STUFFED (The Slate Brothers, Book Two)

by Harper James

  I flush as if someone might be reading my mind. I’ve wondered about guys before, but not the way I wonder about Carson. I don’t feel curious, when it comes to him, I feel…wanting.

  I want to see him naked, I want to know what his cock looks like, how long it is, how thick. I want him to take my clothes off. No one’s ever done that before, a fact that I never really cared about until this moment. Suddenly, though, the desire to be undressed by Carson Slate is overwhelming. My fingertips dance across my waist, slide down the front of my panties, and I shiver when I realize how wet I am and how quickly it happened.

  No, no, no. This is a bad idea. I can’t lie here and touch myself over the subject of an article, no matter how badly I want to. I pull my hand away and turn over, hugging my pillow tight to my chest, trying to think about anything but what it would feel like to be beneath Carson Slate. He’s so overwhelmingly big, and tall, and muscular, and the idea of being underneath him…of having him hold on to me, of having him enter me—

  My phone chimes and I’m relieved for something to snap me out of my haze. I fumble for it, and my breath catches. It’s an unrecognized number, but the text can only be from one person.

  Unknown Caller: Where did you disappear to, Bowen Blaze?

  4

  I stare at the message for so long that my eyes burn, then blink myself back to life. Obviously, I’ve got to respond, but I feel completely lost as to how to continue. I swallow and type back.

  Astrid Tyler: We left a half hour ago.

  Unknown Caller: That’s no way to get a big story. I thought you wanted an interview.

  I frown. What, did he want me to hang around and irritate him until he gave me an interview? I thought we left things in as good a place as I could hope for, but now I’m second-guessing myself.

  Astrid Tyler: You want an interview now? At 1:27 in the morning?

  It’s a real question, even though I suspect it might read as sarcastic. But really— what the hell is going on here? I can’t decide if it’s Carson Slate I can’t sort out, or myself. I jump when my phone buzzes, and my throat dries. He’s calling. Carson Slate is calling.

  Holy shit.

  “Hello?” I answer, trying to sound not drunk and probably failing.

  “Bowen Blaze,” Carson says, sounding not the tiniest bit drunk. He does, however, sound a little tired, like he’s calling me after a long day. I hear rustling that makes me think he’s at home, maybe on a couch or in a chair— he’s not at Reign anymore, I’m sure.

  “Astrid Tyler,” I answer sternly.

  “Astrid Tyler,” he relents, and there’s something sweet and smoky and perfect about the way he says my name. Something that makes heat course down my bare chest and into the places my fingertips had explored just moments before Carson texted me. “You left without saying goodbye,” he says.

  “You made it pretty clear you wanted me to leave you alone,” I point out, feeling spun around.

  He chuckles, a noise barely audible over the phone line. “That may have been what I made clear, but that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  “Huh?” Am I too drunk to have this conversation? I’m coming down, I can tell, but Carson isn’t making any sense.

  He inhales and I hear a shrug in the sound. “I don’t like that they sent a girl like you to try and squeeze me for info. That’s kind of scummy, don’t you think?”

  “They didn’t send me like that. They sent me because the regular sports guy has mono. I swear.”

  Carson falls silent for a moment before speaking again. “And I don’t like that you tried to pretend you came to Reign just for the hell of it.”

  I press my lips together. “Okay, fair enough. I did come to see you.”

  “And I don’t like that you came to see me for your job,” he says, voice lowering a little. It’s growling and frustrated, and reminds me of how utterly masculine Carson Slate is.

  “I…” I start, but then the words aren’t there. How am I supposed to respond to that? “I don’t know what that means,” I finally say, which is absolutely the truth.

  Carson is quiet for a while, like he’s not convinced I’m being honest. “It means that you, Astrid Tyler, are exactly my type, even if the Bowen Blaze isn’t. So I’m having a hell of a time separating you from the paper you write for.”

