by Paige North
“You don’t know how efficient a student I am,” I say, through tightened lips at his Twitter crack. I catch my dad eyeing me, and I know going to hang out with Chandler will go a long way toward making up for being a smartass to my dad in front of the Harrisons. “Fine. Alright. I’ll come.”
“Try not to look so excited about it.”
“Sorry. I just— I really wanted to study,” I say, and Chandler gives me an appalled look before turning back to the game.
I know it won’t actually matter— it’ll take Gabe far longer than that to get back to the dorm. Still, it’s hard for me not to think about him as Chandler drives me over to his place after the game. (Which we won, but barely, thanks to a weak fourth quarter without Gabe playing.)
“Wait a minute,” one of Chandler’s friends says, eyes widening as we walk up. “Is this the ghost girl? The invisible Lucy Shaw?”
“We were starting to think Chandler and his dad made you up,” another one says, reaching out to shake my hand. I appreciate the handshake— so many of these sort of guys go in for a hug or ignore any sort of formal greeting whatsoever. The handshake, though, relaxes me, a reminder that this isn't so much a date but a business arrangement. A one hour business arrangement. A meeting, basically.
Chandler ushers me over to the couch and we sit, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, my mind on Gabe, his apparently on a series of inside jokes that he and his friends volley back and forth between them.
“So, I hear you’re really into football, Ghost Lucy Shaw,” one of the guys says between sips of a fancy home brew that another one of Gabe’s friends brought over.
“She is now,” Chandler says almost proudly.
“Those box seats,” the other guy says, rolling his eyes. “That shit is a pussy magnet.”
“Hey,” Chandler says, tugging me closer. “Language, Noah.”
Noah laughs. “Sorry, Ghost Lucy Shaw. But I’m just saying, those box seats are pretty good for a guy’s sex life. Would you have ever slept with him if he couldn’t offer that kind of champagne football experience?”
I laugh awkwardly, not sure exactly how I’m supposed to react. I mean, Chandler is clearly into me, so I probably shouldn’t be cracking up at his doomed attempts to get me to date him, much less sleep with him. I’m just stifling my laugh when I realize that Chandler has gone a little rigid beside me. He pats my shoulder stiffly and gives me a look that’s supposed to tell me something, though I’m not sure exactly what that something is.
“Alright, Noah. Stop scandalizing the girl,” Chandler says.
Noah rolls his eyes. “Relax, man. She’s a person, not an innocent flower.” He turns to me. “Okay, real talk though— did you sleep with him because of the VIP box thing? Because my dad’s company has one of those boxes, and if it’s really that hot, I’m totally getting the key for the next game.”
Chandler clears his throat; I fight to keep my eyes from widening when I realize what’s going on. Chandler’s told this guy— probably loads of guys— that we’ve slept together. I turn to him and see his face is hard and awkward.
“Chandler?” I ask coolly.
“Er,” he says, the smiles at me. “Sorry, Lucy. I shouldn’t have kissed and told.”
Noah snorts. “A lot more than kissed—”
“Noah, shut up,” Chandler says quickly. Noah laughs; I stand up, despite Chandler’s attempts to pull me back down. Noah is stammering laughter-filled apologies as I storm through the house, past other revelers in designer clothes with professional blow-outs, the college-aged version of the party at the alumni house where I’d met Gabe in the wine cellar.
“Lucy, just listen to me,” Chandler is saying, his protests turning heads as we head down the hall and out the front door. He thinks I’m furious. I’m not, honestly. He isn’t the first guy to pretend to have slept with me, and won’t be the last— I wager most girls have the same story to tell. But I’m not about to play nice and cuddle up to him now that I know what he’s said— not when there’s someone I actually want to be with.
“It’s fine,” I say as we break into the front yard. There’s a massive front porch furnished with a half-dozen Harton-green rocking chairs, all of which have been grouped up so people can chat with their circle of friends. I continue on down the sidewalk so there’s no chance they can listen in.
“Lucy, I didn’t exactly tell my friends we’d had sex, I just didn’t contradict them when they assumed,” Chandler said.
