by Lila Price
“I want all of it,” I whisper, as if to myself. “Especially your cock.”
“You’ll get my cock,” he says. “When you’ve had enough of this.”
He pushes up my dress and urges my legs apart at the same time. Then I feel his mouth on the center of me, his tongue laving the juices from my pussy while he separates my ass cheeks with his hands.
Oh God. What is he…?
He palms my cheeks, stroking his thumbs into the crevice of my ass while thoroughly kissing my sex. I plaster myself against the mirror, my mouth open in a sensual scream that isn’t ready to come out of me. I’m fully open to him, and the wet sounds of his mouth on me make me hotter than ever.
My legs are losing the ability to keep me standing, and I sink toward him, my palms sliding down the mirror in a groan that echoes everything inside of me. Or maybe I’m actually groaning, too. I’m not sure, because the sounds stop as I slump to the floor, where I watch Eli strip off his shirt, his boots, the rest of his clothes.
He’s the perfect man, with his shoulders, tattoo, arms, and chest. All bulges, all muscle. And he’s perfectly molded everywhere else, from the sleek lines of his hips to the length of his erect cock. I want to take him into my mouth and love him just as he loved me. It’s something I haven’t done for him yet, maybe because he’s waiting for a yes there, too.
Hell yes.
I make my way over to him, then run my hands up his legs, reach around to cup his ass, rub my cheek against the length of his shaft. I’m not sure what else to do—not with a man as experienced as Eli—so I simply press my lips to the base of his cock.
A guttural sound comes from him and, encouraged, I kiss my way to his head. Pre-cum beads his tip, and I lick it off, loving his velvet stiffness, wondering why I waited to do this.
But Eli isn’t very good at waiting, and he obviously can’t do it now as he gets to his knees, pulling me to him. He gives me another sinfully long kiss, firmly holding me because I’m so weak that I can’t do anything but turn to liquid in his arms. The next second, he’s peeling off my dress, leaving me only in my high-heeled sandals. He turns me so I’m facing the mirror.
I see a dazed woman whose breasts are tipped by arousal, a woman who seems to have the man behind her in thrall, because he’s looking at me in the reflection as if three months won’t be enough.
Right now, I know it won’t be.
He slides his hand over my belly, his fingers splayed. It’s an erotic sight in that mirror, his large pinkie skimming the top of my pussy. It’s far too intimate for the contract we agreed upon, and that sends a quiver of delight through every bit of me.
He brings me back against him as he sits all the way down, his back against the wall. His long, hard cock nestles against me, and the fact that it’s not in me makes me shift around, eager for it.
“Not yet,” he says.
“When?”
“Soon.” He pauses, then says, “First… Show me, Jenna.”
It’s what he commanded me to do on the first night we were together, on the couch in front of the TV. He also asked for it in the restaurant booth. I know this is one of his favorite things to look at.
I like it, too.
I look into the mirror as I spread my legs for him, showing my glistening pussy.
A tight breath escapes him; I can feel it on my skin. He eases both hands up to cup my breasts, to squeeze them until they completely fill his hands. I arch back against him, never taking my gaze from his in the mirror.
“If the cameras could see us now,” he murmurs, his thumbs caressing my nipples.
“I’d be like any of your other women, and that’s not why you made this deal with me.” My voice is sluggish, as if I’m drugged. Maybe I am. Maybe he’s my ultimate fix.
“I like this deal more every night.”
He slips one hand down to my thigh, then lifts me back to him, sliding his cock up and into me as I sit on him. I give a startled moan at how my pussy muscles hug him.
“God damn,” he says from between his teeth.
He’s still looking at us in the mirror, and I see where his gaze is fixed—on the stem of his cock as he moves me up and down on it. That slick, thick cock easing up into me and then back down my sex with every wet, cream-coated stroke. I think I can even feel him pulsating inside of me, filling me like a live time bomb set to explode.
