by Harper James
“Of all the Slate brothers,” one says, “Tyson Slate is definitely the most unique in terms of playing style. His brothers were loud and boisterous on the field, and used that positive energy to hype the rest of their teams. Tyson takes a different approach— he’s calm and controlled, which keeps everyone’s emotions in check. Some say it makes for a less exciting game, but it definitely makes for a more reliable win. His two older brothers are now playing with the pros, and if I were a betting man, I’d say Tyson isn’t far behind.”
“And of course, we can’t mention the Slate family without bringing up Dennis Slate— but only because we’ve all heard the rumors about how the drama with Tyson’s father, who is on trial for murder, has affected Tyson Slate’s role on the team here in Charlotte. He’s still a great leader, but there have been a dozen or so leaks about him seeming to be emotionally and personally checked out from the game.”
“That may be true,” another commentator says, “But with a guy like Tyson Slate, as long as he’s physically showing up, he can get by— at least here at the college level. If he wants to make it to pro level ball, he’s going to have to either make peace with his father’s situation or learn to better compartmentalize his personal life and the game.”
Soon, Charlotte is up by a touchdown, and I notice that Tyson doesn’t seem as drained as the rest of the players on both teams do as they go into the end of the second quarter. I think I understand what those commentators mean, now— the rest of the team is playing with their bodies and their hearts, and it’s wearing them down. Tyson is playing with his body alone, and while he’s talented enough to get away with it, it’s still clear he could give more—
I jump when Trishelle’s face appears on the screen right as the network goes to commercial. I curse, realizing I forgot to record it— my phone is in my hand, ready to go, but I was so busy thinking about Tyson that I didn’t see the obvious opportunity for a gratuitous shot of the cheerleaders. She looked amazing— her hair still hadn’t moved an inch, and she had a Charlotte Rangers temporary tattoo on the apple of her right cheek. I wonder if her parents saw it, back home. I wonder if my parents saw it— I’ve been friends with Trishelle so long that they likely watched the game just for the chance to see her in her new role.
Trishelle doesn’t appear on camera again, besides being in a few long shots or blurry in the background behind a football player’s head. I don’t bother recording them, and when she finally gets back home at almost eight o’clock, I lie and tell her I didn’t see her other than in the background, but add the caveat that I was studying while the game was on, so perhaps I missed it.
“Studying? During a game?” she says, rolling her eyes a little at me. “Come on, Anna. You’ve got to get more invested in this place if you want to enjoy it.”
“And stop studying? At a school? Isn’t studying an investment in the school?” I ask with a sigh.
She makes a face at me, then drops her cheer bag by the front door. “I’m just changing clothes real quick— there’s a party at the captain’s house tonight and I’m supposed to get auctioned off.”
“Um, I’m sorry, what?” I ask, blinking and sitting up straighter on the couch— where I am, in fact, studying (now, anyway).
“Apparently after the first game, the freshman cheerleaders get auctioned off to the football players. Seniors first.”
“Auctioned off? Like…a cow?”
“No! Like a date. It’s for charity, I think. Probably. It’s not for real or anything, it’s just for fun. Stop taking everything so seriously,” Trishelle says with an almost pitying smile. She vanishes into her bedroom, where she changes into a short dress and heels that make her taller than me— she’s just now built up to them. She grabs her purse, waves, and then disappears. I watch her go, feeling sick over the fact that one, my best friend is excited about being auctioned off for who the hell knows what, and two, Tyson Slate is a senior football player. Does he participate in this auction thing? It sounds like they all do, so probably. Trishelle— the “new” Trishelle anyway— is the sort of girl you’d expect Tyson to be with…would he step in front of her, walk away and pretend she was nothing? Would he be ashamed of her like he was ashamed of me?
Of course not. She’s the exact type of girl he would be proud to be seen with.
What if she comes back with a story of sleeping with Tyson Slate? What if Trishelle not only gets the reinvention I so badly want, but the guy too?
I knew I had to have you.
That’s what he told me— but if he had to have me, he could have. And if he wants Trishelle, or any of the other freshman cheerleaders, I suppose he can have them too if he bids high enough. I swallow. I need to get out of the apartment for the night— because what if Trishelle brings him back here? Or what if she stumbles back in at two o’clock with stories about Tyson Slate’s hands on her or one of her friends, stories lifted from my own fantasies? I shiver, throw on some clothes, and hurry to the student center.
The Charlotte University student center is open twenty-four hours, has a coffee shop, and enormous oversized chairs and couches in just about every room. It’s attached to the library, though that section is closed at this time of night— instead, I grab a book out of the “leave a book, take a book” bin out front and crash on a sofa with a large latte. Trishelle usually comes back in around two o’clock, if she comes back at all. I’ll hang out here till two thirty to be sure the coast is clear. I feel a little silly about the whole thing, but my ego just can’t take hearing about anything to do with Tyson and any other girl.
I yawn, slide down on the couch, and begin to read.
Which…is the last thing I remember. Suddenly, I snap awake, with no idea how long I’ve been out. I blink and fumble for my phone through bleary eyes. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. I groan, clear my throat, and rise— was I sleeping with my mouth open? Probably.
