STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers, Book Three)

by Harper James

  “Taking some time to myself,” I answer, emphasizing the word “myself” so he’ll leave me alone.

  “Obviously. Why?” he asks, voice once again hard and smooth. He takes a few steps toward me, his hands slung into his pockets and shoulders back— his swagger is clear even in the darkness.

  “Because I wanted some time to myself,” I say in a flat, nasal-voice (thanks, tears), and turn to go before he can get any closer and get a good look at my reddened eyes.

  “Hey,” he says from right behind me, and while his voice is still stony, the edges are far softer than normal. I freeze, afraid to turn around lest my teary, sniffling face be close to his. Instead, I peer over my shoulder, my eyes falling on the gray fabric of Tyson’s shirt. My head only comes up to his shoulder…which means that my face sits right against his breastbone when he pulls me to him in a single, quick motion.

  I’m surprised, so much so that I almost push away. His body is hard, all muscles that feel like rocks against my skin. He puts his arms around me, but his embrace isn’t exactly tender— it’s more…controlling. But not in a bad way— in a way that makes me relax. In a way that makes me feel small, and protected, and like Tyson Slate and his muscles and swagger and eyes and harsh voice are between me and the emotions that were so overwhelming just a few moments ago. I exhale and let myself cry against him, pulling my arms up to my chest so his body practically encompasses mine. He’s so broad shouldered that my entire body fits into the span of his chest.

  “This night just sort of sucks,” I finally say, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. I can’t believe I’m letting a near-stranger hold me like this— but then, he’s so clearly in charge of the situation that I can’t find it embarrassing. After all, if he didn’t want me weeping in his arms, he wouldn’t have pulled me, weeping, into his arms.

  He inhales patiently, his breath a steady, even rhythm. I wish I could see his eyes. From up against him, though, all I can see are his biceps and the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow coming in along his jawline.

  “Sometimes just when things seem to be at their worst, they get better then you could ever imagine,” he whispers.

  I tense and chew my lip. I feel my heart thudding, but more then that, I feel my center tightening and tingling. “That sounds like wishful thinking,” I say, trying to play off the attraction I’m feeling at his words.

  Tyson chuckles, though it’s deep in his chest— so much so that were I not pressed against him, I doubt I’d have noticed. “Listen, let’s go back inside and try and make the best of this admittedly shitty party.”

  I wipe my eyes as he looks down at me to see my reaction.

  “Only if we both agree that we won’t insult the other. Or at least, that we’ll try not to. We seem to have a knack for it, intentional or otherwise.”

  “Deal,” he says. His arms are still holding me though, and the gesture feels strangely intimate and growing more sexual by the moment.

  I mean to step away from him, to start walking. My body, however, doesn’t obey me; I don’t let go. I stay pressed against Tyson, taking note of the way he feels, the beat of his heart, the smell of him, the heat of his skin. I close my eyes and tension I didn’t realize I was carrying in my jaw and shoulders melts away. He’s so strong; he’s so clearly in control. What do I have to worry about?

  He slides one hand firmly up my back to the side of my head, and presses my cheek tighter to his chest. He thumbs at my hair for a moment, twisting his fingers around my curls, and then I unexpectedly feel his breath against the top of my head. He’s lowered his chin to the crown of my head, and then he kisses me there. I feel unwound; it’s hard to believe I was crying just a few moments before. That tension, that tightness that only comes with tears, is gone. It’s all gone. Everything but Tyson is gone.

  Tyson shifts again, his mouth running along my hair, down to my ear. I find myself rising on my toes to give him easier access, the act instinctual rather than planned. Tyson’s breath is hot against the upper curve of my ear for a moment, and then his lips part. I expect him to whisper something, but instead he bites lightly at the top of my ear, running his tongue along the skin there.

