Pump Fake

by Lila Price

  I keep my cheek against his thigh as I reach to his cock, brushing my knuckles over the length of it, watching it twitch for me. I explore him some more, rubbing my thumb over his smooth head.

  “I’ve never gotten a good look at you,” I say. “It’s always been so dark in the bedroom. And I’ve never told you to show me yourself like you ask me to show you my pussy.”

  He likes when I talk a little dirty—I can tell by the rising temperature in his gaze and the shallow breaths he’s taking. As I wrap my fingers around his shaft, I swear I can feel a pulse.

  I slip my hand along him, up, down, looking into his eyes the entire time. “Does this relax you?”

  “I don’t think that’s the word.” He sounds hoarse, roughed up.

  “Your muscles,” I say. “They must be sore from the game.”

  “I wasn’t in the mood for an ice bath.”

  “Then maybe you need a massage when we get home.”

  “The only massage I need is the one you’re giving me right now.”

  He’s getting hard, and that must mean I’m doing a good job. That spikes my confidence, too, so much that I lift his cock to explore underneath it, tracing him there with my tongue.

  “Babe,” he breathes, slipping farther down into the chair. “God.”

  I come to his balls, then lightly lick them. He groans, so I kiss his sac, loving the softness of him. So many things about him are hard that it’s nice to find a place that isn’t. I gently take one of his testicles into my mouth and massage it with my tongue.

  “Shit, Jenna…”

  I let him curse and grip the sides of the chair, and after I finish kissing and sucking, I playfully use a strand of my hair to tickle him. He curses some more under his breath, something about loving it when I wear my hair down.

  His dick is completely rock hard now, throbbing in my other hand, and from experience, I know that he won’t last much longer. So I make good use of my research and push between his scrotum and cock, and he grunts. I nudge him again, rising up just in time to ease his cock into my mouth as he jerks, coming with a brutal spurt.

  I take him in with more than one gulping swallow, and when I’m done, I sit back, my hand to my mouth. Salty, warm, sweet.

  Eli.

  In the next second, he’s pulled me off my knees and set me in a nearby chair, undoing my jeans, yanking them down my legs along with my panties. He gets rid of my boots and socks, then brings my legs over his shoulders and bends to lick my pussy up and down, separating me with his fingers so he can enter me with his tongue. As he fucks me like that, more intimately and intensely than ever, I can’t hold back my cries of ecstasy. They reverberate through the empty room from corner to corner, bouncing back to me with a force that rocks me hard.

  Eli grinds my clit with his thumb, and that’s all it takes to fully ignite me, making me bust apart until my sight goes dark. The only thing that brings me back is Eli’s mouth as he takes me to another climax, then another, until I realize I’m not in the chair anymore.

  I’m in his arms, blinking up at him as everything clears.

  His eyes—they’re stormy again, and I dizzily wonder if it’s because of some emotion neither of us will admit to.

  A heartbeat passes as he strokes my cheek with his thumb.

  He breaks the spell, grabbing one of the towels he was using, then covering me up below my waist. His gaze has those dark clouds in them again, as if nothing happened in this locker room at all, as if there wasn’t some kind of link between us that only lights up when we touch one another.

  “Best post-game massage I’ve ever had,” he says before helping me to my feet, giving my cheek another stroke, then turning to his locker to cover himself with his clothing. “I’m going to miss it, Jenna.”

  And just like that, my heart plummets into my stomach and then everything feels like it’s dropping down a deep elevator shaft.

  He’s already talking about ending things.

  Like he can’t wait to be rid of me and this awful curse, can’t wait to go back to who he was before.

  The last blow comes when Eli tells me that he’s meeting his father, so I drive to the only place I know where I’ll find my own comfort after all the shit I’ve been through today.

  My real home.

  But Dad has taken Mom out to eat at a gourmet buffet we’ve never been able to afford, even though she always pines for it when it’s advertised on TV. And Ivy…

  Well, Ivy’s there, but she doesn’t give me the warm welcome I expect.