A harsh ticking rhythm takes me over as I gyrate on top of him, each glimpse of his cock going deeper and deeper into me driving me crazy. He squeezes one of my breasts with every stroke, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll last. The pressure is rising, pushing at me, turning and burning until I—
As I come once, then twice, I cry out. He’s not far behind me, working me faster and faster until he mounts me on the floor, ramming into me, tearing me apart as I ask him for it. More, more, more.
He jerks and spills into me then collapses, and we breathe together. I smooth back his hair, and he presses his face against my shoulder, almost as if he doesn’t want to reveal any more of himself than he already has.
If he has anything at all to reveal.
I lighten up the suddenly intimate moment. “Thank God you’re not superstitious about sex ruining your game. I hear some of the guys stay pure during the season.”
“That didn’t do our quarterback much good today when he got fucked up, did it?”
I leave it at that as the air kicks on, filling the sudden silence between two people who might not have anything else but hot sex to connect them.
Chapter 17
The next game doesn’t go any better than the last one. Actually, it’s worse.
Without the Rustlers’ usual leader and first-string quarterback, the team gets smashed on the field, and even Eli doesn’t get the yards and touchdowns he’s used to. To add to the grief, his father still refuses to meet me, and this doesn’t make my fake fiancé any happier.
Neither does the Sports section of the local paper.
Eli has found me in the kitchen this morning, on the day following the Rustlers’ most recent loss. I’m pouring my wake-the-hell-up coffee in the wee hours before he needs to report for a day of light conditioning and meetings at the team’s facility and, without a word, he slides the newspaper in front of me on the counter.
I read the Sports editorial to myself. If Brennan won’t step up to lead the last-place-in-the-division, stuck-in the-suck Rustlers, then who will? Without Michael Dexter, we’re obviously rudderless. The team shelled out a lot of money—and a top-draft pick—to our petulant star wide receiver to get us to the big show, but Brennan’s been nothing but a self-absorbed disappointment so far. All his energy seems to be spent on his new love affair with his fiancée and the paparazzi, while all our hopes are resting on him. Note to Eli Brennan: man up, kid. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got the amazing, raw talent and the strong personality to lead the team in so many ways. Be responsible. Stop shrugging these opportunities off your considerable shoulders and be every bit the star we think you are.
I peer up to see Eli staring out the breakfast nook’s window, a bitter smile on his face.
“Three losses and they’re on my ass,” he says. “I’m just one guy. And I can’t make these other dudes better than they are.”
Yeah, but there’s some truth to what they’re writing. I don’t say that though. I merely keep scanning the paper and drinking my coffee.
“They’re right about one thing,” he finally says. “I’m not playing up to the level I’m used to.”
“You’re just warming up for the rest of the season.”
“I don’t lie to myself like that, Jenna. Ever.”
His honesty surprises me. What he doesn’t have to say is that he’s getting great press on his personal life but horrible press in the sports media. His on-field performance has always been his saving grace, but now it’s become his Achilles’ heel. I just hope he hasn’t read any of the fan letters that have been published in the paper.
As
I scan their contents, I see that the average Joe’s attitude is starting to turn sour, too. Who knew that settling down would cause Brennan to stink so much? says one. And according to another: Bring back the rambunctious head-case we love before we lose any more games and any chance at the playoffs. I’d rather deal with a loose cannon and a Vince Lombardi trophy on our shelf than this pretty boy in love.
He’s got some real crap to deal with, and I haven’t even mentioned to him that Courtney Dexter has cooled off toward me ever since her quarterback husband got injured. Not only am I beginning to feel like a pariah in the public’s eyes, I might be becoming one personally, as well. Luckily, most of the other wives have continued to invite me to lunch, shop, and plan charity events, but I like Courtney a lot. I miss her smiling face, and she’s been my champion. I wish I could back her up during her hard times.