  My knees weaken, and my mouth opens, and the smallest of sighs emerges from my lips as I tilt my head more. Tyson responds by pulling me even closer to him, the pressure nearly painful, and then licks down the back of my ear, stopping to kiss me at the spot just under my earlobe. No one has ever done this before— no one has kissed me anywhere but the lips before— but Tyson so clearly knows what he’s doing that I’m not worried. That’s not to say I’m not nervous, of course, especially when I feel his mouth on my neck, his teeth grazing against my skin there. He eases my head to the side with one hand so he can kiss up and down my neck, and then, without fanfare or any discernible effort, lifts me off the ground slightly. He brings my neck to his mouth, and when I feel him sucking lightly in a way that I know will leave a mark, I moan from both the sensation, and the idea of there being some sign of this perfect moment on my body later.

  He nudges my head so he can kiss the front of my neck, the other side, and then lifts me higher until our lips find one another. Tyson kisses hard and confidently; there’s no exploring, no tentative pecks, just strength and masculinity and power. I part my lips and he slides his tongue into my mouth, which makes me moan again. Who am I, even? I don’t do things like this with guys. I certainly don’t make noises like this. But Tyson is coaxing these feelings, these sounds, these wants from me, and I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t want to stop him— no, it’s more than that. I don’t want to be able to stop him. I want him to stay in control. I want to give up all the responsibility and authority and risk-aversion I wear like armor, and let him run my body instead.

  I moan again, louder this time, because Tyson just licked from my collarbone up to my ear, then nibbled on it lightly.

  Tyson murmurs, “I knew I needed to have you when I saw you in the gym that day.”

  “Have me?” I say, startled— but still unable to twist away both because of his hold on me and the general wobbly feeling in my legs. Does he mean “have” me in the abstract, or “have” me as in sex? I assume the later, given the way he’s pressed to me, the way his mouth is on me— but I’ve never had sex before, and I don’t want to tell him that. But…I also don’t want to tell him no, because the truth is…I’m not opposed to the idea of Tyson taking my virginity. He’s so in control, after all; I wouldn’t have to worry…

  “Yes,” he breathes, which doesn’t answer my question, exactly. I feel one of his wide hands sliding down my back, his fingers wrapping around my upper thigh. I moan again at how close his fingers are to the wetness between my legs, at how strange and wild it feels to have someone else’s hands there rather than my own. My thighs tighten, like my responsible, good-girl body is trying to reject him while my Tyson-Slate-addled brain is begging me to let go, to let him do this. To let this calm, powerful, strong person take the reins from me, if only for a little while.

  I lift my chin, and his lips find mine again. He kisses me deeply, then begins to inch his hands farther up my inner thigh. I feebly protest the motion, and he pulls his mouth away from mine.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice low.

  I’m taken aback by the question, mostly because I’d nearly given in entirely to Tyson’s authority. I chew my lip, trying to dredge up my saner self— the version of myself who would never, ever make out with a guy like Tyson, and would certainly never let him touch her like this. But that girls feels tucked away, and in her place is a version of myself that I don’t totally recognize, but totally adore— a girl who doesn’t have to be cautious and careful and wary. A girl who can let a man make her moan without guilt. A girl who wants to feel Tyson Slate’s fingers—

  “There you are!” a male voice says, and Tyson steps away from me. I feel like I’ve been dropped a hundred feet, even though I know it was a few inches at best. I rock, unbalanced, the heat
between my legs and around my heart surging and dissipating like I’ve been dunked in ice water. I blink, unsure what’s happened. Tyson has spun around, and he’s now facing away from me, talking with a group of guys who have come down to the lower yard with sparklers and firecrackers. I barely catch the conversation; my head feels cottony and confused.

  “Wait, who’s that?” one of them asks. Tyson steps aside, and it’s only now that I realize his body was blocking mine. That he was intentionally blocking their line of sight to me, hiding me away.

  “One of the freshman cheerleader’s friends. She was sick, I came to check,” Tyson says with a shrug, and walks toward them. “Last thing I want is a publicity issue about the house or the team right before game one.”

  “Good thinking, Dr. Slate,” one of the guys snorts in response.

