by Lily Cahill
A smile splits Riley’s face when he sees all the carvings he’s given me lined up on the windowsill. Every time I see him, he manages to slip another one into my pocket or purse without me noticing. I keep his sculpture from the final project in my bedroom, but I like having all the whimsical little carvings here. It sort of feels like they’re cheering me on. Though maybe they need to cheer a bit louder.
Riley turns to the canvases and starts flipping through them. “They’re all blank,” I say, before he can ask.
“Where’s your finished work?”
I shrug, pretending to be more casual than I am. “Nothing’s working.”
“It will,” he says, with an easy faith I don’t reciprocate.
Wanting to change the subject, I say, “You got out of class early?”
He nods. “Practice isn’t until five, so I figured I’d stop by and see you.”
“How’s practice going?” I ask, more interested in redirecting the conversation away from my art—or lack thereof—than I actually am in the subject.
“Good. Coach has us doing this new drill with exercise balls that is killing my quads. It’s weird—I did the same drills with MoFo year after year. It was boring, but I knew it worked because we were winning games. Now Coach Prescott has us doing all this crazy shit, and it’s way more interesting, but I don’t know if any of it is going to matter. After last week …,” Riley trails off and hooks a hand behind his neck. “Even if we get our act together, we’ll have to be basically perfect to contend for the National Championship.”
He catches himself. “Sorry, you don’t want to talk about this stuff. I’m sorry painting isn’t going well. Maybe you need to change something up. Use a different medium, or try to work somewhere else.”
“Maybe,” I say with a noncommittal sigh. “Really, the only thing that’s been working for me lately is sketching.”
“Oh, yeah? Can I see something you’ve been working on?”
I usually don’t show people my sketches, but I finished one of Gamma last night that actually made me proud. After a moment’s hesitation, I grab the battered sketchbook off the top of the supply cabinet and flip to the charcoal sketch.
Riley peers at the page over my shoulder. “Is that your grandmother?”
I nod. I captured her sitting in her favorite chair as she worked on a sudoku puzzle and sang along with Aretha on the radio. Riley’s arm slips around me as he studies it. “She looks like you.”
“A little.”
“Does your mom look the same too?”
I tense. “I guess. I haven’t seen her in a really long time.”
Riley makes a little noise of acknowledgment and sympathy. I haven’t told him much about my mom. Not that there’s much to tell. She left, so what? I think her absence hurt Gamma more than it did me.
Riley gently pulls the sketchbook from my grasp to look closer. “I love this. I feel like I can almost hear her voice.”
“It’s rough,” I say, though I am pleased.
“Still,” he says, flipping backward in the sketchpad.
Fear grips my throat, and I can barely choke out, “No, wait, don’t!”
But it’s too late. He’s found one of the sketches I did of his face.
I first sketched him the day he kissed me, the day I told him about Natalie and that I wanted to be friends. And I’d kept up the habit as the weeks went on. At first, it was an outlet for my desire. I thought the impulse would fade after we started sleeping together. But if anything, I draw him more now. I know him more now; I have so many more memories to capture.
In the sketch he’s now staring at, I’d tried to draw him in the moment just before his dimple winked, when his eyes were smiling but his mouth hadn’t quite caught up. It still wasn’t exactly right. There’s something about his eyes that I’m not seeing, that I can’t interpret.
“You drew me?”
When I flick my gaze up to Riley, he looks thunderstruck.
“It’s not, like, a freaky stalker thing,” I say quickly. I have to press a hand to my cheeks. My God, they’re burning hot with embarrassment. “You have an interesting face, and I’ve been looking at it a lot.”
“You drew me,” he says again, and I can hear something under the shock … something almost like awe. He stares at the sketch again. “I’m not this handsome.”
“Yes, you are.”
The naked emotion on his face makes my heart swell painfully in my chest, like it’s trying to escape. He puts the sketchbook down and frames my face with his hands. “You see me,” he says thickly. “And I see you.”