I turn to him and lift my eyebrows. “Are you asking me to not be angry on a phrasing technicality?”
Chandler throws his hands up— he doesn’t look apologetic, but rather, irritated. Like I’m being particularly vexing. “I’m just saying, it’s not that big a deal. Come back inside, okay?”
“Why would I do that?” I ask. “I mean, seriously? Why? You asked for an hour— you got thirty-three minutes, and I think skimming the twenty-seven remaining ones on the grounds that you lied about sex with me is pretty reasonable.”
Chandler shakes his head. “Seriously? You were timing the minutes? For fuck’s sake, Lucy, I’m a Harrison. You know how many girls would love to come to a party with me?”
“Then go date one of those girls, and maybe you won’t even have to lie-brag about sleeping with them,” I say.
Chandler’s face goes hard and angry, a face that looks far too much like a version of my father’s. “You know what, you brought it up, so yeah: Plenty of girls would be thrilled to know I said I was sleeping with them. You’re literally the only girl I’ve ever met who is so against being with me.”
“Well, you were bound to meet one eventually,” I say, then throw my arms back. “Look, honestly, Chandler— I’m not mad. I’m not. I’m just not staying, okay? I’m going home, like I wanted to this whole time.”
“Yeah, to study,” Chandler says mockingly. “Fine, whatever. Go. And tell our parents that you’re the one that screwed this up, while you’re at it, because I’m not taking the fall for it.”
This is, obviously, a pretty dickweed thing to say, but it’s also a not-entirely-ridiculous threat. Our parents are going to be pissed about this falling through, and when they catch wind, it isn’t going to matter that Chandler lied about having slept with me, or that I’m just flatly not interested in him, or that he’s being a total tool to me now. All that’s going to matter is that our little political alliance didn’t work out, leaving Harrisons and Shaws alike scrambling to create a new one.
“Chandler…” I start, then sigh and shrug at him. “I’m leaving.”
“Fine,” Chandler says. “But I’m not asking you back here again, or anywhere, got it? I’m over trying to talk sense into you.”
“Yeah. And that’s why I’m leaving,” I say, shaking my head, then turn to go.
I get an Uber back to the dorms, where I’m not at all surprised to see that, as expected, Gabe isn’t back yet. Truth be told, I need some time to decompress after Chandler. I study for a while, then play games on my phone to get my mind off men, both the desirable and undesirable sorts.
This would all be so much easier if I could just tell my parents that I’m with Gabe. If I could just tell anyone that I’m with Gabe. I wouldn’t need to fumble for excuses or reasons or lies, I wouldn’t have to go to parties I’m uninterested in to pander to Chandler Harrison’s ego. If Gabe was a different sort of football player, I might be able to get away with it. The kind famously beloved by the community, the Harton Hero, this year’s Jacob Everett. My father would see it as an opportunity to increase his under-25 base. There’d be photo ops and shots of my dad and I hugging at football games as we cheered him on.
But Gabe is the kind of football player who gets ejected from games for fighting. There’s no way I can tell my father, my friends, Chandler, anyone without derailing my life. None of this is a surprise, of course— I knew from that first night together in Gabe’s room that what we were doing was basically forbidden. Hell, that was part of the appeal. Misbehavin
g was fun.
Was being the operative word.
Chapter 11
Gabe gets home at seven o’clock sharp. I sit bolt upright on my bed, listening to his movements next door. He’s angry— unsurprising, given how the game went. I hear him throw down his things, the door shut hard behind him. He takes a deep, heavy breath, then opens the bathroom door, which I never both locking anymore. He appears in my room, shoulders back, looking dangerous and enormous and unbearably sexy.
“Hey,” I say in a near whisper, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth in anticipation. My day and all the drama and worries it entailed slips away from me— now that Gabe is in front of me, eyes gleaming and daring, I can’t care about much else.
Gabe exhales, breath rumbling as he does so. I can see so much tension in his jaw, his shoulders, his fingers, that it almost scares me, to see his strength and fury on such obvious display. I feel my center burn at the want for him to relieve that tension with me, but I don’t move, stilled like prey waiting to be pounced upon.
