by Paige North
When he quiets, he draws himself out slowly. I stroke his back, running my fingers down the contours of his body, to his ass. He rolls off of me, onto the couch, breathing hard. “Fuck.”
We’re both covered in a light sheen of sweat. I feel happy for the first time since I set foot in this city, like maybe this was the right choice, after all. All the reasons we shouldn’t be together seem far away, right now, and I fight in my head to keep them there. This was amazing. Right. Fuck all those reasons. I look at him, hoping he’ll say that.
Instead, he leans forward and picks a book off the coffee table. “What the fuck is this shit? Jane Austen? You read this shit for fun?”
Suddenly, I feel the first bits of shame leaking in. I reach for my t-shirt and pull it over my head. “Yeah. I do.”
He looks disappointed in me, but how can I not be disappointed in him? People who don’t like books are just . . . superficial. He stands up and parades toward the curtains, showing off his tight, athletic ass, and I realize I’m the superficial one. I barely know him and I want him.
He closes the shades, and says, “We’re giving your neighbors a free show.”
I get a stirring feeling between my legs again. Obviously I’m not into him for his brains. He comes up close to me, takes the hem of the t-shirt, and lifts it. “What are you—“
He grins. “You kicking me out already? Because I’m just getting started.”
Chapter 12
The following morning, I wake up lying in Flynn’s arms, with the sun streaming in the open windows. I look up at him, at his strong, chiseled jaw, and sigh in contentment.
This was what I was missing. This feeling of being completely and utterly in the right place.
Those baby eyelashes of his flutter open and his eyes land on me. He yawns and stretches. “Hey,” he says. “What time is it?”
I reach over and grab my phone. “Nine-fifteen.”
“Fuck.” He rolls out of bed and finds his boxers on the ground.
“You don’t have practice until one,” I remind him, sitting up in bed and pulling the covers up over my chest.
“But I got to get to the gym,” he says, throwing his t-shirt over his head. “They log my hours there. Playing hockey ain’t just practicing a couple hours a day.”
Maybe it’s guilt. “Do your coaches really not like you to . . . you know, be with girls?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. I guess. They say it’s no good for the concentration, but that’s for other guys. Not me. It’d take a lot more than a girl to mess with my concentration.”
A lot more than a girl? Is that how little he thinks of me? His voice is cold, his body movements tight and tense, his jaw set. I don’t know why, but when I thought about finally being in the right place, I thought that meant we’d have a leisurely breakfast in bed, and then trade long, lingering kisses at the front stoop before we went our separate ways.
What was I smoking? This is Flynn Taylor. First of all, I’m sure he doesn’t do romance. Second of all, he thinks my chosen profession, my love for reading . . . are all jokes. But mostly, even if he was Romeo and had a giant book collection that rivaled mine, he’s an Argonaut and I’m running a study on them. We can’t happen.
Even though it sure feels like something’s happening. I just don’t know what. Maybe I’m just sex to him. Really, really good sex, judging by the fact that we had a second and third round last night, and I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve come. I need to leave it at that, and try to keep out the side of me who wants to get all emotional and clingy. “Sure,” I say breezily. “I’ve got class in a few, anyway.”
I slip out of bed and try to get my naked body to the closet, where my robe is hanging, without giving him too much of an eyeful in the bright, unforgiving sunshine. But he seems to be so busy trying to high-tail it out of here that I could rub my naked breasts on his face and it still wouldn’t matter. I throw my robe over my shoulders as he finishes tying the laces to his sneakers.
When he looks up, I sigh. He’s so beautiful, I can’t help the heat that stirs between my legs, for the thousandth time since he set foot inside my door. But he has that same stone face that’s in that picture in his folder . . . unemotional, unconcerned. It’d take a lot more than a girl to mess with my concentration.
He stands up and heads for the door. So he’s just going to leave, and that’s it?
“Flynn,” I call, cringing when my voice cracks in desperation.
He turns to me, eyes leaking no feeling whatsoever.
“This was a mistake,” I say. “We shouldn’t do this again.”
