by Harper James
“Were you sore last time?” Carson asks grabbing hold of my hips. He pulls at my ass cheeks, exposing me, and places his thumbs up against that entrance, his cock still pressed against my pussy.
I can barely speak to answer him. “Yes. Yes, but it wasn’t bad,” I stammer.
Carson is breathing hard, trying to slow himself down. “You might be this time,” he says.
And then he thrusts into my pussy.
I cry out in pleasure as his cock fills me, not inch by inch like it did the first time, but in a single, sweeping stroke. I don’t know if he’s entirely inside me, but it certainly feels like it, and I moan as he fucks me in deep, bold strokes. With each hard thrust, his thumbs press against my asshole, and before I even realize what’s happened I realize that he’s penetrated me— though only an inch or so— there as well, with both thumbs inside me. I can’t believe this, I can’t believe how good it all feels, and I nearly collapse across the railing as a result of the whirling feeling that’s rocketing from my toes to my head and back again. I hear Carson groan again, and I try to regain control of myself, holding onto the railing tightly and forcing my ass back against his hands.
“Say you’re mine, Astrid,” he says, his voice far away in my disoriented state.
I smile hazily. “I’m all yours.”
“And you’ll let me fuck your tight little pussy however I want?” he asks through staggered breaths.
“Yes. Yes, please,” I say, and the world feels so unbalanced and beautiful. I moan again as he increases his speed, begins to fuck me harder, and I feel the swell of an orgasm rise in my core. But I don’t want to come yet— I want to keep going. I focus my breath and try to regain control of my senses, then toss my hair to the side and look over my shoulder as best I can at Carson pumping against me. He sees me watching and dares to go even harder— though I can tell he’s still having to hold back. My pussy is still tight, straining against Carson’s girth.
Carson slows, breathing heavy, then pulls himself from me. I turn around, ready for more, and he guides me to the ground, onto my back. He leans over me, then reaches back and guides my legs around him, till I’m gripping him tightly around the hips with my ankles locked against his lower back. Carson cranes his neck down to suck one of my nipples, a brief reprieve for my pussy, then releases it and guides himself back into me, deep enough that I gasp.
“Almost all of me this time,” Carson whispers in my ear, just before he begins to fuck me quickly, never fully withdrawing from me, but rather almost grinding into my pussy. I tighten my legs around him, squeezing against him to try and get him farther inside me. Carson growls at this, then lifts up slightly, moving my hips up with him. The new position instantly makes me moan— something about the angle, about the way his cock pushes inside me, about the tension in my own legs. I moan and writhe my upper body, unable to contain the dazzling feeling streaking through me.
“I’m going to come,” I pant, eyes squeezed shut. “Carson—“
I feel like a tidal wave has crashed over me, and I cry in pleasure as it washes over my body. I fist my hands and press them against the ground, bucking my hips as high as I can; Carson responds by fucking in deep long strokes through the orgasm, draining me of energy, leaving me a blissful, happy disaster when the feeling finally subsides. I’m panting, staring at up at Carson’s face and beyond him, the gazebo ceiling.
“You’re good at this,” I huff.
“So are you,” he answers, and ducks his head down to kiss me, his tongue gently sweeping through my mouth. He then speaks directly against my lips, the words a soft murmur. “But we’re not done yet, Astrid, so better catch your breath.”
14
I write the article about Carson the following day.
I write it a half dozen times, in fact, editing and rewording and rephrasing as I go. Dumbass Devin/Diminutive Dick Devin/Don’t Even Devin texts me non-stop, but I ignore him save for a few messages to tell him I’m working on it, and to leave me alone. Honestly, if Devin weren’t graduating at the end of the year, I’d quit the paper entirely; as is, I focus on the fact that I’m getting the story, getting the great portfolio piece, and keeping Carson from being cast as a monster. I write him the way he is to me— intimidating at first, but a good person. Someone who wanted to believe his father. Someone who was tasked with an insurmountable responsibility that he didn’t want or deserve. Someone who is a great football player with a great future, and wants to pour himself into that instead of suffering for the potential crimes of his father.
Someone whose father is basically a cheating asshole.
If ever there was an audience who will understand, it’s got to be fellow college students. We’re all under our parents’ thumb in some way— me included. We’re all trying to escape it. Of course, few of us have parents quite so (potentially) villainous as Carson does, but still— we’re our own people, making our own way, and we can’t be cast into our parents’ rolls just because they make for splashy headlines.
The following morning I re-read what I’ve put together, print it out, and head over to the newspaper offices. I keep my head high, my pace tight and clipped, and for once, I’m not having to fake either. Fuck Devin, and fuck his sexism, and fuck him for using me— but I’m the one with the alibi info straight from the horse’s mouth, which means I’m the one with the power right now.
I push through the newspaper’s doors and hurry up the old stone steps, into the comparatively modern and sleek newsroom. The heads of fellow reporters pop up from behind cubicles as I enter and walk to Devin’s windowed office. He’s standing behind his desk, as per usual, looking like he’s running NASA rather than a college paper.