  “Your type?” I ask meekly, letting my eyes drift shut. This can’t be happening. How is this conversation happening? “I thought— you don’t date. Everyone knows you don’t date.”

  “Which is why you’re making my life very difficult, right now,” Carson says, clearing his throat. “Very, very difficult.”

  I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do, I barely have any idea how to breathe. Is he messing with me? He’s got to be— I saw the sort of girls that Carson Slate attracts. Hell, I’ve seen the kind of girls all the football players attract. They’re tall and curvy and blond, not brunette and so short that I know I’ll get carded till I turn fifty-five.

  My core throbs, though, eager to fall, eager to believe that Carson is being serious. Wondering, again, what it would be like to be with him.

  “I’m not trying to make you life difficult.”

  “Fine then.” He sighs again. “You weaseled your way into an interview. Have at it.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you serious?”

  “Go ahead. Ask me your first question before I change my mind,” Carson says, and I snap back to reality, fumbling between the reporter and lustful sides of my brain.

  “Oh, uh— yeah. Okay,” I say, licking my lips. “Sure. I guess— how long have you been playing football?” This is a stupid opening question, but I can barely sort out my thoughts right now.

  He laughs again, lightly. “Since I was six. Rec league. My dad coached the team. He played in the pro’s for two years, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I answer honestly. I can tell that Carson mentioning his father was a sort of test to see if I’d leap on the topic or not. I confess, I am curious about his father, but I don’t want to make Carson angry. I don’t want him to stop talking to me, and not just because it’ll mean losing the story.

  I go on. “Okay, then, next question—“

  “My turn,” Carson interrupts. “Only fair, right? If you’re going to get personal information from me, I want personal information from you.”

  I almost choke, and my body goes rigid. “Um…okay,” I stammer.

  Carson waits, like he’s choosing his question very carefully. “Are you still wearing that black dress?”

  “It was a romper,” I correct.

  “God, women’s clothing is confusing. But that means you’re not wearing it anymore?”

  “I’m half wearing it. I pulled it down when I got in bed,” I explain, but then realize that this means I’ve just told Carson that I’m topless. It excites and terrifies me that he might be picturing me in a state of undress— I’ve never had a conversation like this before. I’ve never—

  “Keep going,” Carson growls into the phone. “What else are you wearing?”

  My breath rattles, and I clench my thighs at the heat growing between them. There’s a genuine ache in my core that’s new and strange and desperate to be alleviated. “Blue panties. Lace.”

  “Bra?”

  “No.”

  He starts to ask another question but I interrupt.

  “It’s my turn. Have you always played quarterback?”

  He makes a dissatisfied noise deep in his throat. “Yes. Both my brothers do as well. It’s sort of a family tradition. There was never a chance we’d play any other position. What size bra do you wear, Astrid Tyler?”

  I flush, a little embarrassed to tell him the size. “I’m only a B cup.” That’s being generous, to be honest.

  “Only nothing. I like how small your body is,” Carson says with a groan that makes a matching sound escape my lips— a fact that isn’t lost on Carson. “Astrid, is this turning you on? Talking to
me about your body?”

  I take a breath and try to wind my way back to professionalism, but it’s useless. I’m hot and flushed and here in the dark, with Carson’s voice in my ear, I feel as far from professional as a person can get. “A little,” I lie, feeling more than a little embarrassed that my body is reacting like this, and that I’m admitting to it.

  “Only a little? I can do better than that,” Carson says daringly, and I whimper. Carson makes a pleased humming sound in response, then says, “I need you to put your hand into your panties, Astrid, and tell me if you’re wet.”

  I bite my lip. I can’t believe he just asked me that so confidently, so unabashedly. I also can’t believe that I’m already sliding my hand down my stomach, into the front of my panties. I’m not just wet— I’m soaked.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Yes, you’re wet?” Carson asks. There’s that arrogance in his voice again, that self-assuredness that’s somehow both infuriating and incredibly sexy. Right now, it’s much more the latter.