There’s so much to vent about, and I should call my little sister to have a good heart-to-heart, but she’s been busier than ever these days, too. Now that things have gotten better for our family with Mom’s health and our income, it seems Ivy’s social life has kicked up a notch. At least, that’s what I hear whenever I Face Time with my parents.
I glance at Eli, who’s still looking out the window with a brooding expression. I set down the paper and the coffee, then go to him, sliding my arms around him and leaning my cheek against his broad back. He smells amazingly good. Already, his scent is so familiar, even though I still barely know him. I’m getting very familiar with his body, but I have no idea if he feels anything for me or if his affection is purely physical and the rest is all due to our charade.
Maybe I’ll never know.
In the meantime, I comfort him in the only way I know how, stroking his taut belly until his breathing becomes uneven.
“You’re gonna make me late,” he murmurs. “That’s not what I’m supposed to be doing anymore. I have a new image to maintain.”
“If it’s Mr. Responsibility they want, then that’s what they’ll get.” I reluctantly back away from him and return to my coffee. “Don’t worry—I’ll stay right here where I won’t tempt you.”
He turns to watch me, the vanishing moonlight stealing over him. I can’t tell if his gaze is hot or cold, yes or no. But that ceases to matter when my phone dings with a text. His own phone does the same, and we both look at our messages at the same time.
Time to mind our own business—which is what we should’ve been doing in the first place.
My text is from Courtney Dexter, clearly an early riser, too. I smile…until I see what she’s sent me. It’s a friendly hello and an invitation to go to lunch today at Joe’s Crab Shack in Caesars Palace, a restaurant where society-column people like to hang out. But her text includes a link to a sports site, along with a brief message: Watch it! They’ve got the knives out for you.
When I see what she means, my stomach tightens into sick knots.
Meet the new Yoko Ono, says the headline. Then there’s a picture of me, and it’s an unflattering one, before my hair was highlighted and my wardrobe spiffed up. It’s an image that seems to scream, This little shrew is what’s corrupting our could-be golden boy???
I sense Eli’s presence over my shoulder, and when I glance up at him, he’s looking at my phone screen. He rests a hand on my shoulder because he obviously knows the journalist’s meaning: Yoko Ono was John Lennon’s notorious wife, the woman a lot of people blamed for the breakup of The Beatles.
According to this writer, I’m jinxing Eli and the Rustlers.
“Don’t take it seriously,” he says. “That’s just click bait.”
“But someone’s thinking it. A lot of people seem to be.” I scan down to the hundreds of comments, some of which are coming to my defense—but many seem to agree with the article.
Apparently now I’m a traitor.
Eli tries to lighten the mood. “Hey, you look gorgeous in that picture.”
“Please.”
“Hey.” Eli turns me around and lifts my chin with his finger. “The press and fans can be superstitious dicks. We’ll ride this wave. Believe me—I’ve ridden plenty.”
I smile up at him, but his expression is strained. I know he has something else to say.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Well, speaking of turbulent waters, my father’s coming over tonight.”
Suddenly I can’t find my tongue.
Eli begins to walk out of the room, all business now. “I’ll have Natalie take care of cocktail service for you and Dad. It sounds like he’s finally coming around, so this is a good thing.”
With one last shrug of his giant shoulders, he leaves, but with all the headlines, the hatred, and now the disapproving father piling up on us, I can’t shake the feeling that all my dreams are about to become a nightmare.
Lunch with Courtney Dexter lifts my spirits. She’s ultra-optimistic about Michael’s recovery from his injury, predicting that her husband might even be back for the Super Bowl if the Rustlers aren’t mathematically eliminated from the playoffs.
“We’re counting on Eli to get us deep into the postseason,” she casually mentions, although I hear a firm resolve in her voice that I’ve never noticed before.
After our meal, as we stroll through the shopping forum at Caesars Palace, I stay strong under a few withering stares from fans. Courtney links arms with me in a show of unity, and that helps, even if I feel a sting in my chest. When I arrive back at the house, the sting only grows, because tonight I’ll be meeting Eli’s father.
