by Robin Lovett
He kisses me, his hot mouth a delectable contrast to the cooling night air. “Let’s go back inside.”
I breathe against his cheek. As amazing as the view is, I want him on top of me again, biting my nipples.
I climb back through the window, rolling onto my bed. He crawls after me, stalking me, hunting me. I want to be caught.
His hands slide under my shirt, beneath my bra, as though dinner never interrupted us. His lips work on my mouth, nipping and biting, the same way his fingers work my nipple.
His touch on my skin dashes thoughts from my mind. When he pulls my shirt over my head, his hands are so thoroughly wanting that I almost forget my belly rolls.
“I love your softness.” He yanks his shirt off too, his rigid, muscled chest a contrast to my curves, a sensuous extreme. “You like how hard I am, don’t you?”
“Yes.” It’s so fascinatingly unlike my body. Even if he weren’t sinfully sexy, I would want to touch him all day, just for the surprise to my senses.
“Same for me.” He strokes my waist, my belly. “Nothing feels like this. Except you.”
It’s too much. His hands everywhere, his body everywhere, and yet my craving for more overpowers me, still. I want him with a strength that terrifies me, and I’m afraid of what happens with me feeling this way.
He slides my bra straps from my shoulders and looks at me for permission.
My voice is breathless. “I’m not sure—what I want.” I am a contradiction of brain and body. I want him in me, even if the part of me that’s still afraid is crying not yet.
“You want to touch me instead?”
“Can I?” The thought of touching him feels easier. I can stop anytime without needing the will to say no.
“Uh, yes please.”
I unzip his fly and find him thick and hardening. I am greedy to touch him, to look at him, and I pull back the waistband of his boxer briefs.
He moves to take them off, and I panic again. “Can you—would you keep them on?”
He stops his hands. “Sure.”
I’m embarrassed about my embarrassment. He wants sex. So do I. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. Somehow, though I don’t know why, it feels like with him it would be so much more than I’m ready for.
The patience on his face calms me. “We don’t have to do anything, Lia. I just like being with you.”
I glance down at his erection standing through his boxers. “Right.” Like I believe that.
“Hey, can you blame me for wanting it? I know you do too. But I’ll take kissing and touching you any day, all day.”
“Did you get to see any of the models at the race yesterday?”
“Stop thinking about me wanting models. I’m done. Forget what Caroline said. After each one, after they left, I felt like this horrible, hollow thing. I don’t want that anymore.”
“Oh.”
The edge of fervency in his tone echoes in his eyes. “There’s only you, Lia. Just you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” His fingertips brush my face, and his nose kisses mine. “I want more this time. And I’m ready to wait for it.”
It’s like an aphrodisiac to my resistance, a sledgehammer to my fear. I take off my bra and throw it on the floor, then plunge my hand into his pants and grasp him in my palm. Long and velvet and hard.
He hisses in his teeth, “Jesus,” and his hands are on my bare breasts. I moan into his mouth.
“I want—to leave my pants on, but—” I stutter, wanting his hands between my legs too.
“No problem.” He lays me back, leaning over me. Undoing my pants, his hand dips inside my underwear, and his fingertips coil over my favorite spot with nothing in between.
“Nnnn.” I bite my tongue and arch into his hand. “How do you—do that?” I need to learn.
“The clit is a magical thing.”
“Tell me what’s yours.” I want to make sure he feels the same.
He sniggers. “Just hold tight and move up and down—oh yeah.”
I start the motion. He tenses and rumbles in his chest. It’s so easy. He moves and responds so that I know he undoubtedly likes it.
It builds in me faster than before. His direct stimulation of my clit is much more poignant than through my pants, and touching him kicks me closer, too.
I come, moaning, the orgasm shattering my thoughts and inhibitions with bliss.
When it slows, I realize my hand has stopped moving on him, and I restart. His hand moves from my clitoris to my breast, and he squeezes me, his face scrunching. He supports himself on one arm, and the sinews beneath his skin bunch and contort.
If I keep doing this, he’s going to come on my belly. And I want it.
I watch his face. It feels like a gift, getting to see his exposed reaction. I work my hand harder, wanting it to last, wanting him to keep that honest expression for longer.
In my hand, he gathers and pumps, his steamy come spattering onto my skin.
His forehead falls on mine, his breathing ragged. “Sorry. I’m a little messier than you.”
“It’s okay. I like it.”
His nostrils flare, and he nips my nose. “Bad girl.” Then he jumps up, buttoning his pants, and grabs a damp towel from the sink.
He wipes the warm, creamy liquid from my skin, and I bite my lip. I’ve never had a guy come on me before. I made him do that, with just my hand.
He cuddles against me, resting his head on my breast. He kisses my skin and hums to himself, “So beautiful.”
I’m surprised and warmed, not just on my skin, but in places inside my chest. The cold, lonely corners in my heart are fuller than they were even an hour ago. I caress his hair and kiss the top of his head. I’m even more surprised when he falls asleep.
He spends the night, wrapped around me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After that, we spend most nights together. Usually I go to his place after class so that he can rest after his ride. I read while he naps and analyzes his workouts.
