by Rylee Swann
I keep my eyes on him the entire time, showing him without words how much I want to fuck him. How good this is. I moan around him, and it makes him cry out in pleasure too. I press my tongue against the vein on the underside, and he trembles. I can tell he’s close, and I want to drive him right over the edge. I want to taste his cum.
But Cole has other plans. He yanks my head back, my lower lip connected to his dick by a thin string of saliva. He pants, his breath coming fast, his gaze boring into me. I feel so open and vulnerable. I feel sexy.
“On your hands and knees,” he says, his voice rough. “I need to fuck you. Now.”
I whimper because that’s just what I need, him inside me. Once more, I obey without question. Rob and I experimented with light BDSM once, but he couldn’t get me to submit. I wanted him to fight for it, show some real passion and desire, but he just couldn’t deliver.
The moment I’m on my hands and knees, I hear the hiss of a condom wrapper tearing, then his fingers dig into my skin, and I cry out. Once more, he skirts that fine line between pleasure and pain, and it feels so good my eyes roll back.
Though sheathed, his cock is still wet with my spit when he thrusts into my sopping pussy. So erotic. Like before, it’s a tight fit and my body stretches to accommodate him. Cole is big in every way, and his dick is no exception. I feel so small and feminine as he mounts me from behind. His big hands on my hips, his thick cock throbbing inside my tight pussy, it’s perfect, like we were made to please each other.
“You feel so fucking good,” he rumbles in my ear, leaning over my back so he can press fully inside of me.
I want to tell him how good he feels, but all that comes out of my mouth is a long, ragged moan. I need more. “Please!” is all I can manage.
His teeth scrape over the shell of my ear. “Please what?”
“Please fuck me,” I mewl.
Cole growls and grips my ass, squeezing it, slapping it with his hands until my skin stings and burns. He starts pumping in and out, taking his time, his thrusts smooth. Every time he hilts inside me, he smacks my ass. From this angle, ass high, chest low to the ground, every thrust of his thick cock sends shocks of pleasure through me as he hits all the right spots inside me, spots I can’t even reach when I touch myself.
I’m close to coming, but I want to draw it out, I want more, but I don’t even know how to word it or what to ask for. My entire body trembles as Cole’s hand slides from my cheek to tease the pucker of my ass.
No man has ever touched me there, and at first, I reflexively try to pull away, but he steadies me and keeps me still with a firm grasp of his hand around my hip. He circles his hips while fully inside me, rubbing my clit with the base of his shaft. I whimper in illicit pleasure as his thumb presses against my tight ring.
In this, Cole is gentle and slow. Gingerly, he presses his thumb inside the ring of muscle. I cry out at the sharp sting of pain. Soon, it gives way to intense pleasure so erotic that my body feels it in rolling waves.
Now, I need more. He may have been in charge, but I have to come, or I’m going to lose my mind. “Fuck me,” I breathe, saying it over and over as though it’s a desperate prayer.
He doesn’t need to be told twice, even if I may have said it multiple times. His thumb presses farther inside my ass as his cock pounds into me. I come in moments, clenching down around him, my pussy doing a better job of sucking his dick than my mouth does. I have no doubt the neighbors heard my screams of pleasure. And for the first time, I cry out his name. I’ve never done that with any other man I’ve been with, but Cole is special. I know that for sure now.
Abruptly, he pulls out, both his cock and his thumb. He pulls on my ass so that it’s fully exposed and open to him, and with a look over my shoulder, I see him roll the condom off and begin jerking off.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and gravely. “Watch me come. Watch me jerk off on your ass.”
Something about this is more intimate somehow. I’m seeing Cole vulnerable. Seeing him do something he usually does in private. He’s gorgeous, his body taut with muscle. I can see how well-defined he is even though his clothes are mostly on. His hand curls around his dick as he pumps himself over me.
I can see his orgasm build. His body gives one, long, slow shudder and he grits his teeth, eyes rolling back before closing. Thick ropes of cum splash over my ass as he moans. His eyes open, and I watch him watch his cum slide down the crack of my ass.
It’s the single most erotic, filthy thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t feel one ounce of shame or embarrassment. It’s right with Cole. I can do anything with him, fulfill any fantasy. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what he saw in me too, or if I’m just another easy conquest.
As soon as I have that thought, I banish it. If we’re going to have a thing, it won’t be traditional. I know that. I can’t think of us that way, not like the way I thought about my relationship with Rob. I have to make sure that feelings and emotions aren’t going to muddle and ruin this.
He shatters all of that when he grabs me and pulls me to my feet, bringing me to rest against him. His hands smooth down my back and my hair. He cups my chin and kisses me, long and slow, but with that same fiery passion. It does more than make me moan and arch into him. I can feel it building like a roaring inferno, this little spark. It makes me want him and be furious with him at the same time.
How dare he do this to me? I don’t want to feel anything. But there it is, in the press of our mouths. I return the kiss with full ardor. If I’m going to fall for Cole James, then it’s only fair if he falls for me in return.
CHAPTER NINE
Cole
I shouldn’t have come over. Holding her in my arms is the most addictive thing I’ve done in a long time. She just fits perfectly against me. Her body is so soft and gorgeous that all I can think about is taking her again. It’s been a long time since a woman’s done that to me.
