“You still don’t get it, do you? I had a chance to be top five, win Grand Slams. And I went to college for you. You!” I slammed my glass on his desk. “Not me.” Again, I noticed the tremors in his hands and forced calmness into my voice when I spoke. “Dad, I’m sorry you have Parkinson’s. I am, but every time I want to do something for myself, you’re there to pile on the guilt. You use your health to manipulate me, to manipulate Edric. And I’m fucking sick of it. I don’t even know why I care when you’ve been a shit dad my whole life. You sent us off to Camille’s every summer and then it was one marriage after another. You never gave two fucks about anyone but yourself or your damn practice. I’ve played in over a hundred matches and tournaments and you never came to a single one. Not one,” I said scornfully. “And you wanna know what’s fucking pathetic? I played like a beast, hoping you’d see how good I was. And I was good. I was fucking good. I was one of the top ranked junior players in the world, and even that was never good enough for you.”
“You want to know what’s good for you?” He puffed vigorously on his cigar and cursed because it would no longer draw. “Get your damn degree, go to med school, join the practice. Don’t be a loser.” There was no mistaking the mockery in his voice.
Even though I’d heard it all before, a muscle worked in my jaw. “I’ve heard you call Edric and me losers our whole lives. What sort of dad calls his sons born losers?”
He set his mouth in a grim line. “If you don’t finish college, you’ll be the loser who didn’t graduate.”
The last dregs of my patience faded and I rose to my full length. “I pity you, Dad.” My voice was quiet, steely. “I pity the man you are. The man you’ve become. The man you’ve made me become.”
He stared at me long and hard, his gaze mocking. Challenging.
Certain I could flip to rage again at the slightest provocation, I stormed out the door before I did something I fully regretted.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ADELAIDE
THIS PLACE, THIS MANSION... it was so massive that I had an entire guest wing all to myself.
It was liberating! Fabulously freeing! Most nights I lounged around in just my T-shirt, sitting hunched over the keys of a baby grand piano, eyes closed as my fingers flew over the instrument.
Plinky plonk plinky plonk plinky plonk.
Okay, I never said I was a piano prodigy. Or that I could even play for that matter.
But I was determined to master one song. One. That was my goal.
And I was just playing a few chords before attempting to bang out a tune.
After all, practice makes perfect. So I practiced.
Lips pressed together, concentrating hard, I played with laser-focused attention, my fingers dancing over the piano keys...
Plinky plonk plinky plonk plinky plonk.
“The fuck you playing?” Ender stalked into my guest wing like a black cloud darkening a blue sky.
Plinky plank plank bloOnGGGGG.
“Ender!” I chided. “You messed up my tune!”
The next thing I knew the lid of the grand piano was banged shut. Then, with expert hands, he grabbed me around the waist and set me atop the piano.
“Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major,” I said with aplomb.
“What?” he said distractedly, parking his backside on the piano bench.
“You asked me what I was playing,” I explained. “I was playing Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major.”
Roughly, he pulled me toward him and spread my legs.
Now I was perched on the edge, just above the piano keys.
Saying nothing, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against my stomach.
It was strangely intimate. Sighing, I laid my hands on his head and sifted my fingers through his thick, dark hair. “What’s going on, Ender?”
He breathed deeply. Exhaled. Finally, he lifted his head and looked into my eyes. “I didn’t fucking choose this.”
“Choose what?”
“This life. This path.” He took another deep breath, and then the words came tumbling out. “I didn’t choose to go to college. My dad made that decision for me. I wanted to turn pro after high school. I had signed on with an agent and Nike offered me a deal. A month later, Dad got diagnosed with Parkinson’s and everything after that has been on his terms. He wants me to join his practice and I could give a fuck about that. It’s not what I wanna do with my life.”
“If you want to turn pro, excuse the Nike pun, but why don’t you just do it?”
“It’s not that simple.”
I smiled. “Maybe you’re the one with ladyballs.”
He wasn’t smiling. “It’s too late now.”
“You’re still young, Ender. And you can still make it in the big leagues.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Rafa, Fed, Djoko, Murray, all the top players—they all skipped college and turned pro. No agent wants to touch a four-year college grad who doesn’t fit the blueprint for tennis success.”
“Hmm.” I pursed my lips. “McEnroe went to Stanford.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t graduate.”
“Sanguinetti went to UCLA, so did Billie Jean King. And John Isner went to Georgia. He’s made no secret of his Bulldog pride. The days of teenagers winning Grand Slam titles are a thing of the past. The average age of players currently in the Top 10 is twenty-eight. Only one player in the Top 100 is under the age of twenty-one. You don’t see any young players dominating the US Open and all the Grand Slam tours the way they used to. And to me, that means there’s no exact in-your-prime years anymore. You have more time to figure out your longevity, your game, your body.” I shrugged. “Being young, gifted, and talented in tennis is not enough. With a few exceptions, the big leagues have become an adult-driven endeavor for the physically, emotionally mature.”
“So you’re saying I should finish college?”
“No,” I said. “College is all specialized, and the only thing a college education guarantees you is a college degree.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Know your options—truly know them—and then make your own decision. An informed decision. Don’t base your life choices off emotions.”