  As I sit on my favorite couch—a second-hand piece of furniture that’s worn and cozy and I’ve missed like hell—my sister plants her hands on her hips and checks me out.

  “What’s with your hair?” she asks.

  I touch the front, where it was artfully highlighted. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It makes you look…” She shrugs. “You don’t look like the Jenna I used to know.”

  “Used to know?”

  “Hello? Stranger?” She motions at me. “You’re different, with different clothes, different makeup. I’ll bet those jeans cost you as much money as we used to spend on groceries for a week.”

  I blush. “I just bought them because…”

  Because Eli wanted me to look the part. And because it gets him hard when he sees me in—and out—of them. Yet that’s partially what Ivy is pointing out. I’m no longer a person—I’m like a character actress from Central Casting.

  She piles on. “You never really come around anymore, and you seem to have taken to your phony fancy lifestyle real well. It’s like you’ve forgotten where you came from in the first place, with all those shopping trips you go on. I mean, you’re even one of those ladies who lunch.”

  I shake my head. Doesn’t she know that I’ve been doing all this for the family? Yes, maybe I’ve started to enjoy the nice meals and clothes and sex with Eli a little too much, but…

  “Ivy,” I say, “I can explain what’s going on.”

  “All right.” She taps her foot on the floor. “I’m waiting.”

  But I can’t explain now. I have a non-disclosure agreement that could lose this family a hell of a lot of money. It’d be stupid to blow it because I want to Ivy to know that, deep down, I’m still her Jen. At least I think I am.

  “Just trust me,” I whisper. “Please, Ivy.”

  She has to hear the plea in my voice, because she relents, her shoulders losing some of their teenage posturing. Then she takes out her phone and swishes her thumb over the screen.

  “I’m not the only one who thinks you’ve gone off the deep end, sis.” She shoves her phone at me. “Look.”

  With dread, I take it. No surprise—here’s another headline blaring out at me, but this one contains a word that I never in a million years thought would apply to me.

  The Diva Takes a Dive.

  Diva?

  I bite my lip, thinking of all the words I’ve been called today. Diva. Stranger. Jinx. Bitch. As I read the article, in which an anonymous source claims that my reputation has taken a hit because of my diva-like behavior with the football wives, I set the phone down next to me on the couch cushion. Without warning, a sob rips through me.

  The egg on my car. The Jumbotron. Ivy telling me I’ve changed. Eli brushing me off when I’m pretty sure I’m falling for him. And now this.

  I cry into my hands, and the cushion sinks next to me. Ivy throws an arm around me, pulling me to her.

  “I still love you,” she says. “So do Mom and Dad. We don’t care what they say about how the whole football team thinks you’re an entitled shrew and they hate you.”

  “They invited me to a barbecue,” I say through my tears. Because Ajax actually did, and no one knows because the media keeps telling everyone that I’m a terrible curse, a jinx, a hateful diva. Now I’m even a shrew.

  The fact that there’s an anonymous source leaking all this crap barely skims my conscience because the sobs are only going deeper into me, shaking me. />
  Ivy hugs me closer. “Don’t forget about Eli. He loves you, Jen, and that’s all you need.”

  I cry harder, but my sister is there to comfort me, never knowing how wrong she really is.

  Chapter 20

  I return to my fake home and my fake fiancé, only to find the big house as empty as the ones I used to clean.

  Eli is still out with his father. As I realize that, even after I gave him so much in the locker room, I’m still not enough for him, I lean my head against the foyer’s doorframe. Today’s events should be enough to close the book on him for me. After all, Eli never promised me anything but money, and I’m a fool for expecting his heart to be included in the deal. But then I think about what I see in him every so often, as if I’m catching a glimpse inside that no one else sees. I think of how he touches me sometimes, as if I could be his everything, if circumstances were only different.

