
“Are you close?”
“Close as we can get, I suppose. He never really understood my passion for football, and I think a part of him still wishes I had stayed close and taken over their farm. But he’s also always been supportive of me, behind me a hundred percent. Both of my parents were.”
“It’s good you had that.” A small wave of sadness rolled over me.
“Your mom wasn’t like that?”
Unlike Oliver, Beaux and I had pretty much done everything on our own, always. “Mom tried to support us, and she did with her words, but she was always so busy working that she didn’t have the time to do much else.”
He caught my next pass and tucked it under his arm before he started walking toward me. “What about your dad? Where was he?”
I snorted. “Drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey at the local bar.”
“You know who he is?” His eyebrows arched in surprise.
Shrugging, I started walking toward the picnic table where we’d left bottles of water he had picked up. “Yeah, I mean, I know his name and he lived in town. But he and my mom weren’t really together when she got pregnant, so he didn’t feel any obligation to stick around when she got knocked up. It’s not like he would have been any help. I only knew he was a worthless drunk.”
He scratched the scruff on his cheek and frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that was like, but I bet it sucked. What about Beaux’s dad?”
I scrunched my face. “My mom’s not a slut, you know.”
“I never said she was, Shannon. I’m just asking.”
I squeezed my eyes closed and exhaled a breath. “I’m sorry, I’m defensive, but neither of our stories are pretty, I guess, and you come from such a normal family.”
“All families have their problems.”
“I know.” I took another sip of water before explaining. “Beaux’s dad was a one-night stand from a time when my mom worked the front desk at a hotel. All I know is that the hotel was fancy and the patrons had money. Lots of it. She didn’t talk about it much, and I think she was ashamed, but she told me when she was sick that she was just lonely during that time. One small child, all on her own. She had a high school degree but nothing that could earn her enough money to give her kid what she wanted.”
“That sucks,” Oliver replied and set the football down on the picnic table. “I can’t imagine what that was like for any of you, really. The fact that both of you have done so well for yourselves is a testament to her and your characters.”
Tears burned the backs of my eyes and I forced myself to look away. “I miss her. All the time. I missed her when she was alive because Beaux and I were always alone, and then I missed her when she was gone.”
His hand reached out and cupped the side of my neck, and his thumb began making small movements just beneath my chin. “How’d she die?”
“Exhaustion, I think. She was never officially diagnosed with a cause of death other than heart failure.” Tears began blurring my vision as the memories slammed into my mind. “She got pneumonia one winter and didn’t have paid time off. So she kept working, and it took forever for her to get better. But she never really did, either. She kept getting sick, kept refusing to go to the hospital because she didn’t have the insurance to pay for it. Once she lost her jobs and kept getting sicker, I think she just gave up.”
His hand at my neck tightened and he tugged me forward until my forehead hit his chest. His other arm wrapped around my lower back and he held me against him while I began to cry. Swaying back and forth, he held me close, letting me expel all the emotions I worked so hard to keep bottled up.
And it was in that moment, with the sun beating down on us, the rustling of a breeze through the trees and the waves lapping against the shore the only sounds around us, I knew I was falling in deep.
So deep I was drowning, but didn’t want anyone to rescue me.
I pulled back and wiped my tears away, my smile shaky when I looked up at Oliver. The understanding in his eyes made all his hardened features seem softer and made my breath catch in my throat.
“Sorry,” I whispered, cleaning up my cheeks.
“Don’t be.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek, my jaw, my lips, back by my ear. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You ready to go?”
“Yeah.” I sniffed one more time. I erased the sadness in my eyes and grinned, biting my tongue between my teeth. “I still have more things planned for tonight anyway.”
His soft grin turned wicked. “Then by all means, let’s go home.”
***
“What a fucktwit,” Melissa exclaimed after I filled her in on Patrick’s phone call from earlier in the week.
I swallowed my sip of wine before I choked on it. It was Saturday, and for the first night since I’d been in Raleigh, I was alone. No Beaux, no Oliver, just my newly bought and set up television—complete with satellite so I never had to worry about missing a single football game all season—and Melissa’s made-up curse words.
“But Oliver, man, he sounds like a man I wouldn’t mind being claimed by. Not in that way, at least.”
“Yeah, he’s something else.”
It was safe to say I was falling fast.
It seemed surreal at the same time that it was natural.
What didn’t feel natural was the little white box I’d found sitting on the nightstand next to my bed this morning when I went back to grab my purse after Oliver had left.
It was too big to be jewelry. It was also way too soon for him to be giving me jewelry, despite the amount of money he made.
Maybe he left it by accident. Maybe it wasn’t for me, but something he’d forgotten.
Maybe he wanted me to wait until he called me after the game like he’d promised he would.
I’d spent hours downstairs thinking of the rectangular box. It seemed to shout through the floor, down to my workroom in Stamped, “open me, open me, open me, come on, you know you want to.”
I’d caved two hours earlier, curiosity almost killing me.
Now, I was going to kill him.
The box hadn’t contained jewelry. It hadn’t even contained a memento, something cheesy to remember him when he played in his away games.
Nope.
A butt plug.