“Adelaide.” He held my gaze steadily. “I don’t know how you do that...”
“Do what?”
“Redefine the problem for me. Break it down in black and white.”
“You’re welcome,” I said coolly. “Now, about your dad... Parkinson’s symptoms vary from person to person and can sometimes take years to progress to a point where they cause problems. I’m not trying to diminish his illness in any way, I’m just saying that you have time, he has time, both of you have time to figure things out... to work out the kinks in your relationship.”
He scowled. “We don’t have a relationship and we never had one to begin with.”
“Ender,” I said in a teasing voice. “Is this why you’re always such a boiled cabbage? Because you have daddy issues?” A bubble of laughter escaped me. “I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “It’s just that all along I’d assumed you were grumpy because you had Crohn’s disease or some sort of gastroenterological disorder.”
He frowned. “Why the fuck would you think I had a gastro disorder?”
“I just thought you were suffering from something that kept you constipated at all times... you know, because you had that perma-scowl on your face.” I smiled. “Like you do now.”
His frown deepened. “And you think that’s funny?”
“No,” I said briskly. “Not at all. Let me give you some perspective.” I inhaled sharply before continuing. “Both my parents are in jail. Piper has never even met her dad. Miguel’s mom passed away last year. She had breast cancer. And let me tell you about the male honeybee. They’re called drone bees. A drone bee is not produced as a result of sex. It develops from an unfertilized egg. Because queen bees are capable of parthenogenesis, which is a natural form of asexual reproduction som
etimes known as virgin birth, drone bees have no father. Only a grandfather.”
“And you’re telling me this, why?”
“One—it’s a cool story. Two—if you think your family is dysfunctional, be glad you’re not a bee!”
Ender shook his head but he couldn’t hide the smile playing around his lips.
“See,” I said serenely, idly toying with a strand of his hair. “You can have daddy issues without being a difficult sourpuss.”
“A sourpuss?” There was a hint of laughter in his dark, entrancing eyes. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson just for saying that.”
“A piano lesson?” I wet my lips and swallowed hard as I felt that familiar tug between my thighs, the sweet nudge in my clit every time he looked at me.
Silence hung for a moment.
Ender was breathing hard now. With an impatient growl, he gripped the inside of my knees and splayed me wide open.
My breath hitched. I was slick with moisture, drenched with it.
“Mmm.” He made a throaty sound. “Always no underwear and always so wet for me.”
“Ender...”
“I’m gonna eat the fuck out of your pussy,” he whispered hoarsely.
God. That sounds terribly frightful, I thought, especially since I was still recovering from the recent assault of Cade’s tongue attacking my vagina like a giant snail.
But the moment our gazes tangled, I knew.
I knew things would be different with Ender.
Without breaking eye contact, he ran his tongue along the full length of my labia, his breathing slow and deep and thick.
A soft, unraveling moan fell from my lips. Oh, it felt good. So good.
Ender watched me, piercing me with his heated stare as he tongued me with a slow and sensuous torment, rooting deeper and deeper into my drenched folds.
I watched him too, his blade-cut face drenched with desire as he took his time with me, learning my body, taking cues from my soft whimpers and quickened breathing, finding the precise lap of his tongue that made me moan his name.
“Ender.” Moaning softly, I tunneled my nails through his hair as he lapped and lapped and lapped... with tantalizing strokes, taking his sweet and precious time. Taking all the time in the world, all the time in the galaxy, all the time in the solar system.
Ahhhh. My limbs felt wonderfully, blissfully languid. I drifted to that dreamy place, floating on the delicious sensations as his tongue stroked my labia in a hypnotizing rhythm while his thumb worked my clit in devilish circles.
More. I needed more. Without taking my eyes off him, I yanked my shirt over my head and my breasts slipped free, jiggling.
His deep groans of appreciation vibrated around my vulva, shooting straight to my core, and he slipped a hand to knead my breast, caressing the hardened nipple with his calloused thumb.
All the while he laved and laved and laved with sweet and undivided attention until I heard myself calling his name over and over in dazed repetition.
With shameless abandon, I curved my pelvis upward, pressing my heat against his delicious tongue, seeking more, demanding more. “Ender.” My voice was high and thin, his name on my lips both a plea and a demand.
He gave me more.
My breasts lifted and fell with feverish breaths as I looked down, panting at the sight of his head buried between my quivering thighs, those perfectly sculpted lips drenched with my juices as he ate out of me with a hungry, heated demand.
Every inch of my skin gained pleasure from the wet glide of his tongue.
It became too good. Too much.
“Ender...” My breath came in shallow gasps and my fingers tangled in his hair, fisting, grasping. “I can’t... I can’t—”
With a fierce growl, he curled my leg over his broad shoulder and my other foot slipped, hitting the piano keys.
I heard the sound of broken chords as my instep pressed against the keys, my toes curling as he lapped...
And lapped...
And lapped...
And lapped...
And lapped...
And lapped...
The sharp cry I heard piercing the air was my own as my hips gave a sudden jolt and I felt myself convulse under his tongue.
