SNATCHED (A Sports Romance)

by Harper James

  "God," she murmurs as I circle my tongue around her nipple. “That feels so good.”

  I answer by using more pressure with my tongue, and grabbing her other breast. I kiss her nipples and move down her abdomen. She reacts with that amazing sigh she has, and lets out a tiny gasp when I lick her belly button.

  Damn. If she likes that...

  I kiss lower and lower, savoring the feel of my lips on her hip and top of her thigh. She seems to understand where I'm going and her instinct is to pull the sheet closer toward her. I love that she’s so innocent, love that her instincts are to be bashful.

  I take the sheet from her hands and force it off of her, pushing her legs open so I can get at her pussy. I blow on it softly, and use my fingers to push her open until the hard nub of her clit is exposed.

  “Chase,” she whispers breathily. “Chase, I’ve never…”

  “I know, baby,” I say. If she’s never had a dick in her mouth, she sure as hell hasn’t been eaten out. That I’m the first one to do it is an amazing turn on, and I kiss the insides of her thighs and then -- so soft she'll think maybe she's imagining it-- I touch her pussy with the tip of my tongue. And then I lick a little more, and a little more. And she's so wet, and I’m sucking on her clit, and I can tell by her writhing around that she's loving it.

  Fuck, I've wanted to do this ever since she showed up in my office. I think I've wanted to do this ever since I saw her sprawled on the dining hall floor.

  Addison grabs the sheet we're on top off-- literally grabs at the mattress, like it can give her leverage-- and I know it's building up for her. She gasps, and I continue to eat that sweet little pussy. I know I should prolong it, but she pushes into my face, and I can’t take it anymore. She tastes so fucking sweet that I have to get deep in there, and before I know it, I’m eating her harder and faster, sucking her clit and open-mouth kissing her tight little pussy, the pussy that’s only had me inside of it.

  Her back arches as her orgasm rips through her, and she gives me the longest, sweetest Ahhhhhh I've ever heard.

  I hold her until she falls asleep again, my dick hard from eating her pussy and from her naked body against mine. I want her to suck me off, but she’s had so many new things tonight that I don’t want to overwhelm her. There will be plenty of time for everything.

  I don't sleep much.

  Partly because I've got a raging hard on and an innocent girl in my bed who's just discovered she loves to be eaten out.

  But also because I’m preoccupied with what’s going happen now. Today’s the first day of class, and I need to figure out how to assign critique partners with an odd number of students – seven now, instead of six. Addison is in. Now that I’ve had her, the thought of her not being in my class is inconceivable.

  I slip out of bed and shower, then return to the bedroom where Addison hasn't moved a muscle. I dress for the day, and scrawl a little note for her to find when she wakes up, which I don't want to be now, not if she doesn't need to be up this early.

  I can't resist clutching a piece of her hair between my fingers before I go, though, resisting the urge to climb on top of her and fuck her once more before I go. She must have had guys crawling up the walls of her house back home, if anyone was brave enough to risk being caught by her dad. She really is so fucking beautiful.

  And she really will be a good addition to my class of elite writers.

  ADDISON

  When I open my eyes, feeling like I'm on a giant marshmallow, I look around and realize two things: 1. I'm alone, and 2. I'm alone in Chase Brooks' bedroom.

  My mind snaps to lucidity. I'm still here. This actually happened. That... this feeling I have between my legs, that's proof that it happened. Not soreness exactly, but it feels like nothing I've ever experienced before. I guess I should be thankful it didn't hurt that much.

  Where's Chase? I sit up, listening, but the house is dead quiet. My eyes land on a piece of paper on top of my jeans, carefully folded and on an armchair. I climb out of bed and go pick it up.

  Congratulations and welcome to my class. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 3 o clock.

  By the by, today is Tuesday.

  Hope you slept well.

  --C

  I feel a huge dorky grin take over my face. The class. I'm in.

  I reread the note, just to be sure. Yep, definitely in. By the by. That's something Bryce Bowker says. Chase has given me my own little piece of Bryce. I'm going to keep this note forever.