  “I told you not to call me that anymore,” Tyson says in response, but it’s good-natured. Or at least, as good-natured as his still and steady voice can sound, I suspect. They walk into the dim light that rolls off the deck and begin to light sparklers in giant handfuls, swigging beer as they do so. I stare, confused. Did that just happen? Is he embarrassed of me? I want to shout that he can go fuck himself then, but instead there’s just a core of hurt in my chest, growing and churning until I finally shake my head and slink away into the dark.

  Chapter 4

  Trishelle doesn’t come home that night. I text her constantly until she finally messages me back and tells me she’s staying with some of the other cheerleaders at a house on east campus. It’s so unlike her that I ask her a trivia question to make sure she’s really the one sending it— the name of the song we made up a dance to in sixth grade. There’s no way she’d tell anyone that we rocked choreography to a remix of “My Humps”, so it’s got to be her.

  I make my way back to our apartment, grateful for the flats I selected earlier since I still feel wildly unbalanced. Tyson’s hands on me are like a strange dream— the way I felt about Tyson’s hands on me are like an even stranger one. I’m the girl that all those anti-sex videos you watch in middle school absolutely worked on. I haven’t had sex, haven’t really done much beyond kiss, and haven’t even seen a penis in real life. And yep, that’s what I say— penis. Vagina. The formal, totally not-sexy, clinical terms.

  But when Tyson was touching me, the dirtier words flooded my mind. The desire to have sex, the desire to let him take control. The desire to let him have me, both in the abstract and in the physical. He seems so sure of everything, so calculated and precise, and now that I’ve put down the weight of responsibility for a few moments in his arms, I’m painfully aware of how heavy it is when it returns.

  I hurry into our apartment and lock up, then head to my bedroom. Normally, I’d never dream of getting in bed without washing my face, but tonight everything is tumbled around. I lock my bedroom door, strip my clothes off, and fall straight onto bed with my legs spread. I want to feel the place where his fingers were pressed to my skin. I touch those spots, disappointed I can’t emulate the pressure. I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath, then slide my hand up my thigh, like Tyson did. I moan— not as loudly as I did with him, but still, I moan from my own hand and the memory of his.

  I wanted him to keep going. I wanted Tyson’s hand to keep climbing, to touch me. I slide my hand farther, and feel myself slipping back into the mindset I’d had with him. I slip out of my responsible self and think only of letting go, of letting him take charge. In my mind, Tyson’s hand rubs hard against my inner thigh, up and up, until his fingertips brush the lips of my pussy. I startle at the sensation, but then moan again as he lets one finger slowly, gently run along my slit, playing with my wetness. I arch my back up, imagining myself pushing up against him, against his strong chest, being lifted up against his body until his cock— thick and hard and intimidating— presses against my stomach.

  His name flutters off my lips even though he isn’t here to listen. I part my pussy with my fingers, imagining it’s Tyson’s thumb rolling along the top of my clit, making me whimper. He’d touch me with those strong, certain hands; he’d rub my pussy with his thumb until I grasped his shirt, then he’d gently slide a finger into me, rubbing against the front of my pussy in that spot that I can barely reach, but I know he could. He’d massage my clit and my pussy, his mouth pressed to my neck, and I’d be his— full of him, unable to escape as he made me writhe and moan in his arms. Tyson Slate would be more in charge of my body than I’d be, and he’d slide his tongue into my mouth as he stroked my clit until heat rose within my chest, until I was pumping my hips against his fingers, until I was desperate for more of him inside of me.

  “Come for me, Anna Milhomme,” he’d command, and I’d be helpless to do anything else. He’d press harder against my clit, and it would tip me over the edge. I’d cry out, my limbs would lock in place, but Tyson wouldn’t stop; he’d rub my clit and finger fuck me as I orgasm, as wetness flooded from me, as I went fuzzy and hot and his name fell from my tongue over and over.