And it happens much sooner than I expect.
Natalie hasn’t set up cocktail service yet, but when I walk through the door, she’s there to greet me with a stoic expression, twisting the glittering chain around her neck that holds her glasses.
“Mr. Brennan is waiting in the living room,” she says.
Mr. Brennan. She’s not talking about Eli Brennan either, and my gut tumbles, then snarls as if caught in barbed wire.
“I won’t keep him waiting,” I say.
“Good choice. By the way, when I asked him what he’d like to drink, he said he doesn’t take alcohol anymore.”
“So much for social lubrication.”
It’ll be at least fifteen minutes before the time Eli usually gets home. Shit. But I take a deep breath and go to the living room anyway. There, I find a man with his back to me, inspecting Eli’s football trophies on the oak shelves. He’s running his fingers over one of the gilded cups fondly, and I nearly turn around to leave him alone.
But then he cocks his head, as if sensing my presence. He slowly faces me, revealing an older version of Eli, his temples gray, his hair clipped so short that it bristles. Even at his age, his physique is fit, but he’s not as tall as his middle son. From what I’ve read about Bo Brennan, he’s also not up to Eli’s snuff in other ways. Father Dear was always an average football player at best, although he’s been quoted as saying that he believed he could have done more had he been pushed harder.
As hard as he’s always pushed Eli, perhaps.
Bo doesn’t say anything as he takes stock of me. The designer dress and heels that usually make me feel attractive don’t seem to impress him; they can’t quite cover my failings, it seems. From the look on his face, I’m a total disappointment.
Well, bullshit with this. I stride across the room with my hand outstretched. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Mr. Brennan. I’m Jenna.”
“I know.”
He pauses before accepting my greeting, gingerly shaking my hand once before dropping it. He looks around the room, as if anywhere is preferable to the sight of me.
I pray for some refreshments to arrive, or at least for Eli to get his ass home. “Please have a seat. Drinks are on their way.”
“I already told Eli’s personal assistant that I’ve quit alcohol recently. From what I hear, Eli has, too.”
He says it almost grudgingly, as if my influence on his son has been accidental. What’s with this guy? Is he…? Nah. It can’
t be that he’s threatened by my position in Eli’s life.
Just as I’m getting over the realization that it could be true, I hear the front door shut, then footsteps thudding on the marble tile. When Eli enters the room, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I don’t see the confident man I’m used to.
It’s the lost boy I found that night when he was watching TV alone.
“Dad,” he says. “You’re early.”
“Better than late.” Bo gestures toward the shelved trophies, completely overlooking me. “Notice anything about those, son?”
Eli’s jaw clenches, and he glares at the ground. The dominant, strong-willed superstar I know is nowhere to be seen.
Bo keeps on going. “There’s no Super Bowl MVP trophy anywhere in sight. Care to explain why you’re playing like such shit that you might not be getting one yet again this year?”
I want to stick up for Eli by saying that he was only a rookie last year, but that’s not what Bo is talking about. Every year Eli doesn’t fully succeed is a wasted year, apparently.
As I look to Eli, I see every news article and online speculation about him come to life: how Bo was always his coach. How his dad was so incredibly harsh with him, demanding excellence at all times, and how Bo had a terrible reputation among the other parents and kids because of it. There were even quotes and interviews from parents who considered what Bo did to Eli a form of mental abuse.
“You,” Bo says, shaking his head, walking toward an exit on the other side of the room. “To think, everyone said you had the most athletic talent in the family. But I’m beginning to wonder, Eli. Should I have put all my effort into your brothers instead?”
Eli finally speaks up. “No, sir.”
“Then what’re you going to do?”
“Win.”
“Good to hear.” Bo stops at the threshold of the room. “We’ll talk about how to do that tonight.”
Eli looks up and, with a start, I realize from his newly rapt expression that he’s been hanging on every one of his father’s words.