  I notice my purse, placed next to my jeans, and reach for my phone. Oh God, I've been here all night without telling anyone. I have four texts from Kensie, from I'm back, where are you to WHERETF DID YOU GO, ARE YOU OK???

  Kensie gets up before sunrise for swim practice, and must have freaked out when she realized I still wasn't there. I shoot her a quick text to let her know I'm okay, then put my phone back into my purse. I'll come up with an explanation later.

  A quick peek at the shower-- wow, his bathroom is even fancier than my parents' master bath remodel-- reveals that he doesn't have any conditioner, and only has soap that smells like mens' scent. So the rumor about him keeping a stock of Pureology and other products for the ladies isn't true. At least not here in Oregon. OK Magazine would be disappointed. But for some reason, I'm heartened by this discovery. Maybe he's not as much of a playboy as he's made out to be. Then again, he just spent a sexy night with me.

  My stomach flips as I realize we never did get to look at the writing samples I brought. Which means I’m only in his class because I slept with him.

  The thought is unsettling, and I do my best to push it out of my mind. There’s no way he would let me join his class just because we slept together. He said in my interview that I was talented, and he recognized something in me, recognized that I had something to offer. Didn’t he?

  I decide to to skip the shower and head back to my dorm, where my much-needed hair products and clean clothes are, and on the drive over, I convince myself it’s true, that I’m in Chase Brooks’s class because I made him see the reasons why, not because we had sex. But the doubt thrums in the background, annoying and insistent, like a buzzing mosquito that won’t die.

  It must have rained earlier this morning, because the streets are wet, but the sun is visible through the mix of clouds, and I hum along with the radio on the way back to campus in an effort to distract myself.

  I had sex.

  ...I had sex!!

  With Chase Brooks.

  Holy crap. I mean, no. Holy shit.

  I shower and go to my marketing class in a blur. I'm vaguely aware of collecting a syllabus, listening to the professor, and leaving when class is over, but I barely pay attention. So I'm not a virgin anymore. The world is still functioning, classes are still going on, and nobody's pouncing on me screaming, "YOU HAD SEX, DIDN'T YOU?" As different as I feel, nobody can tell. My Chase Brooks class-- God, I love saying my Chase Brooks-- is at three, and I can't wait.

  The writing seminar-- or colloquium, as I heard one elitist-sounding guy call it yesterday while standing in line-- meets in a regular classroom in the Liberal Arts building, just like any other upper-level English course with a small class size. What's different is that instead of desks, or chairs facing a podium, it's just a big table, like a board meeting. And every head already seated at that table-- seven, if you count Chase-- swivels towards me as I enter. I see a couple of eyebrows raise, and not just on the same face.

  "Glad you could join us," Chase greets me.

  My stomach jolts. "Am I late?"

  "Not technically." Chase's face, handsome as ever, is unmoving. "But I think it shows dedication to be a couple of minutes early."

  I cringe. I didn't get the memo that we're supposed to be early. Then again, I didn't even get the memo that I made the cut for this group until this morning. At his house. At his house where he put his mouth on my pussy, tongueing me until I came. My face burns.

  The only open seat is next to the black-tressed scowling girl from yeste
rday, the one I ran into while I was waiting for my interview. There’s a manuscript sitting in front of her, and I catch sight of her name – Luna Monserrat. So she did get chosen. I guess one of her many projects impressed Chase, and her confidence was justified. She gives me a long look, but I can't detect any emotion on her heavily made-up features. Her nails are still black-- my sister would approve-- and I look around at the rest of my new classmates.

  There's an Asian guy with spiky hair and glasses-- he looks friendly enough, and nods at me-- and a guy with a ponytail and T-shirt that says BRING BACK MONARCHY. The others look just as serious, and one girl, on Luna's other side, glances from me to Luna, the question of “How did she get in?” apparent on her face.