I learn how skilled his hands are, but we aren’t touching every night. Some nights he’s too tired or too stressed and just wants to cuddle. I don’t mind it. I’ve never slept with a guy before, and there’s so much comfort in his tiny single bed. There’s no room for us to sleep not tucked around each other. I like it. A lot.
Things get more tense the following week when they don’t win the next race. Terrence places fourth, but anything less than first is a failure to him, and his team. He’s training more and spending more time on his computer logging workouts. I overhear terse conversations with his coach over the phone, and some nights Terrence loses his temper over it. But once it’s just us again, he turns back into the fun, loving man I’m getting to like more and more.
The pressure they put him under is pointless. Provoking him only makes him feel worse, not better. He can’t be training well if he’s angry. Or maybe it helps. I don’t know. I wish he would confide in me more.
With the pressure to win, I can better understand the temptation to dope, but I can’t ask Terrence about it.
Even with his temper, his determination is unstoppable. I admire him for it. Each setback makes him even more single-minded toward winning.
I wish I could be that way about studying French—use every deterrent from my parents as fuel to pursue my dreams harder, rather than letting it derail me. Maybe if I spend more time with him, he’ll rub off on me.
Every time Terrence mentions his coach, though, his shoulders contract and his eyes flare. Their coach is a dick. I don’t even know his real name; they refer to him as the “directeur sportif”. Supposedly the team sees him every day when he follows them around in the team car, but I’ve never met him. I saw him drive by once in this station wagon that was painted with BG logos and had bikes stacked on top.
I wor
ry that the pressure will tempt him toward rash things. He needs a cool head to race well, I think, and it can’t lead him to making healthy decisions with his training. His pent-up temper makes me think of his father, the gambling, and the money thing. I wonder if they’re related, but I never ask.
Oh, and Fulbright refused to revoke my request to go home early. I don’t believe it. I need to call them. I’m staying till June. They can’t make me leave.
Another weekend goes by, another race where Terrence doesn’t win. I worry how it will weigh on him. I ring the bell on the alley door to his building and the buzzer unlocks the door, letting me up the stairs. I enter cautiously, wondering what kind of mood he’ll be in—though if he’s in a bad one, he’ll be better in minutes once I’m there. I only hope he’s not suppressing his struggles around me because he thinks I can’t handle it.
On the second floor landing, I find their apartment door cracked and hear Ralph’s thick Cockney brogue. “You’re the arse who acted like a fucking wanker in that interview.”
A TV echoes a news broadcast in the background, and I sneak quietly inside to hear Terrence say, “What else was I supposed to say? ‘No, we’re clean, thanks for asking.’ Those motherfuckers piss me off!” He paces in front of the panoramic windows, his usual panther grace stiff with menacing jerks, his hands fisted, jaw clenched.
“Terr, just cut it a sec.” Gary sits on the arm of the couch, his arms crossed, and I’m grateful for his even presence. As volatile as Terrence can be, Gary is the opposite, with seemingly no temper at all. He’s as much a help to Terrence off the bike as on, and some days I think he’s the only one who cares about how all of this affects Terrence. Besides me. “All we’re saying is you’re going to have to be careful. There’s going to be a lot more questions now that Grabe’s doped out.”
“No shit,” Terrence hisses under his breath at the floor.
“You’re going to fix this,” Caroline says to Terrence.
“Caroline, please,” Gary says gently.
“If he can’t control his anger issues,” she says to Gary, “he could throw the whole team into suspicion. Don’t you see that?” I hear that she’s nervous and scared, but by Terrence’s affronted face, he hears it as an attack on his leadership.
Gary walks to Caroline. “It’s not going to come to that, hon. Just calm down.”
“I will not calm down. You know how his defensive comments make him look: guilty. It makes you all look guilty!”
Gary speaks to her in a low voice.
“What’s she doing here?” Ralph stares at me.
I retreat. He’s never been anything but nice to me. I don’t understand.
“She’s fucking with your focus, Braker,” Ralph says. “She needs to quit hanging around.”
I thought I made things better, helped him calm down and lessened his stress, but maybe I’m wrong.
“It’s none of your business.” Terrence puts his hand on my back. “Come on.” He ushers me to his room. Once inside, he closes the door, holing us into our safe little world where no one can burden him further.
“Am I ‘fucking with your focus’?” I ask.
“No. Well. Coach found out I’ve been seeing you.”
“And?”
“They’re all trying to blame things for me losing. It’s not you. You make it easier.” He plops onto the bed with his head in his hands.
I don’t know who’s right. He could be losing because I’m getting in his way, but I don’t want to leave so I choose to believe him. “What was everyone so upset about?”
“Some news came out today. It’s not good.”
I sit next to him. “What is it?”
“Remember Klaus Grabe, the big blond German I beat in the Paris-Nice race?”
I nod.
“He tested positive for doping.”
I gasp. “Is he taking steroids?” The guy’s unnaturally big, it would make sense.
He snorts. “A lot worse than steroids.”
“But why is him testing positive bad for you? He’s using drugs and you still beat him. That’s good news.”