Gabe glances toward the window, at the setting sun. “Come with me,” he says shortly, turning on his heel as soon as the words leave his mouth.
My lips part, though Gabe is already back in his room, gathering his keys from the sound of it. We’ve never gone anywhere together, not really— I mean, unless you count that wine cellar. All that drama from earlier rears its ugly head again as I remember how we can’t be seen together…
“Lucy,” Gabe says, sounding annoyed at how long I’m taking.
“I— okay,” I say. I’m not going to turn him down, I know, so I’ll just need to manage my worries. Besides, I know Gabe well enough to know we’re not going out to dinner or anything— he wants to take me, which means we’re going somewhere at least moderately private. We just need to not be seen together on the way there.
Gabe gives me a stony look I can’t read when I appear in his room, then follow him out the main door. We head downstairs, to the lobby; I keep my head up and try to look like I’m on some sort of official RA business, but most of the people in the lobby are too caught up in their pool game to care.
We cut across the parking lot to Gabe’s car— his truck, I realize, which I didn’t know about but am unsurprised to see he drives. It’s old and beat up, and the tailgate is clearly from another vehicle entirely.
I notice that Gabe’s hair looks more auburn than brown in the orange sunlight, and that I can see the bulge of his shoulder muscles in his shadow. I know so much about Gabe when it comes to the bedroom, and so little about him when it comes to life outside of it.
Gabe jumps into the drivers’ side, then leans across to unlock the passenger side door. The interior of the car smells old and sweet, but it’s clean and well-kept, more so than my own car. When I’ve slid the seatbelt across my chest, Gabe starts the engine and carefully backs out of the parking lot without a word.
I want to ask where we’re going, what we’re doing, what he’s thinking, but his face is so intense…I know he won’t answer, not really, and I know my asking won’t help the situation.
So I let go— because wherever we’re going, I’m happy to go along, happier to be with Gabe when he’s angry than Chandler in any state of mind. Gabe drives slower than I’d expect, making his way through the city, past the school, down into the Ansley Park neighborhoods. It isn’t until we pull up to the house that I realize where we are— the alumni house, the place where I followed him down into the wine cellar.
Gabe parks the truck and sits, silently, for a few moments. He’s staring at the house with a dark, hard gaze, like he’s blaming it for something. No one’s here, clearly— I’m not surprised, since I’ve always heard that the alumni who owns it basically uses it as a crash pad when he’s in town for games, or as a place to host new football players.
I fold my hands into my lap, waiting to see what Gabe’s next move is.
He takes a few long, steady breathes, then looks over at me, a storm still brewing in his eyes. “I need to be rough this time.”
“Okay,” I say, breath trembling.
“You can tell me to stop if you need me to.”
“I know.” It’s true— as dangerous as he is, as intense, as strong, I’ve never doubted for a moment that if I told Gabe to stop, he would. But I’ve never wanted him to stop.
“Come on,” he says with a curt nod, and gets out of the truck. I follow, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me. Gabe walks through the back gate with complete confidence, unafraid that anyone might see. The backyard is dark now that the sun has dipped behind trees, and made private by yawning magnolias and a tall privacy fence. The pool glistens, and the landscape lighting makes the flawlessly maintained rose bushes glow like gemstones.
Gabe heads straight to the outdoor shower on the far side of the pool, a gorgeous teak and stone structure with a door framed in yellow jasmine that’s hanging on despite the onslaught of fall. It seems to glow, lit by beautiful iron sconces, and is divided into two areas; a changing section with teak benches, and the actual shower, which has slate walls and a half dozen nozzles for both water and steam.
Gabe steps inside the changing area and tosses his keys down on one of the benches. Once I’ve followed him in, he pulls the glass door shut behind us. He reaches into the shower area and turns it on, then pulls a lever that sends a hiss through the room— the steam setting. I can feel the wood warming up beneath my toes almost instantly.
Gabe takes a step back and looks at me, long and hard— this space is the size of a minivan, so there’s plenty of room for him to do so. He firms his jaw, then steps forward and grabs hold of my shirt hem. I’m jostled backward when he yanks it over my head; Gabe reaches forward to steady me, then throws my shirt aside, onto one of the benches in the changing area.