The way she kisses me isn’t the way you kiss a one-night stand. It’s the kiss you give a lover. I think about running right then and there. I promised myself that I wouldn’t do that. Not ever again.
Even as I think about getting the hell out of there, I think about her being with someone else. I don’t have anyone particular in mind, but that doesn’t matter. Reflexively, my arms tighten around her. Already, I feel the rage of jealousy boiling in me like bile. No, I can’t let her go, I just can’t stand to let her too close either.
I exhale a long breath. “I’ll do your interview on one condition. If you—”
“I thought I’m already helping with your school work?” I like the way her nose crinkles along with the flash of anger and annoyance in her gaze.
I shrug. “Well, I’m changing the bargain a little. You’re still going to help me with my homework. I gotta keep my grades up if I want to stay on the team.”
She pulls away, arms crossed, brow cocked expectantly.
Turning away from her, I zip up my pants and throw my jacket back on. I don’t want to look at her because I’m pretty sure I already know her answer. Not that I can blame her. It’s taking too much and giving too little, but I’m going to ask anyway.
She takes a long time to say anything, but then says, “Well? What is it?”
I can feel her staring at me, likely upset because it’s clear I’m both demanding things from her and leaving right after sex at the same time.
“I want to do this again.” It isn’t a question. I’m going to have her again.
Becca doesn’t say anything, and I don’t wait around to see if she gets the gumption to do so. I leave and don’t look back to see if she’s hot on my heels.
She isn’t.
***
I still think about Joanie from time to time. It’s the little things that remind me of her. Bread twist ties. Sounds stupid, I know, but she’d always take them off and twist them around her ring finger and say, “See? I’d marry you even if you proposed with this.”
I would have proposed. I wa
s going to. She was the only person in my life that had been good. Or so I thought.
Joanie was a year older than me and the first girl I dated when I got to college. She was so beautiful. Not my usual type. Her dirty blonde hair was in a pixie cut, and she was more comfortable in my t-shirts than a dress. She didn’t get her nails done or wear a lot of makeup. Joanie was down to earth, funny, and wild.
For a long time, I couldn’t understand why she was with a guy like me. She was so sweet and always put up with my bouts of temper. After about a year, I began to feel like I deserved her. I was faithful, another new one for me. I never knew, until the end, that she wasn’t.
I didn’t know that she was just using me. That she was the type of girl who followed athletes around and got rid of them when she could upgrade to a more successful model. She never came across that way, but I guess that’s what made her good at what she did.
It isn’t that she cheated that hurt so much. That just pissed me off. It’s that I told her things I’d never told anyone else. I told her about my dad, about all the abuse and how he beat me and my mom. I showed her the damned scars and handed over my wallet for whatever she wanted.
I sit in my living room and try not to think about her. I thought I was over it, but being around Becca brings some of it back. I guess a lot of people think I hate women now, but the truth is it takes a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. Either that or I’ve managed to pick the wrong girl every time. Either way, it doesn’t matter that I don’t trust myself or the women I find attractive.
Bottom line is that I don’t want to trust Becca, even if she’s a different person. I can’t afford to throw it all away like I did last time. Besides, I’m screwing up in class, and I need help. If I want to focus on my pro career, I can’t get all twisted up and involved with a woman. I just can’t.
The idea of giving myself to another person after what Joanie did is unbearable. It isn’t even noon, and I’m already drinking the pain away. I’ve gone through a six pack and am working on my second. Fuck it. I just need to make it through the next few hours until my dealer shows up.
Dealer.
Shit. I still can’t believe I have one. Hell, that I need one. But need seems to be the operative word these days. I’d never done drugs in my entire life until Joanie. Not that I blamed her for that, really. I make my own damn decisions, for better or worse.
When I caught her fucking a teammate she’d decided had more potential for the NFL, that was it. That was the breakup. We didn’t talk afterward. We didn’t try to work it out. She ghosted. I came home, and her things were gone. Not a note. Not a text to say she was sorry. Nothing.
I cratered. I fucked up. I lost it.
I skipped classes and practice. I was in the process of throwing it all away when the coach sat me down a week or two later and warned me that I wasn’t performing. He reminded me that I’d been given a full ride to college to play ball, and he just assumed I didn’t care because I was an entitled prick who got everything I wanted in life. I was benched. It was all falling apart.
I can’t remember exactly how I started taking steroids. I was drinking hard back then, so most everything is a blur. I do remember that a buddy of mine suggested it, and I was desperate. I needed to improve my performance. I paid people to help me with school. I bribed a teacher or two. I trained non-stop.
I won’t lie. Steroids helped. A lot. They gave me so much more stamina and strength. I built muscle fast, gained thirty pounds of lean muscle in a year. No more eating a dozen eggs a day to bulk up and not seeing results I needed.
Now, I’ve scaled way back, and I keep telling myself to stop, but graduation is so close, an NFL contract within reach. I need to be my best on the field.