  “I’m very wet,” I whisper.

  “Good,” Carson says, then breathes deeply, like he’s really thinking on what he’ll say next. “Did you have another question for me? For the interview?”

  I shake my head, then remember he can’t see me, and gasp out, “No, nothing— I can’t right now.”

  He sounds satisfied, then says, “Why don’t you take your fingers and touch your pussy for me? Just lightly. Slide your fingers up and down your slit, nice and gentle. How I’d do it if I was there right now.”

  I’m heady and delirious at how dirty and wrong and hot his words are— no one’s spoken to me like this before. I’ve never even thought words like this before. And yet, I obey. I let my fingertips trail back and forth between my pussy lips, shivering and moaning lightly as I do. The sound of Carson’s breath on the phone urges me on, makes me wonder what his fingers would feel like on me, makes me wonder how it would feel to have him press my legs apart.

  “Good girl,” he breathes. “Now, put a finger in your pussy, Astrid.”

  It’s not even a question, whether or not I’ll do this. I bite my lower lip and slide my pointer finger into my pussy, and can’t stop myself from wishing it was Carson’s finger penetrating me. That is was Carson’s cock penetrating me. The idea elates and scares me, and I begin to pump my finger in and out, moaning with each stroke.

  “That’s right. You’ve made me hard. Very hard,” Carson says almost accusingly, and I grow louder at this, panting as I kick my blankets off, hot and sweating from his words and my own touch. I want to know what he looks like hard. I want to know what he feels like. Carson speaks again, “Take your fingers out of your pussy, Astrid. I want you to spread your pussy lips with one hand, and rub your clit with the other. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I gasp, and immediately follow his instructions, propping my knees up so I can get better access. I’ve never masturbated like this before, so intently and forcefully. Certainly never with someone on the phone directing me. With the phone propped on my pillow, I lightly run my fingers across my clit. I’m already so aroused that it only takes the single touch for me to feel a rush of energy—

  “You sound like you’re enjoying this,” Carson says. “Are you?”

  “Mmhmm,” I say, barely able to form the sound as I rub at my clit again. Sensation rockets through me, light exploding behind my eyes.

  “Are you going to come?” he presses.

  “Yes,” I pant. I’m going to orgasm any second now, which is crazy because this feeling— this pull, this want, this heat— is already more powerful than any orgasm I’ve ever had. I shamelessly push my hips upward, allow myself to think about what I actually want: Carson Slate. For him to be touching me, for him to make me come like this, for him to overpower me and have me and—

  “That’s right. Come for me, Astrid. And think of me fucking you while you do it,” Carson breathes.

  I’m undone.

  It feels like my nerves are fireworks, exploding one after another in a dazzling show that illuminates my body. I’m moaning, I know, but the sound seems far away. My fingers freeze over my clit, unable to continue their work, and my head tosses to the side as I come harder, longer, than ever before. Carson speaks to me, but I can’t understand his words— though hearing his voice as I come makes it all the more powerful. I’m left panting and exhausted a few moments later; only then do Carson’s words begin to make sense again.

  “Good. Very good, sweetheart. Just breathe,” he murmurs into the phone, and somehow, it feels like he’s holding me, like he’s stroking my hair. It’s shocking, even, when I open my eyes and am reminded that I’m entirely alone.

  “Carson,” I say weakly, blushing, feeling vulnerable for what I just did, for the sounds I just made, for the things I just thought. This is so not like me.

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “That was…I just…I’ve never done something like this before, and…”

  “And you liked it,” Carson finishes for me. “Don’t be embarrassed. I liked it too.” There’s a smile to the edge of his words, and it alleviates a little of my fear. Carson takes a long breath, then says, “I have practice tomorrow. You should come watch. For the story, I mean.”

  “The story? Oh— yeah. Okay.”

  “You do still want to write the story, don’t you?” Carson asks.