He grips my waist and for a moment,, I think he’s going to tug my pants down. Instead, he lifts me up and sets my feet down on one of the benches. I’m short enough that my head misses the ceiling easily, and my breasts are just even with Gabe’s eyes.
His eyes— steely and hard. He takes a few steps back and stares at me; the steam starts to kick in, hissing through the cracks in the teak. I stand frozen, waiting for his next order, my eyes lingering around the edge of his pants, waiting to see his erection pressing against the material. I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting a little, that I don’t see it yet.
“Turn around,” Gabe says, licking his bottom lip. “Take off your pants. Bend over to do it.”
I nod and obey, sliding my pants down my legs, which are already damp with steam and sweat. The fact that my ass is waving in front of Gabe’s face makes me want to hurry due to some bizarre sudden modesty, but the desire to see him turned on forces me to slow down, to bend slowly. I delicately step out of my pants, then nudge them to the side with my toe. I start to rise—
“No,” Gabe says. “Like that.”
I’m surprised— he can’t fuck me while I’m standing on the bench like this, and besides, he’s still fully dressed— but I obey all the same, keeping my fingers against my toes like I’m in the middle of a round of calisthenics. I listen for Gabe’s breath, hoping it sounds hungry, perhaps needy, but I can’t hear much of anything over the sound of the shower.
Gabe’s hand slaps down on my right ass cheek, almost out of nowhere, and I yelp in surprise. He massages the spot where he struck me, and the pain fades— until he spanks me again, then again. He’s never spanked quite this hard before, but I don’t dislike it. The more he does it, in fact, the more it turns me on, the more I long for the tingling of nerves rising with each strike.
Gabe usually speaks to me as we ramp up, talks dirty, laughs about how innocent he thought I was— but not today. Today he operates in screaming silence, finally abandoning my ass to pull my panties down to my ankles.
The blood is rushing to my head; I rise just enough to form a ninety degree angle, bracing my arms and head against the wall. The steam is intense now, circling around us, making the sh
ower feel otherworldly.
With my panties at my ankles, I’m incredibly exposed— which I know is exactly what Gabe wanted. He grabs my hips and pulls me to his face, sinking his tongue into my pussy without any of his usual licking, sucking foreplay.
I tense in surprise, which only makes him push his mouth harder against me, his tongue roaming hard against my clit. He pulls my ass cheeks apart so he has more access, and I feel myself flush in sudden shyness, knowing there’s no part of me he hasn’t seen, now.
The steam is making me feel heady and drunk, as is the rising rush of energy in my pussy resulting from Gabe’s tongue. I feel an orgasm building, but fight it off— I want to come hard tonight, rather than often, and I want Gabe to work for it. He wants to work for it, to force it from me rather than coax it. He sucks my clit into his mouth, then flicks it with his tongue before grabbing hold of my legs and swinging me down into his arms, once again so fast that I hardly have time to process the change in position before Gabe has moved on.
Cradled in his arms, he steps into the shower and sets me down just inside, so the stream of almost too-hot water rushes over my skin. He stands in the door of the shower for a moment, watching, then removes his own clothing in a few swift movements, like he’s eager to get to the point of undressing.
He’s avoiding my eyes, focused instead on my body, his fingers tense and shoulders stiff. When he pulls off his pants, his cock is fully erect and points toward me. I shiver despite the hot water streaming over my body; Gabe reaches for his pants, removes a condom from the pocket, and slides it onto his cock with little fanfare. He then walks inside and pulls the glass door shut behind me.
I don’t know why I back up, but I do— it’s something to do with the strength in his form as he closes the distance between us, the way he looks animal-like, a nude version of the wild creature I saw playing on the field today. He grabs hold of my waist, not hard enough to hurt me, but with enough force that I know I can’t escape him, then hoists me up onto his hips. I wrap my legs around him as the shower streams water down between our bodies, tickling my nipples as it trickles off them and onto Gabe’s chest.