Sure, it costs a lot and causes problems. It’s against policy to use them, but I don’t give a shit. I can’t. The college doesn’t scream about anabolic steroids, just street drugs like marijuana and coke. So the risk is low and the gain very high. In the back of my mind, I keep thinking that, without them, I’ll end up being the person my father always told me I would be. A loser. A nobody. I’d have to move back in with my mother and work at a local gas station. I can’t let it be true.
When the knock comes on my door, I’m on my feet in an instant. It’s Kirk, a brown paper bag in his hand.
“Long time, Cole my man,” he says and offers me a fist to bump.
I play the game and bump it back. “Yeah. Ready for another cycle to get me through the rest of the year.”
He acts like he wants to stay but I hand over the wad of cash and hold open the door. He nods, taking the hint. “Let me know if you need anything else. Will be sorry to lose you as a client after graduation.”
I don’t say anything, just close the door in his face. Graduation seems a million miles away, an impossible journey from where I am right now.
I suck down another cheap beer and crush the can on the coffee table. Keeping my eyes down, I refuse to look around the house. It’s a mess. Another source of shame. What I want to do is go back to Becca’s house and fuck her. I’m not sure that’s it either. Not completely. I want to hold her. I want to bury my face in her hair. I want her to hold me back and tell me it’s okay.
Funny how that shit happens. I promised myself never to feel anything for another woman, and I go and do it anyway. But I’ll be damned if I don’t fight it.
Getting up off the couch, I take a shower, tossing the brown bag on the counter. I make the water so hot that it scalds me, sobering me up. It feels okay, but it isn’t her arms, and I know it.
I’ll go out. I’ll find another girl to forget about my problems with. Any girl. I won’t be picky. Some bleached blonde with nice tits. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
I get out my rig — needles, steroids, and rubbing alcohol — and stare at it, trying to remember where I last injected. It’s been a couple months. I know it wasn’t the biceps, those were used up the first year. Not the thigh either. Glutes it is. Eventually, if you shoot up enough, you get scar tissue, and it hurts like a mother when you shoot into scar tissue. I need to be smart and not allow that to happen.
I stack the first dose of the seven steroids, then just stare at the needle. Fuck. I toss the syringe down, watch the sharp needle snap off the end. I push the plunger and shoot the dose down the drain.
Fuck!
Looking at myself in the mirror, I examine the ripped muscle. When will enough ever be enough? And what would Becca think if she saw me right now? Would she understand or would she run screaming from the room? And why the fuck am I thinking about her?
After splashing on some cologne and running a comb through my hair, I’m ready to get out of this place. I toss the drugs in a drawer — I’ll think about injecting later. Right now, I need Becca off my brain.
But when I go back into the living room to get my jacket, I just sit back on the couch. I can’t do it. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to play the game. Hell, I don’t even want another beer.
Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, I started feeling things for Becca. She climbed in my head, and I can’t seem to shake her loose. I keep catching myself wondering what she’s doing, thinking. I wonder if she thinks about me too.
Pissed. I’m so pissed and disappointed in myself. It takes so much resolve not to pick up my cell and call her. Even if it’s just to hear her voice. And I know she has no idea I feel this way. I’ve behaved like I feel the exact opposite.
I realize for the first time in forever that I’m worried about another person’s feelings. I wonder if what I’ve done has hurt her. If she cried or feels bad. Maybe Dad is right. I’m a piece of shit. I’m a loser. She doesn’t deserve having to deal with me walking out like that on her. I’m not any better than Joanie, using her like that.
I pick up my phone, and my finger hovers over her number. The least I can do is say I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure I’m not strong enough to do it.
Becca
Mia calls several times,
but I avoid her. I avoid everyone. I work feverishly on the questions I want to ask Cole while simultaneously trying not to think of him in a personal way. This proves to be an impossible task.
I keep thinking of the sex we had last night, how good it was, and how upset he seemed afterward. I wonder why. I could tell he wanted it as badly as I did. I could tell by how fast he came and how rough he’d been. I have bruises on my hips that are from passion, not violence. Being with him feels like being consumed, like walking into fire and not getting burned. Like drugs. I want and need more.
It flies in the face of everything I’m trying to do at school. If this was the Washington Post or The New York Times, I’d have already been fired. A laughingstock. I’d never work professionally again. I know what Mia would say… so what? It’s just a college paper, and no one cares, not really. I’m the only one beating myself up over this.
But it feels right and fair to be hard on myself. Success doesn’t just happen to people. They work for it. What I’ve been doing feels like self-sabotage, and it makes me so angry. Why does he have to be everything I want and nothing I can have? I remind myself that Cole doesn’t want a relationship. Last night had been about emotion for me, but not for Cole.
I even say it out loud. Maybe that will make it real for me.
“Cole doesn’t care,” I say to my cold and austere apartment. “Cole only fucked me because I let him.”
It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t drive away the memory of his lips and hands on my body. I can’t help but worry that I’ll never find another man who can touch me and kiss me the way Cole James does.
So, I have a decision to make. I have to do more than just try to forget. I have to get the interview over with. The only thing that would work is to go over there, ask my questions, write out the story, submit it to Rob, and move on. After that, I’ll lose his number and regroup by focusing on school and writing in my current events blog.