  Yet, just like me, he’s only playing a role. The only thing is he’s way better at it than I am.

  I hope that soon he will come home and we can talk.

  Maybe I can get some reassurance.

  But then he leaves me a voicemail informing me that he’s checked into a hotel because he needs the space to focus on his game. His dad’s fingerprints are all over this maneuver, and it kills me that Eli believes in him so much when it’s obvious that the man is no good for him. The only positive thing is that, with Eli and I separated, the press is backing off of their viperish coverage, instead focusing solely on football.

  The team loses and wins games, back and forth, giving the Rustlers a losing record by just two games. They’re still in last place, but the local paper and the fans still think they can somehow make the playoffs, considering their deep, talented roster. It seems to help that I’m not actually in Eli’s presence, although I’m clearly still cursing the team in the big picture.

  Although a week still remains on the agreement, it looks Eli and I are already over. I should be relieved because I’ll be free.

  Not so much.

  The team’s next game is an early Sunday matchup against the Patriots. I’ve gone over to my family’s place for this one—the game is across the country, and Bo Brennan has already announced that I’m sick and unable to attend, leaving me with my hands tied. Unless I want to throw Eli further off his game by showing up and being a drama queen, I don’t have much of a choice but to watch at home.

  There’s only one good thing about my being here: at least I won’t give another stadium’s Jumbotron an opportunity to get a reaction shot from me as the Rustlers get absolutely slaughtered. The game defies any existing definition of ugly, with Eli dropping the ball more than he catches it, except for one stellar Hail Mary catch before halftime that reminds me of how damned good he can be.

  But after the teams return to the field for the second half, Eli goes back to blowing pass routes, showing that his head really isn’t in the game. The coach pulls him. As the play clock ticks down to yet another loss, Eli defiantly glares at the ground while sitting on the bench, seething.

  “Well,” Dad says quietly, standing from the couch and brushing the potato chip crumbs off his pants, “playoffs were a nice dream while it lasted.”

  He leaves the room, probably not wanting to rub his disappointment into my already stinging wounds. Mom couldn’t care less about football, and she’s already nodded off. Ivy only leans her head on my shoulder and doesn’t say a word.

  I bask in her company until Dad returns, never saying anything about Eli. We watch movies for the rest of the day since I can’t bear to witness any other teams winning. Then, after Mom wakes up late into the evening, I cook my family a nostalgic meal that I always used to make for them: Shepherd’s Pie, Mom’s favorite. After that I say goodnight to Dad and Ivy, then kiss Mom and head home. I’m ready for another night alone, with Eli at a hotel next to the stadium so he can “have his space.”

  The house is dark, as expected, and my heart falls. I somehow hope against hope every time that Eli might be there waiting for me. I emerge from my car and into the dark of crisp a late autumn night that’s only illuminated by the moon and the garage light.

  Suddenly, there’s a red Ferrari tearing up the driveway, and my heart stops beating.

  Eli?

  He bursts out of the car and slams the door before striding over to me. I don’t even have time to catch my breath at the sight of him: built like a blue-jeaned coliseum warrior, his longish hair rowdy, his blue eyes piercing me through until I feel split apart by lightning.

  “Come inside with me,” he says.

  That’s some greeting from him, but there’s a rough urgency to his tone that I can’t argue with. I don’t resist as he takes me by the hand and pulls me toward the front door. Then another sports car roars up the driveway, and Eli stops, his posture tensing.

  I look over my shoulder to see Bo Brennan barreling out of his Jaguar and charging toward us. “Don’t you ever fucking drive away from me and straight to her, boy!”

  I wish I could fade away, becoming invisible during this confrontation, but with one glance at Eli’s face I take that back. I want to stay with this so-very-lost boy whose eyes show betrayal, confusion, and anger. I tighten my grip on his hand.

  Bo stomps toward us, but Eli still has his back turned to him, and that gives his father pause.