I want him to fight. After all, that’s what Flynn Taylor does best. Instead, he nods. “Right. See you, Freckles,” he says, pushing open the door and heading out without so much as a backwards glance.
Despite the late September heat, I suddenly feel cold. It sure sounded like I was messing with his concentration last night, when he said he couldn’t stop thinking about tasting me. And yet, he seems to have no trouble walking away, now that he’s had his fill. Does he know how insane he makes me? Why is he always so agreeable about the wrong things?
Chapter 13
The weeks go by. At first, I’d expected a text or something from Flynn. Or I kept hoping he’d show up on my doorstep, unannounced, like last time. But he never did. I’d see him, every day, at practice, and he wouldn’t even come close to looking my way. He’d go on the road for pre-season games for days, sometimes a week at a time, and then I wouldn’t even be able to see him at all. The feeling? Borderline excruciating.
The colder days of autumn come, and so do some other changes. Brandon eventually gets the hint and sends me a text only once or twice a week now, to which I always reply politely. The regular season gets into full swing, meaning that it’s usually three or four days of practices or games each day, followed by four days off while the Argonauts are on their road trips, during which I do my best to focus on my regular classes.
But some things seem incapable of changing. Flynn doesn’t seem to be softening his wicked ways on the ice. Though the study is starting to come together, it’s not with his help. He hasn’t been on any of my schedules since the first day. When I questioned Professor Morgan about it, he told me that he thought he’d give him some time to do some growing up by visiting the psychologist, and would work him into the schedule later on. Whatever he’s doing with the staff psychologist, it doesn’t appear to be doing much good. He still gets in fights with all the players, still talks back to the coach, still stomps around with his head down and that massive chip on his shoulder.
So that’s why I’m surprised to see him on the schedule one October morning.
I sit there, in my shabby makeshift office, sipping my Starbucks and trying not to think about it. My heart has been racing nonstop since the moment I sat down on this uncomfortable plastic seat. It’ll be the first time in weeks he’ll have to look at me, speak to me.
He shows up at exactly his arranged time, freshly showered, smelling like that delicious, clean aftershave. Throwing his gym bag on the ground, he sits in the chair opposite me and nods. “Hey, Miss Shaw,” he says.
Well, look at that. I guess his meetings with the psychologist have been having some effect on him. I stare at him, open-mouthed, until I realize I have to reply. “Mr. Taylor,” I say, my eyes drifting back to the survey. “How have you been?”
“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” He asks, giving me a reproachful glance. “Best not to get too personal, right?”
I nod, a flush crawling onto my face. After all, I’ve wondered how he’s been, what he’s been doing, and who he’s been doing it with nearly every day since the last time we were together. I know I’m not supposed to, but that didn’t stop us before. How can I not get personal, now?
“All right,” I say, passing a paper and pencil to him. Then I read off the instructions, “This survey is ten questions, fill-in-the-blank. You fill it out at your leisure and let me know
when you’re done. If you would like me to leave the room while you complete it, it’s up to you. Remember, there is no wrong answer.”
He plants the pencil behind his ear and studies the paper, his lips moving slightly as he reads the first question. He places the paper on the table, scribbles the first answer, and looks up at me. “No need to leave, Miss Shaw. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”
But, oh, how I want him in my hair. I want him in every part of me, and with the way my body’s buzzing, it obviously agrees. I lean back, watching him write his answers as quickly as possible, knowing that when he gets to number ten, he will leave as unceremoniously as he’d left my apartment. And then my chance will be gone. I haven’t been this excited in the weeks since he left, and I know, I just know, that the moment he steps out the door, it’ll be back to my boring, boring life again.
Grab him, a devilish little voice inside me screams. Don’t let him leave.
My mind launches into the dirtiest of fantasies. Flynn closing the closet door, bending me over this folding table, and taking me right here. Professor Morgan and Coach Jacobsen and all the people who could get us in so much trouble are right down the hall, and could come in and catch us at any moment. I imagine Flynn kissing me hard, all the while loosening the drawstring tie on my sweatpants and pushing them to my knees. I imagine gripping the sides of the table as he presses me into it, pounding me hard from behind, like he’d done in my apartment. I feel the first trickle of wetness between my legs when suddenly . . .