This time when he kisses me, my heart rate slows. Time itself slows, flowing like hot, sweet honey. Emotion is pouring out of Riley, something deep and nameless that fills me to bursting with longing. To be like this forever; to never have to move past this moment. This moment when I think that Riley is falling in love with me.
He pulls away after a long moment and buries his face in my neck. Though it’s muffled, against my skin, I can hear him say “thank you.”
“There are more,” I admit. I pick up the sketchbook without leaving his arms. Moments ago I was nervous about showing him, but now I can’t help myself.
He takes the book from me and flips through it. “Is this from class?”
I’d drawn him sitting in his chair, studying a slide of a painting with his head cocked. “Yeah.”
“And what about this?” he asks, his voice going deeper.
I see the sketch he’s referring to and feel heat creep up my cheeks once again. “Um. Yeah. That one is more ….”
“Pornographic?” he supplies.
“It’s just a figure study,” I say sheepishly, trying not to remember how lovingly I’d imagined his body as I drew it. “I hadn’t even seen you naked when I sketched this.”
Now his warm look turns downright devious. “You were thinking about me naked?”
“Duh,” I say, earning a chuckle in response.
“And you’re doing these from memory?”
“I didn’t think you were the type to sit for a portrait.”
“Normally, no, but you for you ….” He flips to a blank page and sets my sketchbook on the easel. Then he slowly eases off his shirt, making my mouth go dry. “I’d be willing to give modeling a try.”
Chapter Fifteen
Riley
LILAH’S EYES TRACK DOWN MY torso in a way that makes every moment in the gym worth it. Now that we have practice nearly every day on top of mornings in the weight room, I know my body is looking lean and hard with muscle. I want her to get pleasure looking at my body the same way I feel when I gaze at her sensual form.
My cock, always at half-mast when she’s around, raises up as she traces my muscles with her eyes. In for a penny, I think, then shove my pants to the floor. My arousal is obvious under my boxer briefs, and I harden even further when Lilah’s eyes latch on to my bulge.
She licks her lips. “Maybe we should skip the modeling session.”
“Nope,” I say, though I desperately want to be inside of her. “I’m curious to see what you can do. Where do you want me?”
“I don’t do portraits.”
“Yes, you do,” I say, gesturing at her sketchbook. “Besides, this isn’t work. This is just you and me. Now,” I say, giving her some cheesy body-builder moves, “how should I pose for you?”
She laughs, shaking her head. I can almost see the moment when she decides to do it. “Hang on.”
She scampers out of the studio for a moment, then comes back dragging a chair from the front balcony. “Over here, by the window. Just sit. Casually,” she says, arranging my limbs. “Good. Good. Tilt your head … there.”
She steps back to admire me. She had posed me comfortably, with legs spread and one arm hooked on the back of the chair. “How’s that?” she asks, scrutinizing my position.
“Fine. Just one thing,” I say, reaching out one arm and pulling her in for a kiss.
We’re both turned on, s
o it doesn’t take much for the kiss to turn incendiary. But when she starts to straddle me, I push her back. “Draw me,” I say, my voice hoarse with need. “I want you to draw me first.”
I’m not sure why the idea fascinates me so much. I’m proud of my body, though I’m not much of a show-off. But I want to see what Lilah looks like while she draws. I want to see what she looks like when she lets her guard down. I want to see what she sees in me.
Even though I’ve talked with her, laughed with her, and fucked her in every way my dirty mind can imagine, it still isn’t enough. I still feel like she’s holding back. There are places in her where we don’t go. She won’t talk about her mom and barely talks about Natalie. When I talk about football, I can feel her attention wandering.
I want to tell her that I feel like I’m entering a new phase in my football career, spurred by Coach Prescott and this new version of the Mustangs. I’m realizing all over again how much I love the game. We still aren’t playing perfectly, but I can feel the potential of our team simmering under the surface. The rape scandal is the past; now we have a chance to rewrite our future.