“Devin,” I say curtly, pushing the door open without knocking. His gaze flicks to me.
“Astrid! You made it in,” he says with so much oozing artificial warmth that it makes my stomach churn.
“I have your article.”
“Oh,” Devin says, eyebrows lifting. He’s not actually surprised any more than he was actually pleased to see me. He folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t hear from you, and you left my place in such a huff that I figured you weren’t interested in writing it.”
“I texted you and said I was working on it,” I say sternly.
“But you didn’t text me back and tell me when it would be ready. I had to move ahead without you and write something up myself using your draft. It’s in copyedits now,” he says coolly.
My throat closes, but I don’t back down; I narrow my eyes at him. “My draft?”
“I assume a draft of what you’re holding there,” he says, pointing to the print out in my hand. “You wrote it on the paper’s laptop, so it went into our cloud. I pulled it this morning, edited it, and sent it on up. Don’t worry, though— I put your name first in the byline,” Devin says.
“You put my name on something without my approving it?” I say, my blood suddenly going cold.
I feel like ice water has been dumped on my head.
“It’s your draft, with my editorial work and a few additional details from the alibi investigation we did. Calm down,” Devin says, shaking his head at me and returning to his desk.
“I want approval before it goes to press,” I snap. People outside can hear me; I know from experience that when someone fights with Devin, everyone goes silent and only pretends to work. Given how quiet it is behind me, I’m wagering that’s happening right now.
Devin blinks at me. “You could have written the entire article on your own, Astrid, and then you wouldn’t need it. As is, you barely did an inch of the legwork on this thing, and I’m being kind enough to give your name priority in the byline. Now you want “approval” for the work I did? Are you hearing yourself right now?”
“If my name is on it, I want to know—“
“Astrid, get out of my office,” Devin says, voice steady and cool and cruel.
I take a breath and press my tongue against my teeth to keep from screaming. “Let
me see the article.”
“It’s up in copyedits. You can see it there,” Devin says, and then looks back to his computer, ending the conversation.
I try to stay calm— he used my draft, so there’s a very good chance it’s fine— that it’s the article I wanted to publish, with a few details from Devin’s “investigation” added in. That’s what it ought to be, in fact. Plus, my article was great, I’m sure of it, so there’s no reason for Devin to have totally rewritten it.
I walk to the copyediting room, a silo-shaped space in the back of the building where the copyeditors are holed up with a coffeepot, pouring over documents in a way that’s always struck me as a little goblin-like.
“Hey, Astrid!” one of the copyeditors says, looking up from her corner desk. “Here to pick up the Slate piece? It’s fantastic.”
A smile breaks across my face, and I almost manage to relax. “I wouldn’t know. Devin pulled it from the cloud and edited it without letting me proof it. But it’s decent?”
The copyeditor scowls, “That guy is such a tool. You know when you started, he was telling all the guys here how he wanted to hook up with you? He had this weird fantasy of you two being some kind of newspaper power couple. It’s gross.”
I make a face, more surprised than I should be. “He’s always been so awful to me.”
The copyeditor is printing the article as we speak, the scent of toner becoming overwhelming in the room. “I think that’s his thing,” she tells me. “He once told my friend that she was an eight, but she’d be a ten if she’d let him pick out her clothing.” She rolls her eyes, then hands the paper over to me. “But anyway, it’s a really great article. Super gripping. I can’t believe you were willing to be alone with Carson Slate, knowing what his dad did…they sound way too alike for comfort. I love that you totally stuck it to him, though.”
My heart sinks; it truly feels like it’s somewhere around my stomach, wedged between my kidneys.
My world is starting to crumble around me, everything is turning hazy and dark.
I mumble a goodbye to the copyeditor and hurry to the building’s stairwell, the only place I can think of where I can be alone to read the article. I toss my purse onto the concrete landing and drop to the top step, knees pulled up, to read. The headline isn’t promising: Carson Slate: The Quarterback’s Cover-up. As described, my name comes first on the list of authors— by Astrid Tyler, with Devin Gussup.
My fingers shake as I read the piece so unlike my own, it’s practically unfamiliar. Gone is the connection to other students dealing with their parents’ influence. Gone is the fact that Carson himself feels guilty over the alibi being incorrect, the fact that he genuinely wasn’t sure what the truth was. Gone is him being a great ballplayer who wants to share credit rather than be the team’s hero. The article casts Carson as a jock who is used to getting what he wants, and willingly lead the police to believe an alibi he knew was false. It doesn’t quite say that Carson was covering up a crime for his father— that’d be libel— but the insinuation is there.
Worse? This section: I went undercover as a sports reporter at the Bowen vs. U. Laketon game. Slate’s reputation for being something of a womanizer proved true; despite refusing interviews for the better part of a year, he spoke with me that day, and again that evening. Over the following five weeks, Slate offered up information on himself, his brother, and his fathers— in-between commenting on the shortness of my skirts or asking about the size of my breasts. It was clear to me that Slate didn’t consider me a “real” reporter, but rather, one of the many self-professed “Sluts For Slate”— and it’s hard not to wonder if this dismissive, possessive attitude toward women isn’t learned from his father.
