No fucking way.
The only blessing when I blew my knee out was my stepsister didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I was no longer cool enough, and I was too pathetic for my mom to bother with.
She was nothing like Jules, all natural, tough on the outside but soft on the inside. Jules’s hair rivaled the burned orange of the fall leaves in Ohio. Her body so long and lean, she would have given Sharapova a run for her money. I wanted to lick under and around the tiny J-shaped pendant crusted in emeralds that rested at the base of her neck, then make my way down her chest and suck on her nipples.
I bet they were pink and round and supple.
A flush spread over my face as I stared in the restroom mirror like a girl in puppy love. A white polo covered my chest, hiding the tattoos that adorned my pecs. I was hot, burning up—anger, rage, jealousy, and lust filled my veins. I needed to pull the damn shirt off, but I couldn’t. I was a coach, a professional, a mentor to these young women.
Of course, now fucking Jules was playing with my head. Her attentions were focused on some asshole who played on the hoops team; Lamar, I think. The other girls were still being nice, but they didn’t know her past. Her former university had sealed the case, giving Jules back all her eligibility while quietly forfeiting the rest of her old team for the season, dismissing them from the sport entirely.
It was a hush-hush case, handled even more quietly because of money and power. And Jules wanted it that way. She shouldn’t have, but I could tell this one was stoic. No one was going to make an example of her unless it was about her athletic prowess.
But now she was doing what I said. Having a normal college life, and I was yanking my shit in the men’s room. I turned and leaned up against the wall before pulling out my dick. I didn’t give a good fuck if someone came in. I was hard as ever-loving shit, and I needed a release. Ever since the red-haired siren had touched my cheek, I was a loose cannon when it came to my dick. I wanted to use it, rough and hard—but only on her.
Let’s just say, my hand wasn’t calloused because of tennis anymore.
I’d made the mistake of going over to the Union for a cup of coffee and there she’d been, leaning into Lamar, close to seven feet of dark-chocolate-covered steel. Prick. Hilary was nearby with a football idiot, so all I could do was watch from afar like some lovesick teenager.
My hand pumped, my mind trying to conjure up images of Jules leaning into me like she had that ass, whispering in my ear, running the tip of her tongue along my jaw. Okay, she wasn’t doing all that with Lamar. Just the leaning part, but my fucking dick wanted that and more.
My breathing quickened and I allowed myself to think about her perfect lips, plump and pink with a small mole to the left of her upper one, traveling down my chest. Her hands would open my pants, her fingers would reach in and grab me, squeeze me, admire me—hey, I’m not small—and then she would take me in her mouth.
And just like that, I blew my load. One image of her red hair swishing around my junk and I was a goner. Done.
Letting my head fall back against the wall, I sighed.
I needed to see her. Tell her I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t want her to have a normal college experience, but she couldn’t have me either.
What I really needed to do was clean my junk up.
Perhaps I should leave my coaching position.
I made most of my income managing my funds anyway. I’d survive.
Jules
I’d been spending more time on and around campus with the other girls. Hilary had even dragged me to a party or two. The first one was a basketball party in an apartment-turned-nightclub off campus. At five foot nine, I was a midget at this party. Some guy named Mel towered over a DJ table, spinning tunes, his right headphone cocked to the side while a super-tall chick talked in his ear.
Hilary bopped from random girl to random guy to another girl to another guy, kissing everyone on the cheek and saying hello, introducing me and moving on. There was some scene with a runner girl, Tingly, and a new guy on the basketball team. I had no interest in getting involved in any campus drama, so when some other dude, Lamar, introduced himself . . . I bit.
He was huge, making me crane my neck to look up at him, yet soft-spoken. Twists of braids swished around his neck as we made small talk, and he got me a diet soda and rum. He made me feel welcome, and even though there wasn’t a spark in sight, I gravitated toward him.
Nothing happened, but he didn’t seem to mind. I’d given him the whole I’m not looking for anything, just got out of something ugly speech. Maybe he’d friend-zoned me too.
Either way, after the party, we started running into each other on campus, and he made me laugh. So I started seeking him out in his usual hangouts. We were turning into good friends, even though it probably looked like more from the outside.
And so what?
King had frozen me out. Made love to my mouth and given me silent promises of more to come, and then gave me nothing. Nothing except bullshit criticism. My play was clean. He was full of it.
Last week, I’d even caught the asshole out of the corner of my eye in the Union, and I swear I didn’t lean further into Lamar on purpose. Mar was already making me laugh so hard, I thought I was going to fall over—something that hadn’t happened in a long, long time. But poor King looked like he wanted to slay someone. He tried to school himself over his cup of java, but I’d caught his quick jealous moment.
If he wanted me, he could have me. He still occupied most of my private moments. Hell, I’d googled the heck out of his name on the computer in the library.
But he continued to keep his distance from me.
The bad boy of tennis, he’d gone to some frou-frou tennis school in Florida before getting a full scholarship to Vanderbilt. He’d been ranked high, and despite his temper and rumors of his penchant for several seedy tattoo joints, he’d been expected to go far.