“Think of how it looks. If I win against a doper, shouldn’t that mean I’m doping too?”
“Oh.”
“It’s just the beginning. I won’t be able to go anywhere now without someone sticking a microphone in my face, asking me if I’m a doper.”
“Even if you’re innocent? They still think you’re guilty?”
“I made it worse, with this stupid comment I made in an interview two weeks ago.”
“You mean when you said the doping officials should ‘go fuck themselves’?”
He looks at me. “You saw it?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone’s pissed at me about it.”
“I thought it was funny.” It also made him look guilty, but I won’t say that.
He cracks a smile. “There’s a meme of me going around Twitter. Ugh! I’m so bad at interviews. No one should let me talk to reporters. Ever.” In an abrupt turn of mood, his eyes twinkle. “You said ‘fuck’.”
I flush, but smile. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
His bad mood diffuses. “That’s hot, you know.” His fingers trail up my thigh. “I’m bringing out the bad girl in you.”
“I think being bad is good for me.” Despite his racing drama, I’m happier, loving my life more, and less anxious than I’ve ever been. He’s given me so much, opened my world to things I never thought I could enjoy.
I wish I could help him more, rather than being a distraction from his racing.
* * * * *
I wake the next morning in his bed with Terrence spooning me.
What wakes me are his hands, one snaked beneath my neck and kneading my breast, the other sliding over my hip and probing between my legs. I groan in a thick morning gravel.
“Morning, beautiful.” He nips my ear.
My hips rock forward into his hand, wanting more, and then I wiggle them backward where he’s hard between my buttocks.
He leaves his boxers on, and I sleep in my underwear, but I like being topless. His worshipful hands and words have reversed my perception of my body image. I feel illicitly sexy.
“Terrence,” I moan and put my hands over his, encouraging him.
“Show me how you like it,” he says, and I guide his hands to do what I want, the way it feels good to me.
He writhes, grinding into my backside where I know it feels good to him. I curve my lower back, coaxing him with my hips. I have all the power in this pose. Power over his hands and how they pleasure me, power over him moving against me.
He starts coming before I do, and I revel in him tightening in ecstasy while wrapped around me, and soak in his guttural sounds. His fingers swirl inside me, until I come against his hand, sweating and moaning.
He rolls onto his back, taking me with him, both our chests rising rhythmically. He kisses my knuckles. “Who needs breakfast.”
“I’ll take a second helping, please,” I singsong in my throat.
He nips my fingers with a playful growl.
The sun barely filters through the window. Terrence wakes early, so he’s been very good for my schedule. He’s out the door on his bike by seven every morning, and I leave when he does, getting to the school early. I grade papers at school now, so that in the evenings, while he naps from his exhausting workouts, I can read all the French I want before I fall asleep next to him.
I’ve abandoned my list of graduate school readings, returning to old favorites instead. I’m done forcing myself to read new things for intellectual stimulation when I’m still discovering new things in the books I love.
I should be hanging with French people, not spending every afternoon in an apartment of English speakers.
Fulbright, schmul-bright. I want to be here, though I thi
nk Ralph may be right. Terrence is wasting a lot of focus on me.
Watching him dress for his morning rides is almost as good as waking up to his hands on me. “You seem less stressed this morning,” I say. He pulls on his spandex shorts—the micro-thin material clutching his smooth legs and gluing around his ass and front assets.
I smile—that used to be the thing I liked best about him, his body. Now, his muscles are just the bonus material. It’s the man living beneath the skin who has me coming back for more, day after day, wanting to know him. He’s much better for me than any French novel.
“The race this weekend will be different.” His eyes are distant and calculating. “Paris-Roubaix is all about Gary.”
“Really?” I’d love to see Gary win a race almost as much as I think Terrence would.
“It’s over cobbles, which I suck at. It’s more a strong man’s race than a sprinter’s, so we’ll all be working for Gary to win it.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“It should be.” He buckles his shoes. “Coach doesn’t want me to race it.”
“How come?”
“The cobbles are dangerous. He’s afraid I’ll crash.”
I don’t want him to crash either, but… “It’s for Gary.”
“Exactly. He rides for me every goddamn race. I should help him this once. If he gets inside the top ten it will be a really big deal. Coach thinks it’s a lost cause since last year Gary cracked under the nerves, but I’m going to do it anyway. I don’t care what they say.” He stands and zips his jersey. “Next weekend, it’s Milan-San Remo.” He nods at the poster on the wall.
“Is that a big one?”
“Longest one-day race of the year. If I win it, we’ll be shored up for the season.”
I’d love for him to win it too, but the pressure it adds to him makes me more nervous. The coach might not let him race for Gary. Or he could crash.
I say nothing, merely dress and follow him into the kitchen.
His breakfast is oatmeal, not croissants, and since there’s no sugar or cream in the kitchen, if I want coffee I have to drink it black like the rest of them. I complained once. Terrence handed me honey, the only sweetener in the cupboard. I stick with black. I’m learning to love the robust flavor of their fresh-ground, French-pressed coffee beans. It’s better for me anyway.