  “Yeah. Of course. That’d be great,” I say, unsure how I’m supposed to look at Carson, now, and somehow not think about what’s just happened between us. About how alive he just made me feel, all over a phone line. About how it’s totally, completely inappropriate that I’m writing an article about someone who just told me exactly how to touch myself.

  And how I absolutely, totally loved it.

  5

  “I’m going to a team practice later today. He agreed to talk to me,” I explain to Devin in the Blaze newsroom the next morning.

  “Score,” Devin says, grinning. Devin is handsome. Not hot, not sexy, but handsome, in a very expensive kind of way. Bright white teeth, neat hair, a square jaw, and clothes just a little nicer than a junior college student should be able to afford. His family has money, and even though it’s not something Devin brags about out loud, it’s something that his entire existence sort of brags about.

  But something about his entitled attitude always leaves me feeling slightly squeamish, like he’s tainting me with his very presence. “I don’t know if anything’s going to come of it,” I remind him, hoping to slightly temper Devin’s ever growing expectations about the article.

  “I made you a list of topics I’d like you to focus on. Just try to steer him into this sort of stuff, okay? Don’t blow it by asking outright,” Devin goes on, and hands me a sticky note. It’s a list short enough that I definitely didn’t need it written down, but it doesn’t surprise me that Devin did. It reads:

  -Future football plans

  -Frustrations with the team

  -HIS FATHER HIS FATHER HIS FATHER

  “I get the impression you want me to dig for information about his father,” I say drily. Devin is walking briskly across the newsroom, weaving through the grid of desks toward a printer. It’s assumed I’ll follow him, and I do.

  “Not everyone cares about football. You, for example, don’t care about football. But everyone wants to know if Dennis Slate is a killer or not. Carson has to know the real story there— he’s the one who provided his dad an alibi, you know.”

  “Okay, but his dad seems really off-limits. He said that’s why he doesn’t talk to reporters— because they all start digging into his father,” I say carefully, raising my voice to be heard over the screeching of the printer.

  Devin’s eyes flick to mine briefly, too busy to hold contact for more than a single second. “Well, then you’ll have to wait to have father-related conversations till the end. Till he’s really comfortable with you. Blow it too early and you won’t have a story at all.”

  “The Blaze won’t hav
e a story at all,” I say cautiously.

  Devin laughs, and it isn’t a welcome sound. “Yeah, yeah— but this is all about you, Astrid. Well, you and me. You’ll be the reporter that got an amazing story, and I’ll be the editor who ran the thing. Dennis Slate’s trial is coming up, and if we do this right, we can release the story right when the hype is insane, and ride it to amazing journalism careers.”

  We’re moving again, power-walking back to Devin’s office. “Right. Yeah, okay. What about my other assignments, though?” I ask.

  “I handed them out to other reporters,” he says, walking around his desk and pausing to give me a serious look. “From this point on, you’re focused on Carson Slate 24-7, got it?”

  I nod, wondering if Devin could possibly have any idea just how true his statement was.

  Carson’s practice begins at two o’clock, which means I have to skip a class, but whatever— I never skip, so I’ve got plenty of allowed absences saved up.

  Carson texted me instructions on how to get in to the closed field, and they’re so intense that you’d think I was breaking into a nuclear reactor, not a college football practice.

  Go to the gate, show your badge and driver’s license, give your car make/model/plate number, write your name down in a book, get a photo taken and wear the little sticker that prints out with the photo, go into the stands, sit in the blue seats only, no photos, no phone calls, no cheering, no waving, no calling out names, no anything except for quietly observing the practice…

  When I arrive, there are a few others in the blue seats, and I get the impression they’re not journalists. One is a pretty girl with jet black hair and brown skin, who watches a defensive player with sweet admiration; the other is a bearded guy who looks like he could be on the team, but he’s watching the running back with an expression that matches the girl’s. They’re significant others, from the looks of it.