Then, the knee happened. It was his first year on the circuit after college. A slide to the side gone too far. A torn this and a torn that. Several surgeries later, and he had little lateral motion. And no more career.
I dreamed of seeing his tattoos and rubbing his knee. I wanted to sleep with the guy and care for him.
But it wasn’t happening. I had to let go, which was exactly what I was lecturing myself for the thousandth time as I left the athletic complex late on Friday. I knew of several parties, but I wasn’t in the mood. I was planning to watch some movies in my childhood bedroom, just relax and try to avoid my mom.
Yep.
“Jules,” Coach King called from behind me. “Wait up.”
His words came out breathy, and I’m not going to lie, I turned to some sort of goo. Teenage, boy-band goo.
I turned but stood my ground, forcing him to close the distance between us. “What?”
“I wanted to say . . . you’ve been playing well. Very well, and we’re not even at the real season yet. I’m pleased.”
When his blue eyes met mine, I raised an eyebrow. “Pleased? So I’m not hitting the ball late? Because from your comments, I thought you were anything but pleased.”
He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple fascinated me again. I dropped my gaze, but then his forearms caught my eye. I was screwed.
“I have to say something,” he admitted. “I can’t say you’re perfect. For so many reasons.”
I kept my gaze lowered and turned my focus on myself to keep from looking at him. My hair felt heavy on my neck, but I resisted the urge to tie it up. I felt naked in formfitting leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I could see the rise and fall of my chest and the tensing of my quads.
Chancing a glance at his face, I shot back, “Oh, really? Because I already endured more than enough bullying to last me a lifetime.”
He ran his fingers through his hair as he blew out a long breath. As his brow furrowed and his eyes crinkled, I wondered how old he was. Probably twenty-eight or twenty-nine, if my memory served me right.
Maybe thirty
. Too young to be a coach at a major program like he was. Too young not to be playing. Too old not to have someone significant.
“I don’t mean to bully you, Jules. I was thinking of the others. I don’t want them to be jealous. You set the bar very high; you have to know that.”
We kept a safe distance, talking like coach and athlete, even though it was late and it didn’t seem like anyone was around. Everyone else had been eager to start the weekend. Maybe that was why I’d lingered so late.
“I know. I set my own standards on the court, and I don’t expect anyone to keep up. That’s me. I play tennis. It’s all I’ve ever done—well, until California. There . . . I messed up everything.”
“Don’t be foolish. They had no right to do to you what they did. I’ve been around some mean pricks, and those ladies take the cake. And I use the word ladies very loosely. I’d rather say bitches.”
We now stood face to face in the dim hall, each of us having inched forward. Certain as the sun had already set outside, we were about to discuss what we had never delved into before.
“Just get it out, King,” I demanded.
“They shouldn’t have done what they did.” His face turned to stone, his expression grim.
I knew he knew, but this was different.
“They did it. Let’s just say it, get it out there. Okay? You know what they did, right?” I sucked down the stale air, filling my lungs, hearing the panic crackle inside me.
“They took my phone, shoved me in the shower with some tennis boy toy, and filmed to their hearts’ delight. The racquet handle up my . . . was their pièce de résistance. But you know what? Everyone has a guardian angel, and my old coach, the one who never told me that my shot was late, got there in time. Before they posted it. Before they shared it. So, God bless America and all that bullshit.”
His reached across the small space between us and grazed his knuckles against my cheek. “Don’t diminish it. You were set up by your teammates and assaulted. No one deserves that.”
“I’m a better person now. Wiser. Smarter. I lay it out there. I’m up front with everyone but you. With you, I feel like a woman all over again, with desires and urges, so I push back all that crap. Maybe it’s because deep down I know that you know, and yet you don’t judge me. You still call my name like I’m a person. Except when you’re throwing me out of your office.”
His hand had found purchase on my shoulder, his thumb running circle eights that might as well have been skin to skin with the way his finger burned through the sheer fabric of my shirt.
“Another reason why I’m picking on you. I don’t give a good goddamn what happened to you. I only give a damn about you. You, Jules. My feelings for you, my attraction to you is turning into a living, breathing thing. And that can’t happen. Yet when I watch you play, I’m mesmerized. Haunted by your beauty and perfection.” His voice lowered and became gruff, a small growl almost escaping when he added, “I want to make you all mine.”
“We can be discreet,” I said quickly. “I don’t even own a smartphone. I live at home . . . how much damage could I do?”
I found myself bargaining with him, pleading with myself not to beg as I tried to convince myself this was all my doing. My move, my decision. All mine.
“It’s not right,” he said, “but I want to do that. Be discreet. Be with you.”
Drew
Jules stood before me with my hand cupping her cheek, and I was immobilized. My past tucked behind me, the future straight ahead . . . was this young woman a roadblock or the fastest route to happiness?
Be with you. I heard the words coming out of my mouth and felt my heart beating in my chest. My quads shook like I’d just played, but I hadn’t done that in over five years. I was a coach, a person of authority, yet I was also a man who wanted to sleep with the woman in front of me. A woman I’d been tasked to watch over. To be careful with, gentle with, because she was fragile.