  I pant, my body in my bedroom but my mind with Tyson— I keep my eyes shut so the fantasy doesn’t fade. He’d kiss me, pleased at the sweat that’s formed along my brow and neck from his touch, then pull his fingers from my pussy, patting it gently, like he’s happy with my work too. I want more, though, I don’t want it to stop— I want him to hike my dress up farther. I want him to reach down and unbutton his pants, to let his cock out and guide me toward it. I want him to explain to me how to take it in my hands, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass—

  Except I barely even know how to fantasize about any of those things. I’m so inexperienced that it was only with Tyson’s touch that I could fantasize about being finger fucked— dreaming of having a cock in me, anywhere in me, feels as foreign as dreaming about flying. My eyes open gradually, my hand trails up to my stomach, across the scars from my transplants. I still feel heated and winded from the powerful orgasm I wish Tyson had actually drawn from me. But no. It’s just me. Touching myself in my bedroom. Thinking of a guy who, as far as I can tell, didn’t want to be seen with me. At a party I went to with my best friend who also, I suspect, also doesn’t really want to be seen with me anymore.

  I’m responsible, steady, reasonable Anna Milhomme— same as I’ve always been. Trishelle has managed to reinvent herself in college, and shitty as that reinvention may be, I’m jealous of it.

  I felt on the verge of that tonight, but it was all yanked away because of some guys with firecrackers. That girl who let an intimidating football player touch her, take over her body, make her moan…that girl is fearless. She’s not afraid of losing control. She can do anything.

  But I’m not her, and it feels like I’ll never be.

  Chapter 5

  Since it looks like I’m stuck in my traditional responsible role, I go ahead and embrace it. It’s what I’ve always done— relished being the girl who had the best organized notes, the phone numbers of all the local safe drive companies, or the one who actually knew how to do CPR (and not just from the movies). It feels uncomfortable now, though, like putting on a favorite dress only to realize you’ve outgrown it between seasons. I wedge myself into it anyhow. What else can I do?

  The audition for the theater department is coming up, and it feels less and less likely I’ll go, especially since Trishelle seems to have forgotten about it entirely. She hasn’t nagged me about studying the audition scripts in weeks, save for the occasional “You’ll be super busy once you’re in theater” she tells me when she blows off plans with me to go to some cheerleader-themed event.

  I’m invited out with her less and less, until I’m not invited at all. I never wanted to go to those things to start with, of course, but when I realize she’s no longer issuing the invitations, I’m more than a little wounded.

  “Are you excited?” I ask her the morning of her first game. She woke up stupid early and hot rolled her hair, then brushed it out, then sprayed it, then pulled it up, so it’s molded into a perfectly beachy-wa
ved ponytail that barely moves when she does.

  “I think I might throw up,” she says, shaking her head, but she hasn’t been able to stop grinning. She takes another bite of yogurt, ignoring the egg McMuffin I brought her to celebrate the big day. Apparently, the captains not so subtly let her take a look at the uniform order, and Trishelle wore a slightly larger size than most of the other girls. I know— and I know that Trishelle must know— that this is because her thighs and butt are pure muscle, but that hasn’t stopped her from dieting obsessively for the last few weeks. I take an unnecessarily big bite of my own egg McMuffin in protest of her new existence.

  “You’ll be great. I’ll have my phone ready in case they show you on TV,” I tell her. I’m not going to the game. I said it’s because I couldn’t get tickets, which isn’t totally true. I could probably have gotten tickets, if I’d tried, but…I sort of want to sit at home, mope, and eat that second egg McMuffin. Besides, I have no idea how football works, and after all that happened— or rather, didn’t happen— with Tyson Slate, I have to admit that I don’t care to learn more about the sport.

  The game starts after lunch. I turn on the television and set myself up on the couch, curled in a blanket to combat our AC, which waffles between extreme cold and extreme heat without a shred of nuance. The commentators are a series of bros wearing suits who talk about stats and players and starting lineups and expectations for a half hour before the game actually begins.

  Tyson is number eight, the starting quarterback, and as we reach the end of the first quarter it’s become clear to me that he commands the field the way a general might command troops. Everything about him is calm; he jogs when others run, he doesn’t speak with his hands, he nods curtly when talking to coaches. The uniform and helmet make him totally unreadable— which, according to the commentators, is one of his strengths.