“Done.”
I blink as he pushes the paper over to me. Shell-shocked, I barely remember why I’m in this room in the first place.
“Don’t you want to check it, Miss Shaw? To make sure all the answers are to your liking?”
“Oh. Yes.” I look at the paper. All the answers appear to be in order. Part of me wishes he’d have said to-hell with the survey and just written a dirty invitation on the bottom of the page. But no, he’s clearly the star-student right now. So un-Flynn-like.
So disappointing.
“It’s fine,” I answer stiffly.
“Are you all right, Miss Shaw?” he asks, picking up his gym bag. I cringe at the formality of my name. All he’d have to do is say my name in the way only he does, in that deep, sweet drawl. Savi. Or even call me Freckles.
And I would do anything he asks.
“Yes,” I answer automatically, as he makes a move toward the door. Before he can open it, though, I blurt, “No. So you’re just going to leave and ignore me again?”
He drops his bag and one corner of his mouth lifts up into his signature sly smirk. “You said it was a mistake.”
“It isn’t wise, no,” I say, chewing shyly on my lip. “But I just thought—“
“When has Flynn Taylor ever done the wise thing?” His smirk is even bigger now. “Fuck, don’t do that thing with your lip. It kills me.”
I’m killing him? I’m actually having an effect on him? Because right now, he looks so contained, so controlled. I bring my fingers to my mouth, not sure what it is that I’m doing to have such an effect on him. Then I draw my lip in, further, and give him my most come-hither stare. If it’s killing him the way it’s killing me, then no. I won’t stop.
He scowls at me. “Look, I’m trying to do the wise thing now. Which is why I need to get the hell out of here. Before I do something I’ll regret.”
He flies to his feet, grabs his gym bag, pulls open the door, and disappears before I can say another word.
It’s pitch dark by the time I get home, and the apartment is dark and cold, too. I haven’t seen Jen around much. Turns out, this apartment is really a show for her parents; she spends most of her time at Pat’s house. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a roommate, which doesn’t help coming home feel very welcoming.
Throwing my backpack down in the foyer, I run upstairs and strip off my sweats, then change into my nightclothes—an oversize Bengals t-shirt. It’s too cold for that, but I know a little heat will keep the goose bumps that are popping out on my arms at bay. I run downstairs and stand in the foyer, rubbing my hands together and trying to fix the thermostat so that the radiators will spit out some blessed heat. I turn it up to 78 and wait for the radiators to start hissing.
Then I wrap a blanket around myself and sit in my dark living room, cringing at the thought of today. There I was, basically offering myself to him, and he turned me down flat. He has more sense than I do to understand that this won’t work. If we pursue this any further, both of our careers will be at risk.
Why can’t I get that through my skull?
I sit there for another few minutes, trying to decide if I want the Ellio’s pizza in the freezer or if I should call in delivery from the pizza place on the corner. I don’t really have much of an appetite for anything.
Well, one thing. A thing I can’t have.
That’s when I realize the radiators aren’t showing any signs of life. I go to the front window and touch the one underneath it, but it’s ice cold. Do we even have working heat in this rat trap?
I pick up the phone and call for the landlord, but it just rings and rings. Then I go back to the radiator and fiddle uselessly with the dials. Somehow, it feels even colder than it had before.
After all that is done, I sink into a pile of blankets on the sofa and start to bawl.
The truth is, what do I have here that I didn’t have in Ohio? I have a hot guy who treated me like a sex toy for a few nice rounds. A Professor who still thinks I’m a moron, no matter what I do. A cruddy house that fleas wouldn’t have the sense to live in. Back home, I had family who loved me, a boyfriend who was crazy about me (even if I wasn’t about him), and a nice, comfortable place to live.
How can I consider this a step up?