  “You listen to me,” Bo says. “The screw-up I saw on the field today is not the Eli I raised. That kid who was dropping passes and running around out there like a chicken with its head cut off isn’t any child of mine.”

  I suck in a breath at the insult, then start to say something, but Eli only grips my hand, stealing my words.

  His voice is steely. “That’s enough, Dad. I already know you think that I’m a piece of shit.”

  “Pieces of shit at least have an excuse for having shit for brains. You were mindless, Eli. You humiliated me.”

  “Then you’re in good company. Go online tonight and you’ll find thousands of football fans who agree.”

  It’s one thing to hear Bo bashing his own son, but to hear Eli doing it to himself? I can’t stand it.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” I say.

  But the look he gives me tells me that he’s not being hard enough. The self-hatred in this man is astounding, and I don’t get it. My heart cracks for him, because this isn’t the cocky superstar I’ve come to care about. Or…however I feel about him.

  Bo isn’t backing down. “At least you’re not the only inept part of your team. Your coaches should be sacked and your teammates are talentless. You should be throwing them under the bus at press conferences so the world knows this isn’t all your fault.”

  “That’s some consolation,” Eli mutters.

  “Cut the attitude, boy.”

  Eli’s jaw clenches so hard that I think the pressure might make him crumble apart like bricks in a wall. A vein pulses in his neck. I pull him toward the house, but he’s not budging.

  Bo goes on. “Know what you have to do? Send a message to everyone on that team. Fix the problem once and for all. Then we’ll talk about how to fix everything.”

  He glares at me before going back to his luxury car and sliding into it. I’ll bet Eli paid for that vehicle.

  After Bo zooms back down the driveway, the cold, silent desert night surrounds us. I remember what Eli’s father said about him running back to me, but I can’t even begin to interpret that, especially after Eli lets go of my hand and makes his way toward the door. He bangs through it, and I follow. By the time I catch up to him, he’s halfway up the stairway.

  “He’s right about one thing,” I yell up at him.

  Eli freezes.

  “You need to step up and start leading your team.” My voice is quavering because I don’t know where I’m getting the courage to say this. As Eli has made clear, I’m here for one reason, and it doesn’t include doling out advice. But I can’t bear to see him so filled with rage, most of it self-inflicted. “The players are
looking to you, but you keep refusing the call.”

  “That’s pure bullshit,” Eli rumbles.

  “No, it’s not. They want you to be their guy, and if you throw them under the bus like your dad told you to, you’d be making a big mistake.”

  He’s actually listening. He’s as unmoving as a panther in the night, but he hasn’t gone anywhere, so I push it.

  “You need to just put the team on those broad shoulders of yours and carry them, Eli.”

  A heavy moment passes, a muted beat of my pulse, and I think everything I’m telling him is sinking in. He’s going to turn it around and carry the team to victory during an astounding winning streak. Everything is going to be okay, and I’ll be there, right beside him, cheering him on.

  Then Eli looks over his shoulder, not at me, but almost through me.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jenna,” he says softly, as if beaten.

  As if he’s so far away from me that I’ll never get him back—if I ever had him at all.

  Chapter 21

  Anger flares up my skin and fills my veins, and I rush up the stairs toward Eli, who’s still walking away.

  “I know what I’m talking about more than you want to admit!” I yell. “Would you just listen to me?”

  “Don’t push me, Jenna.”

  “Don’t you ignore the truth!”

  I catch up to him, grabbing his T-shirt and bringing him to a halt near the top of the stairway. His back muscles bunch, his shoulders hunched like an animal that’s about to spring away from me, but I’ve had enough of his sullenness and moodiness. Tonight, he’s not going to hole himself up, hiding from the truths he needs to hear.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say breathlessly, still clutching his shirt. “Maybe I really don’t understand anything about how to play football, but I do see one thing clearly. You let your father talk to you in a way that you’d never tolerate from anyone else. Why?”

  His muscles are taut. “He’s my dad. You have one, too, so you know how it is.”