But she wasn’t fragile at all. Not even one little bone in her body.
It didn’t matter how many times I berated myself, I was going to have Juliette Smith. And not only once. I was going to have a lot of her.
I leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek and took her hand, leading her toward the back entrance where my car was parked. When we got to the exit, I let go of her.
“We can’t be seen like this—”
She nodded, interrupting me. I wanted to do her against the steel door, but I had some self-control. Some.
I opened the door a crack and placed my hand on her lower back, guiding her into the parking lot before me and beeping the car unlocked with my free hand. The lot was lonely and dark, empty save for my black car. I swung open the passenger door before guiding her inside. Once I’d folded myself into the driver’s seat, the German engine roared to life, and Dave Matthews hummed through the speakers.
“Do you feel up to coming back to my place? We can order some food.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Sounds great, King.”
“Drew.”
“King Drew with all of his demands and stipulations.”
Sorry, not sorry, but my dick came to life at the sound of that nickname, and I did have some demands running through my head.
“Funny lady. I’ll give you that, but Drew is fine. Maybe King later.” I tossed in a wink for effect.
“Where do you live?”
There she was—straight-shooter Jules, not one bit affected by my nonsense. I knew some of her control served as an armor, but she didn’t have to dig too deep. This was a strong young woman next to me.
“I bought an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, up north. It used to belong to one of the Ag faculty at Hafton, but he died and no one in his family wanted it. It’s not a working farm, but the house is pretty cool.”
“Wow, I know where you mean . . . I mean, in the north. Not exactly the house. Pretty different from my suburban development.”
I knew it was. I’d visited her at home.
“Yeah, it was a one-eighty from my life in South Carolina. We lived in this ridiculous mansion, complete with tennis courts and a swimming pool. And staff. My new digs are kind of rustic, and I like that.”
“A Southern boy. I think I knew that.”
“I went to prep school on the west coast of Florida, so I have a little honky-tonk in me from there. We’d hang with the locals any chance we could get.”
“Oh yeah, your tattoos. I’ve read about those. Are they part of your deep, dark honky-tonk side?”
Her tone was teasing, and I wanted to throttle her with my tongue, shove it into her mouth. Yet I didn’t want to quiet her. She was real. Jules didn’t search for conversation or ways to compliment me. She was one hundred percent in the moment.
I could have said something cheesy like If you’re lucky, you’ll get to see my tattoos. But with Jules, I wanted to do things differently. She made me want to go about it a whole new way. It being romance, affection; the new way being . . . I hadn’t a clue.
Not to mention, my cheesy come-ons would have done little for her. She wasn’t a woman who was easily wooed by bullshit lines.
“At first, they were just plain old teenage rebellion, and then they were more. They were a private part of me. On my chest for me to share with who I chose.”
“I get it. That’s why I chose not to argue about my last school handling things privately. It was my story to share with who I felt I could share it with, and that was pretty much no one.”
“I’m sorry that I even had to know what happened,” I whispered. It was a sore subject; one we had skirted on more than one occasion. Sadly, I had to own up to my knowledge of it. Her old coach, Chuck, had called me himself; he believed I could be a new beginning for her.
And look what you’re doing to her new fucking beginning.
I shoved any ill thoughts to the far recesses of my mind. Jules was an unstoppable force when it came to the affairs of my heart.
“When Chuck called me—he and I kne
w each other when I was a player—he had to explain a little about what happened to me. But that’s not why I made you an offer to play. It was definitely your game tape.”
“Thanks.”
We sat in quiet for a few beats until I turned down my long dusty drive, the sound of my car kicking up gravel providing a change of topic. “I should probably get a truck.”
“Wow, this is stunning. Look at that view.”
There was a long meadow with a gazebo at the far end. My house sat to the right, pale blue clapboard with dark gray trim. I’d done some remodeling but kept it true to the era, searched the Internet for retro appliances.
“Come on, I’ll show you the inside.”
We walked in the front door and I watched Jules spin in her ankle boots, taking a slow three-sixty.
“I love it,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not as much as you.” And I finally took it a little cheesy.
Her laugh was deep and throaty. “You can do better than that, King.”
“Yeah, I can.”
I cornered her against the wall, my arms braced over her, my body not quite touching hers, and I kissed her. The moment my lips made contact with hers, a growl rumbled in my chest. She moaned in return and our hips slammed together, my hardness connecting with her heat.
Something made me stop, some last vestige of responsibility.
“Do you need to use the phone? Call home?” I mumbled the words along her lips.
What I didn’t say was I plan to keep you here a while. I should have been ashamed, but I wasn’t. Nothing had felt truer than Jules in my whole damn life.
“I should. Typically, I borrow a phone or snatch a landline somewhere.”
I blew out a long breath. “You should probably block the caller ID. Not sure it will look so great having you call from my place after eight on a Friday night.”
“Or any night or day,” she added.
“Exactly.”
“I’ll block it. I already thought of that.”
Break Point Page 3