But Lilah can’t, or won’t, understand that. She’s stuck in the past, so certain that nothing about the Mustangs has changed.
But my body … that has her full attention. She is completely into my body, and how I can make hers feel. When we have sex, I love watching as her eyes darken with arousal, then go blind with pleasure. She is so responsive, as hungry and desperate as all my fantasies. It’s not enough, though—I want her in every part of my life, I want her in my future. But if sex is the way to get her there, then so be it.
Sitting here now, I notice that her hands shake a bit as she picks up the pencil and approaches her sketchpad. I adjust slightly, tensing my ab muscles, but never take my eyes off of her. Over the next half-hour, I get an education.
I sometimes use models or pictures when I’m carving, to make sure I get the details right. But I’ve never been as focused, as observant, as Lilah is in that thirty minutes. Her hand moves quickly, though she barely glances at the drawing. Instead, her eyes consume me. I can all but feel the heat of her gaze as she contours my muscles, absorbing every inch of my frame.
Every part of me is subject to her gaze. I become aware of my ankles, my thighs, my ribs. I know she’s memorizing each part of me, making it part of her. And her eyes. They’re so intense, so focused. I thought I would see her without her guard up, but it was me who’s being stripped, heart laid bare.
While she works, I watch her in turn. She’s wearing what I’m sure she considers casual work clothes—black leggings and a silky sleeveless blouse that’s already well-spattered with paint. She’s barefoot, but a pair of high-heeled sandals are sitting by the door. The more I get to know her body, the more I want it. I brought her roses because the petals remind me of her skin—smooth, fragrant, lush. My mouth is dry, my heart racing, my cock aching. But still, I only watch.
Then, all too soon and yet not soon enough, she’s finished. I can see it in the way her shoulders settle, her eyes clear. She sets down her pencil, steps back. Then turns the easel toward me.
She’s drawn me in quick lines, somehow infusing power and movement into my relaxed pose. Every muscle is lovingly detailed, but she put the most of her work into my face. My desire is there, but also a natural confidence that I don’t always feel.
“What do you think?” she says, as I stand up from my chair.
In answer, I haul her body against mine, kissing her with a desperate hunger. Knowing that she saw me like that—strong, sexy, certain—makes me mad with desire. She’s on her toes, plastered against me, but it’s not enough, not nearly close enough.
I pick her up under her thighs, loving the way she moans, and take two staggering steps until I have her pressed against the wall. I grind my cock against her soft leggings, feeling the heat of her through layers of fabric, as she runs her hands and mouth over as much of my torso as she can reach. I find the waistband of her leggings and plunge my hands underneath her ample ass.
She arches into me, moaning, then arrows her hands straight down the center of my torso. Impatiently, she shoves my boxer briefs down, freeing my straining cock. The purring sound that whispers out of her is enough to make my muscles shake, even before she wraps both hands around me and begins to stroke.
I press her against the wall, trapping her hands. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” I pant, trying and failing to shove her leggings off. The heat of her pussy is so close to my fingertips. I don’t wait for an answer, just drop her to her feet and strip her pants to the ankles in one move.
She’s not wearing underwear. I can smell her arousal—the sweetest scent I’ve ever encountered. Hungry for her, I don’t wait until she has her feet clear of the pants before I claim her with my mouth.
Feeling her buck and clutch at my head has me smiling into her pussy. I settle on my knees and lift one of her legs over my shoulder. I want full access, so my tongue can reach the core of her. I look up to see her fondling her own breasts, half out of that silky shirt, as she throws back her head in ecstasy.
I add fingers to what my tongue is doing and drive her, drive her, drive her, until her knees give out. She is almost incoherent as she collapses into me, her limbs boneless with pleasure. I know her now—I know I can make her come until she’s brainless, and still her body will stir for me. And I need her, need to be inside her. I need her to take me in, all of me.