Wave after wave, my juices flowed and he devoured me, lapping and laving, swallowing and drinking up my release.
His large hands skimmed upward, squeezing my breasts as he slowed the stroke of his tongue, gently caressing in sweet waves, easing me back down.
Pleasure continued to quake through my body and my climax went on for several seconds. Trembling against the aftershocks, I pressed my foot against the piano keys and my toes quivered as the tremors continued to ripple through me, coaxing something that resembled a melody from the piano.
It wasn’t Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major.
But it was a classical masterpiece.
Chapter Thirty-Four
ADELAIDE
“YOU’RE SO LUCKY!” PIPER said, rummaging through her dresser drawers that were sticking out like tongues. “Most guys can’t perform oral sex properly. At least I haven’t met one who can.”
“Hmm,” I mused aloud. “It must be about five percent more difficult than splitting the atom, but Ender was really good at it. Exceptionally good, I must say.”
Piper pulled out a cotton panty from one of the drawers and flung it at me. “Stop rubbing it in!” Her voice trailed off on a laugh. “Oral sex demands total surrender to the moment and the person you’re with. Sadly, I’m often stuck in my own head. I’m worrying about loose hairs, whether or not his jaw is getting exhausted, and how I look down there.”
“I’m sure you look perfectly fine.” I found myself studying the cotton panty that I’d caught in my hand. “Piper,” I said curiously. “Are these one of those crotchless panties?”
“God, no.” She made a barfing noise.
“Hmm.” I held up the cotton panty for her inspection, stretching the fabric out wide. “Then how come it looks like a beehive in the crotch area?”
“Oh God!” Piper burst into a spasm of giggles. “That’s so embarrassing. I think my vagina is munching on the fabric. Is that even normal?”
“Yes,” I assured her. “It’s perfectly normal. I happened to come across a crotchless panty not too long ago, and I thought the exact same thing... that Mira’s vagina ate her panty. Upon further research, I’ve learned that vaginal secretions are naturally slightly acidic. These normal secretions can, over time, discolor underwear and cause holes.”
“Really?” Piper said thoughtfully. “So I don’t have battery acid for discharge?”
“Well, the natural pH of the vagina is at an acidic level, but it doesn’t produce an acid like battery acid or anything like that.” I balled-up Piper’s panty and tossed it back at her.
Danni, her roommate, happened to burst through the door just as the beehive panty went soaring in the air, flying across the room, and it hit her smack-dab in the face.
“Danni!” I cried. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry.”
Danni just stood there for a long moment like a fire-breathing dragon, saying absolutely nothing. Then out of nowhere, she burst into tears, sobs wracking her entire body.
Piper and I exchanged horror-filled glances.
The room was deadly silent except for the huge, irregular sobs coming from Danni.
With a great sigh and even greater trepidation, I inched my way over to her.
Very, very slowly, I placed an arm around her. “There, there,” I said, gingerly patting her back as though it belonged to an angry cat. “I’m terribly sorry about the panty. Terribly sorry. It’s not even my panty. It’s Piper’s. You see, I don’t even wear panties.”
“IT’S NOT THE PANTY!” Another sob broke from her chest. “I’M NOT MAD ABOUT THE PANTY!”
“Oh.” A pause. “What are you so mad about?” I asked in a very small voice, barely audible in fact.
Tears streaked down her cheeks. “You promise you
won’t tell anyone?”
“I promise,” I said. “And Piper promises, too.”
“I do?” Piper glared at me from across the room and I glared back. “I do,” she said at last. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, Danni.”
“You better not.” Danni gave a short, hiccupping sob. “Because snitches get stitches.”
“Snitches get stitches,” I repeated.
“That’s right!” Danni snapped. “SNITCHES GET STITCHES!”
Okay. The warning was loud and clear, and it put a chill down my spine.
“Here,” I said gently, guiding Danni to her bed. “Why don’t you sit down and let yourself cry and I’ll order some pizza. You can talk to us when you’re feeling better, okay?”
Nodding like an obedient child, Danni collapsed onto her bed, folding in on herself like a taco and broke out in a fresh bout of weeping. Soon her tears turned into great shuddering sobs. “Return to your hell and leave me to mine,” she cried tragically. “Oh, the injustice!”
My heart ached for Danni. Poor girl was in such a sorry state.
“Pssst pssst,” Piper whispered. “Let’s leave her alone for a bit. Danni just needs to let the butt hurt flow through her.”
Half an hour later, the pizza arrived and Danni was in a much better state.
“Come join us, Danni,” I said cordially. “What’s your preference? Cheese or pepperoni?”
“Cheese,” she said gloomily, settling down cross-legged on the floor.
Piper scooted over to make room for Danni and I handed her a plateful of cheese pizza.
For a little while, the three of us ate in companionable silence, sharing in the growing comfort of warm dough and mozzarella cheese filling our stomachs.
In time, Danni spoke into the silence. “Mark broke up with me.” She sniffed. “It was so unexpected. And worst of all, he didn’t even break things off gently.”
Piper took a large bite of her pizza. “How did he do it?” she asked, talking with her mouth full.
[Hemsworth Brothers 01.0] The Slam Page 22