Butt. Plug. It wasn’t a small one, either. He’d mentioned it once and, interested in what he’d done to me, I’d hoped we’d go there. We hadn’t. For the past week he had backed off the backdoor entrance. After the first time he’d pressed a finger inside of me, though, I had looked butt plugs up online.
The plug he’d left surreptitiously next to my nightstand, giving me a clear indication he wanted this, was much smaller than him. It was also not a beginner, small-sized plug.
Hence the sudden need I had for wine.
“I tell you what, Shanna Banana,” Melissa said.
It occurred to me that she’d been speaking, but I’d drifted off. I dragged off my eyes off the box I could spy down the hallway and focused on her.
“Patrick was never good enough for you. I know Beaux told you that, and now I’m telling you that. I stayed silent even though I never liked the guy, but you did and you deserved your happy, but Patrick was never going to be it for you. And frankly, I’m glad you’ve now got a large dick sticking it to you so you can realize that there are men out there who are real men and not the pussy guy Patrick is.”
She was right, in a sense. I was tired of defending the guy, talking about him, and even thinking about him.
“Well, it’s done now,” I murmured and took another drink of wine. “Let’s put it behind us.”
“Yes, let’s. Now, let’s talk more about this hunk of a man you have. He is fine…”
She continued speaking and rambling, like she usually did, and I quit listening. The truth was, there was no comparison between Oliver’s six foo
t four, two-fifty, muscled frame that held a bit of thickness around his sides and Patrick at five-ten and one-eighty. Both were built and in shape for their build, but Oliver was on another level.
A man who had spent years honing his body into a machine was no match, physically, for a man who occasionally ran on the weekends and lifted weights only when the spirit moved him.
While Melissa rattled on, I continued thinking about all the years I’d spent with Patrick, finally letting the truth everyone spoke to me sink into me like it should have long ago.
They were right about Patrick. Patrick had always expected me to bow to him, to go along with what he wanted because he was a McDonnelly.
I had fallen for it. I had craved the security his financial situation could provide someday, not to live a life of luxury, but to know with certainty that I’d never eat a week of bologna and cheese sandwiches again, and even then only eat twice a day.
But had I ever craved his touch the way I already craved Oliver’s? Had I ever responded to him physically so quickly? So deeply? Did I miss him when we were apart, waiting for the minute I could see him again?
If they ever existed, they’d evaporated a long time ago.
Regardless of the passion we could have had in the beginning, it had long since burned out by the time he proposed. I had chalked it up to that’s what happened when you moved in with someone. When you knew them so well after so many years that it was easy to settle into roommates with lackluster sex lives where you knew every move that would come before it happened.
We’d been stale. I hadn’t even been bothered by it.
Already I knew that if that passion with Oliver waned, I’d fight tooth and nail to get it back, hanging onto it with everything I had to keep from losing it again.
“I didn’t love him,” I whispered.
The babbling voice on the other end of the phone went silent. “Jensen Ackles?” Melissa finally asked, confusion thick in her voice. “Because I was talking about—”
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening, and I’ll let you rant about Supernatural later, but I think I just had an epiphany.”
“About Patrick?” Any other friend might have been offended by admitting they’d been talking and you’d totally drifted off. Not Melissa. Of course, her obsession with Supernatural rivaled mine with Sons of Anarchy—something she never understood.
“Yes. I didn’t love him. Or if I did, I stopped a long time ago.”
I didn’t have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. “Well, duh. I could have told you that.”
I finished my glass of wine in one large swallow. “I love you. You know that, right, Pissy Missy?”
She snorted. “Sure, hooker. I know that.”
***
My palms went clammy as soon as I saw Oliver’s name flash on my phone.
I was tipsy, having drunk more wine after Melissa and I hung up. Then more wine while I watched Raleigh cream Miami. For two guys who had seemed to think the game was going to be close, they had played a game that the sports announcers were declaring “prophetic of the rest of their Super Bowl-bound season.”
I’d been so excited that I’d finished the bottle of wine while I cheered for every completed pass, every touchdown, every dodged sack and tackle.
Now, I was about to have a heart attack. If it was possible, the butt plug on my nightstand had grown throughout the day.
It wasn’t even just a phone call that made me nervous. It was the small white video camera inside a green circle.
FaceTime? Oh God.
My stomach sank to my gut as I hit the Answer button. When we connected and I saw his eyes crinkle behind those sexy as hell eyeglass frames when he smiled, I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
“Hey, you. Good game tonight.” I cringed as my voice cracked.
Oliver’s smile disappeared as he noticed. “You okay?”
“I’m good. I promise. Maybe had a bit too much to drink tonight, excited to see you. You played great.”
His eyes softened. His smile was a bit tremulous, as if he wasn’t used to the praise. It was that vulnerability that made my heart skip a beat. “Thank you. Everything about the game was good, like we’re figuring out our shit on the field.”
“It looked like it.” There was an awkward pause and heat crept up my neck to my cheeks.
“You’re nervous,” he said, adjusting in his seat. He leaned back, and that was when I noticed he wasn’t wearing a shirt. All I saw on the small screen in my hand was tanned and firm muscles, slight bruises blooming on his ribcage, but I knew enough not to ask. Bruises and injuries were part of the game. “Would you care to tell me why?”