I leave her for only a moment, so I can find one of the condoms I’ve started carrying in bulk. When I turn back, she’s sitting up against the wall, still wearing her shirt, watching me as she teases her fingers over her wet, open pussy. She bites her lip as she watches me roll the condom down my length, circling her clit with the tip of one finger. Any blood that was left in my brain flows right to my cock. “Yes,” I say hoarsely. “Make yourself come for me.”
She gasps, but doesn’t stop. I stand over her, stroking my throbbing cock, as I watch her pleasure herself. Her eyes never leave my face, and I revel in the desire she can so plainly see there. The fingers of one hand twirl and plunge while she pinches her nipple through her shirt. When she comes, her eyes flutter back in her head while she utters a soft moan. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
I fall to my knees and kiss her as I hurriedly strip the rest of her clothes off. When she’s naked, I lay back and pull her on top of me. It’s broad daylight. The sunlight sparkling through the window brings out the dark sheen of her skin, and I can’t help but take her generous breasts in my hands as she braces herself over me.
She takes all of me in one long stroke, which makes me groan with feverish pleasure. So hot, so tight, so fucking wet. Instead of pumping against me, she leans back as if she’s posing and licks her fingertip. Then, her eyes on mine, she strokes her clit while I’m inside her until I feel her clench with orgasm.
I’m beyond thought, beyond waiting. I’m always careful to be gentle with her, but she has driven me beyond reason. I flip her over, heedless of her back on the hard floor, and take one of her nipples between my teeth as I drive myself into her. She screams, but it’s not in pain—she locks her legs and arms around me, trying to drive my cock even deeper. I lift her hips higher, my hands tight as a vise as I angle her so I can thrust into her even harder.
Her arms fall to her sides, grasping desperately for purchase on the wood floor. Her eyes are wide, wild, her lips parted as she gasps and moans. I’m hammering into her now, no thought in my head other than the primal need to take us both over the edge into madness. When I can’t wait any longer, I kiss her, our mouths mating as closely as our bodies. Then the world goes white.
Chapter Sixteen
Lilah
RILEY LIES ON TOP OF me, pressing me into the warm, wood floor. I welcome his weight. Who needs to breathe?
He’s nuzzling his face into the side of my head, where a thick fuzz is starting to grow. I have been contemplating shaving it aga
in, since I’m enjoying my mohawk. But with Riley rubbing his face against my stubble, I’m suddenly inspired to carve some geometric patterns into my hair instead. And why not? Riley likes my mohawk, my tattoos … my everything.
I had assumed, because he’s a football player, that he would be a clean-cut guy into clean-cut girls. He not—he’s into me. Maybe, if he gets more of a taste of my artistic world, he’ll be into that too. He’s so talented, and he’s wasting it for that stupid game. If I could only prove to him that art is an option too ….
With a groan, he rolls off of me, but pulls me with him until I’m sprawled across his chest. I bury my nose in his neck, loving the way he smells. I love his body, and his sweetness, and his sense of humor. I know myself well enough to be sure I’m falling for him hard, and I’ve almost given up trying to stop it.
“Somebody’s honking,” he says, his voice thick.
I jerk my head up so fast I nearly get whiplash. “Gamma!” I say, scrambling to my feet and beginning the hunt for my clothes. “She’s back from the store. I told her to honk so I could help her with the groceries.”
“Cool. Can I meet her?”
I look at him, sprawled naked on the floor of my tiny studio, his cock still huge even though it’s limp. “Not like that.”
He grins, his dimple popping, as he levers himself off the floor. He gets rid of the condom and somehow manages to dress himself before I do. Just a moment ago, I was luxuriating in post-coital satisfaction; now I feel hot and harried and nervous. “Where the hell is my bra?”
Riley dangles it from one finger. “Come and get it.”
“This isn’t funny,” I huff, grabbing it from his hand. My fingers fumble with the bra, like I haven’t been wearing one for a decade.
“You don’t have my view,” he says, watching me wrestle my boobs into the cups.
“My grandma is waiting,” I say, just as my words are punctuated by two quick beeps.