When I look up next, about ten minutes later, Flynn is standing over me.
This is surely a dream. I sit up and blink a few times, pulling my short t-shirt down for decency, but the vision doesn’t change. He’s really standing here, in my living room.
“How did you—“
“You left it unlocked,” he said, motioning to the front door. “That’s an invitation.”
I wrinkle my nose. He’d said the same thing about my phone. “Actually, an invitation is something like, ‘Would you like to come inside, Mr. Taylor?’”
“We don’t do that shit in Boston. I didn’t know you country people were so fancy,” he says with a little smirk. He looks around. “It’s fucking cold in here. You ought to raise the heat.”
I start to cry again.
He walks over to the radiator and feels it, feels the two pipes stretching out along the wall. Then he goes into the foyer and checks the thermostat. Two minutes later, I hear his footsteps on some faraway wooden stairs I never knew existed. A few moments later, I hear those footsteps coming back. “The valve to your heat pump wasn’t open,” he says. “Give it a minute.”
I sniffle and grab a tissue, blow my nose. “So you mean . . .”
He explains, “I grew up with a shit boiler.” Boilah. “This ain’t nothing.”
Suddenly, there’s this hollow, metal pinging sound. The radiator across the room suddenly starts to hiss. Once again, I’m embarrassed in front of him. Like I’m some stupid idiot girl who cries whenever something doesn’t go her way. I stand and throw the pile of blankets off my lap. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to fix my heating problems,” I say, thrusting my chin up in the air to keep the last of my dignity from oozing away. “So why did you come?”
He doesn’t speak for a while. His eyes rake over my body with the blessed desire that I’d been wishing for earlier today. They stop at my bare legs, and he licks his lips.
It’s so intense, enough to almost make me gasp aloud. The heat may be coming up, but my goose bumps are multiplying.
“Because I can’t fucking stop thinking about you,” he breathes, running his hands through his hair.
Then I do gasp, because it’s exactly what I want to hear. �
�I thought you said it would take a lot more than a girl to mess with your concentration.”
He lets out an ironic laugh. His voice is low and husky. “Then you’re a lot more than a girl. You’re a fucking beautiful woman. Come here.”
I’m powerless to do anything but what he asks of me. I inch toward him, and when I’m in grabbing distance of him, he clamps his hands around my waist and pulls me flush against him. All the air wooshes out of my lungs.
“Listen,” he says, his voice low and breathy. “We do this, no one knows about it, you got that? At least until the end of the season.”
“The end of the semester,” I remind him, almost too eager to finally taste him again. It’s like I’ve been starved of him. “I go back home in December.”
“Right. We got to be careful.”
I nod, pulling Flynn down to me, claiming his mouth in a fevered kiss. I twine my hands through his hair, drowning in the taste of him. Until now, I’d felt starved, but I hadn’t known how much I needed him until now, when he’s in my sight, so close. He pushes me against the wall, gripping me tightly, as I go for his jeans, stripping the belt open.
“I need you,” I breathe out. “Inside me. Right now.”
I know exactly what he wants to hear from me, what will drive him wild.
“Fuck me,” I tell him. “Any way you want.”
He groans aloud. “Aw, baby, There’s nothing I want more.”
I push his underwear down, wrapping my fist around the hard, thick length of him. His breath is ragged, in my ear, as I hoist my leg up, urging him to hold me up so I can feel his cock against my center. He does with ease, pushing me against the wall, consuming my mouth with a searing, unending kiss. I grind against him, using the wall to find purchase, to find the right place until he’s right at my entrance. He reaches down, lifting my nightshirt and pushing aside the thin slip of material that is my panties.
I feel his tip at my core. He thrusts into me, all at once, lifting me up against the wall. “Fuck!” I scream, almost in tears from the bliss of it all, from his hard body as close to me as it can possibly be. For that moment, there is nothing but absolute ecstasy, the deep friction of his cock pounding into me and his mouth locked on mine. I almost dread the thought of coming, because it means the end of this . . . this perfect moment in time.