I feel like I might throw up. This isn’t right, it isn’t true, and now it has my name on it, and it’s going to press—
I force a few breaths, though they do little to calm me. Think, Astrid, think. The story can’t be stopped, clearly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t mitigate the damage somehow. First, though, I’ve got to get to Carson and show him what’s going to press. In fact—
Yes. That’s the plan. I didn’t want people to know Carson and I were together before, since it would delegitimize the story. But now that I want the story delegitimized, Carson and I need to be obnoxiously public. Stupidly public. Gross, get-a-room public— so everyone will believe us when we say that Devin reworked my original story to sell papers, and that I didn’t really okay it.
I text Carson hurriedly.
Astrid: We need to talk ASAP. About the paper and the story.
He hits me back quickly.
Carson: I’m about to go into a team meeting that’ll be a few hours, after?
Astrid: Okay, but right after please.
Then I do the only thing I can do.
Wait.
15
I don’t really know how long team meeting typically last, but four hours later I still haven’t heard from Carson. I text him to ask if he’s still there, and it shows that it’s been read, but he doesn’t respond— he must still be there. I can’t sit still any longer, though, and my suite mates will be home soon; I know if they see me like this, I’ll need to explain what’s going on, and I really, really feel like Carson should be the first to hear it. So, I grab my purse and head over toward the stadium. I have no idea if this is where team meetings are even held, but I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned there being rooms for that exact purpose here.
“Can I help you, miss?” a security guard asks as I approach the locked gate.
“Hi there! I’m with the Bowen Blaze,” I say quickly, and produce the press pass from that first game— it’s been tucked in my purse ever since. “I’m supposed to meet Carson Slate here after his meeting?”
“Sorry, miss. Passes are only for game days,” the guard says, shaking his head.
“Really? He’s expecting me. We’re friends,” I say, and even wave my phone a little, as if the poor guy will somehow understand via the gesture that Carson actually does know me.
“Lots of “friends” come by for Carson Slate,” the guy says, shaking his head. “We can’t let anyone in, but especially girls who say they’re his friends.”
“But I actually am— never mind,” I say with a sigh. I turn, but rather than going back to my car, cut around the side of the stadium. I know from when I’ve left the locker room before that there’s a side entrance…
I’m totally acting like a stalker. No wonder the security guard wouldn’t let me in.
By now the sun is starting to go down, the days growing shorter alongside the football season. The temperature drops sharply once the stadium casts me into shadow, and I begrudgingly return to my car to stay warm. It isn’t until I see the security guard flick off the light in his booth that I suspect Carson isn’t here anymore— or might have never even been here to start with. Maybe they held the meeting somewhere else?
Astrid: Still in the meeting?
Again, it shows up as read almost immediately— and again, there’s no response. I swallow nervously, start up my car, and ease out of the stadium lot, headed back toward my apartment. When my phone chimes, I nearly run off the road lunging for it. It’s not Carson, though— it’s Arianna, my suite mate.
Ari: r u home
Astrid: no, on my way though
I have to text that at a red light, so it’s another few moments before I can see what she’s typed back.
Ari: theres the brewery tasting thing at reign happening and carson is here, did u know
I stare for so long that I miss the light turning green; someone honks to wake me up. I drive downtown and pay to valet outside of Reign, feeling numb and unsure about what I’m walking into. Did Carson lie about the meeting? Or did something happen? Or…
“Miss, this is a formal event,” the bouncer says, frowning at my yoga pants and t-shirt. I didn’t notice that I was underdressed until he mentioned it, but yes— the crowd is sipping tiny beers in waning sunset light, wearing cockta
il dresses and dress shirts.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Honestly, I’m not staying. Can I just get a ticket? I have some friends in there.”
The bouncer looks hesitant, but then shrugs and lets me in. I bustle around dresses and lipstick smiles and cologne until my eyes find Arianna across the room, with that guy Luca once again. She looks relieved to see me, then shakes her head, eyes wide, and pointed with her drink to a spot at the bar.
There he is.
Carson is in the middle of a pack of guys, louder and larger and brighter than I’ve ever seen him. There’s nothing steely or serious about him, right now— he looks jovial, carefree, the quintessential party boy. It’s not a great look on him, to be honest, and not one I’ve seen before. I take a few steps toward him, unsure of myself, uncertain if this is the guy I know or…
Carson’s eyes fall on me, and there— a flash in them, a familiarity.
“Carson?” I ask, unsure what I’ll say next. Unsure what I’ll do next— unsure of everything. How did the world get shaken so hard in the last twenty-four hours?
Carson swallows, and there’s no apology or stumbling to find an excuse— there’s just cool, stony anger. “Bowen Blaze,” he says.
My eyebrows lift, hurt flooding me. “Can we talk?”
“Is it on the record?” he asks. The crowd around him had been pretending to chatter while listening in— no different than the newsroom people. With this, though, they laugh, clap him on the shoulder supportively, give me dark looks.