  "As I was saying." Chase's voice makes me nearly jump in my seat. "This is a pretty balls-to-the-wall kind of course. You can expect to write your asses off. Other than that, and knowing your genre, there aren't many rules. I don't want you to hold back."

  I do jump a little at that. Chase's blue eyes bore into me, and I feel myself melting under his look, but the sternness gives no indication of what happened between us last night. The soreness between my legs seems to be more intense now that I’m here in his presence, and I shift on my seat, trying to focus on my thoughts.

  "Don't let that intimidate you," he goes on. "I selected everyone here because I saw something in each of you. And it's going to be quite a semester, trust me."

  I stare at Chase as he continues talking. We'll be doing freewriting, and other exercises, but those aren't graded, and he wants us to really zero in on our projects. Since there are seven of us, crit partners aren't going to be a thing and we'll all just read everyone's work. I wonder if I was the seventh person chosen. I guess I'd have to be, since I was only alerted to my admission this morning. I wonder again if last night is what made him let me in. And, if so, which part of last night. Was he being sincere when he said I was talented? It seemed so, but who knew with a man like Chase Brooks, the kind of man who was used to charming his way into whatever he wanted?

  When we read our freewriting exercise for today aloud, I clear my throat. Mine has to follow Luna's, which, to be honest, sounded kind of emo and melodramatic to me just now. She actually used the phrase "Alack, alack!" like the nurse does in Romeo and Juliet. And I can definitely tell she's done some theatrical stuff by her reading. I read my paragraph, which is supposed to sprout from the concept Chase picked for today, which is pain.

  "Nobody ever told us to our faces that our mother was crazy, but after that episode at the grocery store, our friends dwindled down to just Glenda from the thrift store, and then that social worker lady showed up on the porch."

  I keep reading until Chase stops me. "Too intellectual," he says, face deadpan.

  "Um. Oh," I say, not sure how to respond.

  "You've got an interesting idea, but you start delving into mental illness from a more academic-sounding point of view. That's going to lose your reader."

  My classmates mumble agreement, and Luna gives me her first smile of the semester. "You definitely lost me," she says.

  I look back at Chase, who nods, but doesn't relent in his serious expression. "Too intellectual," he repeats. "But I think this class can change that. This class can change a lot of things. I can change a lot of things."

  I know he can. He already showed me.

  CHASE

  "You did duck face?!"

  This girl's voice is shrill. I kind of want to put my hands over my ears. "Sorry," I tell her.

  But she's gaping at the selfie for two on her phone screen and grinning. "You did duck face! Chase Brooks did duck face! Oh my God, I have to show everyone! Thank you so much!"

  "You bet," I say. I shake my head as she prances off. Noland is not an easy college to get into, but I swear to God, some of the students who come up to me asking for autographs and photos seem way too entertained by the dumbest things. But I'll take it over Los Angeles at the moment. Maybe I get some attention here, but it's nothing like back there, or New York. When I was dating someone recognizable, I had paparazzi who apparently did nothing but stand outside my Tribeca apartment building, just waiting.

  Dr. Wilkes strides around the hallway corner, Starbucks cup in hand, and smiles brightly. "Enjoying your first week?" she asks.

  "Absolutely," I tell her. Miranda Wilkes is one of those professors who would be buried on campus if she could. She told my agent when we set this job up that she wouldn't consider this for just any published author, famous or not. I like that she finds some merit in my books, even if they're so commercialized and hyped and full of a dickwad main character. I like her praise, but it also makes me feel like a fraud. Especially since I spent a huge chunk of my designated writing time this week thinking of Addison.

  After we slept together the other day, I made a vow to myself to stay away from Addison, to keep it professional. But I can’t stop thinking about her, and I’m about to crack. My dick is almost raw from how much I’m jerking off to my memories of her laid out on my bed, the way her pussy fit so snugly around my dick, the softness of her dark blonde hair sliding through my fingers.

  "How's the new book coming?" Dr. Wilkes asks.

  "Slowly but surely," I tell her. "I’m just hitting my stride."