I blinked harshly and forced myself to look him in the eye. He smirked and ran his tongue along his teeth. Slowly.
Teasingly.
God. He knew why I was nervous and he was loving it.
“I found your present,” I admitted, my voice thick.
His lips twitched. “And you’re not going to say thank you?”
My voice went soft. “I’m a bit too afraid for that quite yet.”
“You will.” He nodded confidently. “When I’m inside you, with your ass full of the plug, you’ll be thankful for it.”
“You sound so sure.” My body was already responding to the idea, to his words and his confidence. Warmth hit my inner thighs, making everything tingle.
He crossed his arms over his chest, excitement flashing in his eyes all while seeming so unconcerned at my nerves. “Tell me what you first thought when you saw it. And while you’re doing that, take off your shirt. I woke up hard this morning, wishing I could put my mouth on your tits.”
“God, Oliver.” I was already practically panting. My breath quickened from nerves mixed with desire. I still listened. I took off my shirt and my bra, sitting in my bed in only a simple white cotton thong. Without being told, I adjusted my position on the bed and propped up my phone so I could talk to him without holding it.
Something told me I would need my hands soon anyway.
“When you saw the plug?” he asked, his hands disappearing below my line of sight. I knew what he was doing as he shifted his hips, pushed down, and then the muscles in one of his arms began to bunch and flex while he began working himself.
God, I wanted to see it. See him stroke himself.
“I liked it,” I admitted, breathless now. “We talked about it but then you didn’t mention it again. I’ve been curious.”
“Scared?”
I nodded, then blinked as he continued working himself. “I want to see you,” I blurted.
He barked out a quick laugh but pushed back from the desk. Shit. He was naked. Completely, except for those glasses I wanted him wearing sometime when he was on top of me. They made him seem less like a god and more like a man. A completely edible man. His hard dick stood straight up while he wrapped his hand around it. His thighs were spread wide, unashamedly.
Always so confident.
I dragged my gaze off him masturbating and blinked quickly. “I’ve never done this. Or that,” I admitted, thinking of the plug and him taking that part of me. “It makes me nervous. Scares me. But I want it, too.”
“You’ll fucking love it. God, do you see how hard I am for you? So damn hard for you all the time. And all you have to do is listen to what I say. Can you do that, Shan?”
I nodded, dropped my gaze back to his dick. Wetness dampened my thong.
“Take off your underwear, then. As sexy as you are covered, I want to see you.”
I shifted again, listening to his rich voice, the way his hazel eyes had gone as dark as the forest. Every muscle in his face was tight and his abs bunched and rolled while he worked himself. He was just as turned on as me.
When I was naked, I fought for my confidence and planted my feet on the bed, knees up and legs spread wide so he could see all of me. I was completely exposed to him.
The look in his eyes told me he liked it. “Good. Now run a thumb over your nipple, teas
e yourself while I watch you.”
I listened without hesitation. My nipples were already as hard as diamonds anyway. Each brush of my thumb sent sparks of pleasure straight to my sex. Without being told, my other hand drifted down my stomach until I was rubbing two of my fingers over my clit.
“Oh, God,” I gasped, arching into my hand. My eyes grew heavy, but I forced myself to keep them on Oliver.
“Dirty fucking girl,” he groaned, watching me. His half-lidded eyes were focused on my fingers at my pussy. Seeing how much he liked it, watching his own cheeks flush while I got myself off spurred me on. I slid my fingers through my folds, gathering the moisture there, and dragged them back to my clit. “You fucking love this. And you’ll love it when I’m inside your ass.”
“Yes,” I breathed out, unable to hide it anymore. His hand worked his dick faster and his commands returned.
He told me how to pleasure myself. To twist my nipples, tug on them. He told me when to push my fingers inside of me and fuck myself. I listened to every word he said, needy and panting and wanting and driving myself so absolutely crazy my skin glistened with sweat.
“Oliver,” I panted rapidly, chanting his name while my orgasm danced around the edges.
“That’s it, honey,” he grunted, softening his voice while he ferociously worked his own cock. “Let me see you fall apart. I’m so damn close. So hard. So fucking jealous it’s your fingers inside you and not my tongue.”
It was all I needed to hear, the last thing I heard before I squeezed my eyes closed and fireworks exploded behind my closed lids as my climax rolled through.
I threw my head back into my pillow as my body tightened and quivered, and drained every ounce of my orgasm from me as I heard him growling in that gravelly voice of his.
“Give me your eyes, Shannon. Watch what just the sight of you does to me.”
I barely peeled my tired eyes open in time to watch him. His heavy balls were drawn tight, his hand moving hard and fast around the tip of his cock.
He didn’t take his eyes off me when his own orgasm hit him. His jaw clenched. His abs tightened until I saw every single indentation on his chest and sides and hips and thighs. When he came, he was staring directly into my eyes, my name rolling off his thick and swollen lips, his eyes lit with fierce desire. “Fucking shit,” he growled as he slowed down the ministrations of his dick, his climax rolling through him.