  Addison pops into my head again-- she definitely hit her stride with me-- and I wonder what she’s doing right now. Dr. Wilkes clucks happily, saying how glad she is that I'm enjoying it, and I step into my office, my fingers already dialing.

  "Hello," I say when Addison picks up.

  "Why do you keep calling my dorm?"

  "Because I don't have your cell phone number, Addison. And I'm not sure twice constitutes ‘keep calling’."

  "Well, I'm glad my roommate isn't here, or else she'd be grilling me after we hang up. Do you know what I told her the other day after I didn't come home?" I wait, because Addison doesn't sound like she needs me to say anything. "I told her my parents came to town, and I crashed with them at their hotel."

  "Is that outside the realm of possibility?" Something tells me it's not.

  "No. But still."

  "I'm sorry I kept you out all night," I offer, not really meaning it. My dick is hard at the sound of her voice, breathy and soft and innocent. I remember the feeling of ripping through her virginity, and my cock gets even harder.

  "Oh, no, no. It's okay." Her voice softens. "I didn't mean it like that. I just-- um. How are you?"

  "I could use some company.”

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. Come over to my place. We can order in.”

  “Okay.” There’s a slight hesitation in her voice, and I know enough about women and their expectations to know what she’s thinking and what she’s about to ask me. She’s going to ask me why I haven’t called before now, ask me if I only want to see her so we can have sex again. Don’t do it, I plead with her silently. Don’t ask me questions like that. “See you soon,” she says finally, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  We hang up, and I drive home, imagining her laid out on my bed, those full lips wrapped around my cock. Every time she talked in class today, all I could think about was how tight her pussy was.

  When she rings the doorbell a little while later, I open the door and catch my breath. Addison looks like the poster girl for Simple Gorgeous, or Gorgeously Simple, whatever that ridiculous feature is called in Limelight Magazine, which my publicist combs through to alert me to any press. That Simply Gorgeous feature always highlights some down-to-earth look, and standing in front of me in ripped jeans, flip-flops and a spaghetti strap tank top that hugs the curve of her tits, with her honey-colored hair falling perfectly past her shoulders, Addison is the epitome of simply gorgeous.

  "Hi," she says, hanging back, like she's not sure if she should hug me or what. I guess I don't blame her. I’ve been making every effort to hide that something happened between us during class. It's not that I enjoy it. I just can't let anyone know. I'm sure she understands on some level, but to help he
r out, I hold my arms out and she lets me wrap her up. Her hair smells like some kind of fruit.

  My cock twitches and pushes against my zipper.

  We're not on the couch for ten seconds before we're kissing, and I have to pry myself away from her to order dinner. Addison loves sushi, like me, and though all I want is to make out with her and feel her, she only lets me palm her tits through her bra, run my hands over those hard nipples, tweaking them and rolling them between my fingers while I kiss her.

  I want to push her.

  I’m wound so tight, my dick begging for a release only her tight little body can give me.

  But I know when to pull back, and so I allow her to have dinner first.

  We roll out a spread on my enormous coffee table, and I grab goblets for the plum wine. Only because I'm hungry and the sushi smells incredible am I able to ignore my hard-on.

  "The first time I tried sushi," she tells me as we dig in, "I picked up the wasabi like, 'What's this, some sort of tasty garnish?' And I just shoved the whole thing in my mouth."

  I crack up at that image. "Jesus Christ. That had to suck."

  "Almost turned me off sushi for life." She takes a bite of her roll. "Almost. I thought I might die."

  "The collective world is glad that you didn't." Addison's eyes look more blue today, and they crinkle as she gives me one of her smiles. She looks like she wants to say something for a second, then evidently changes her mind, or forgets it. "Lots of good sushi in Portland. But this place might be my favorite."

  I pour myself some more plum wine and wonder how much longer I’ll be able to hold out before getting her naked. She's all I've been thinking about all day. I've been replaying that ahhh sound she made when I made her come with my mouth ever since it happened. But even more than that, I'm itching to show her something.