I don’t have any texts from Trishelle, so I assume she came home alone— she’s always texted me when she’s staying with someone, and I can’t imagine her bringing a guy back without at least a heads up. The mental image of her toned, lean legs around Tyson’s waist fades, and relief trickles through my limbs as I walk back to our apartment. I was being ridiculous anyway— Trishelle said the auction was just for fun. It was probably some stupid tradition; I was the one that added sex to the equation, the one that turned what might be an innocent party game into my best friend bringing a senior football player back to our apartment. I flush, embarrassed for myself. I can’t believe Tyson Slate managed to get so thoroughly under my skin.
I climb the steps to our apartment, untangle my keys, and push through the door. It’s pitch black inside— it’s four o’clock in the morning, after all— but I nearly trip over a pair of high heels, so at least I know Trishelle is home. I don’t bother turning on the lights, opting to feel my way along the kitchen bar, to the hallway, and finally to my bedroom. I open my door, kick off my own shoes and toss my book inside, then strip off my shirt as I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I yawn, push open the bathroom door—
A light in the living room clicks on— one of our tiny table lamps. I grimace and turn toward Trishelle to apologize for waking her up-
But it’s not Trishelle.
Sitting on our sofa, wearing jeans, a gray t-shirt, and that impossible to read expression, is Tyson Slate.
Chapter 6
“What the fuck?” I shriek, and throw an arm over my chest. I’m wearing a coral colored bra, but it’s lace, so it leaves even less to the imagination than a regular bra might. Tyson barely moves.
“Your friend said you wouldn’t be out late— that it wasn’t your thing. It’s after four in the morning,” Tyson says. He doesn’t look tired, or like he’d been asleep. He looks like he’s been waiting.
“What are you doing here?” I snap. “And where is Trishelle?”
Tyson sighs. “Your roommate is passed out drunk, last I checked. She’s not an exp
erienced drinker, is she?”
“She wasn’t before college,” I mutter. My heart starts to pound almost painfully. “Did you guys— are you here with her?”
I don’t think I can take hearing him say yes. It’s out now, though, so what can I do? I try to avoid his eyes as I wait for a response.
“Technically. I was the high bid on her in the auction,” he says.
I close my eyes for a moment, hopefully not long enough of one that he realizes that he just brought my fears to life. Tyson wanted Trishelle. He came here with Trishelle.
“What do you mean, technically?” I ask.
“She could hardly walk straight. I asked to come back here so I could see you, then more or less put her straight to bed.”
“How did you know which room was hers?” I ask, frowning.
“I opened the doors to yours first. It smelled like your hair,” he answers without a hint of shame or hesitation. I swallow, wishing the tenor of his voice didn’t make my core heat up. It’s even huskier, even more disarming than I remembered.
“Okay, well I— thanks for helping her home,” I mumble, apparently having lost total control of my lips and the ability to enunciate words. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes. I’m going to sleep. I’m not…” I inhale, feeling the sudden urge to stop and catch my breath. “I’m not going to just stand here in my bra talking to you.”
“You can take the bra off. Or I can take it off,” he says.
I lick my lips and take a step back, hoping he can’t see that his words have sent a streak of fire through my body. Remember, I tell myself, he suddenly ditched you when his bros showed up. Don’t fall for it.
“Anna?” Tyson says when I stay quiet for a little too long.
“I was…when we were under the deck at that party. You left me when your friends came over. I don’t want…I don’t want to be with…if you’re so ashamed of me, then I can’t let myself—“
“I’m not ashamed of you,” Tyson says, rising. His body looks oversized in our tiny apartment, especially when paired with serious words. He locks his eyes onto mine in a way that prevents me from glancing away. “I’m not at all ashamed of how I want you, Anna Milhomme. But there are plenty of people— even people on my own team— who like to gossip about me to the press. I don’t get the impression that publicity is something that interests you.”
He’s right. During the last game, the camera occasionally found girlfriends of players and pointed them out for the audience at home. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be the center of attention. I don’t want to be reduced to a girl that Tyson Slate made out with underneath a deck somewhere. But—
“You could have told me. Instead you just…left me.”
Tyson’s jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s fighting the urge to grimace. “Yes. But I’m here now. It’s why I bid on Trishelle— I knew she was your friend. I knew she’d lead me to you. You’re remarkably hard to find, Anna Milhomme.”
Tyson takes a step toward me, and I instinctively take one back. His lips curl into the smallest of smiles; he pauses, and makes no effort to hide it when he lets his eyes run up and down my body. My yoga-pant wearing, no-shirt-having body. I can feel myself turning red, and suspect that given the lack of top, he can see how when my cheeks redden, my chest does too.
“Go ahead and lower your arm,” he says, flicking lightly with his fingertips. His voice is so controlled, so certain. I freeze, my brain at war with my body— because in practically no time whatsoever, Tyson has reduced me to heat and lust and an overwhelming desire to give in to him. The fact that he bid on Trishelle in the auction just to find me, that he looked for me to begin with, that he’s here in the pre-dawn blackness, walking toward me, taking up my entire hallway with his broad shoulders…
He clears his throat impatiently.
I lower my arm. I can feel my nipples hardened at the cool air and my own arousal, and know they’re peeking through the lace bra. My heart pounds— even more so when Tyson makes a low, growling noise at the sight of my breasts. He takes another step forward.
“I shouldn’t have left you. I’ve thought about that ever since,” he says, lowering his voice. “All those girls tonight, and not one of them holds a candle to you.”
“That’s not true,” I whisper. “I saw Trishelle when she left. She’s—“
“Not the one I want,” Tyson says. “When I look at you, Anna Milhomme, I see…” He stops, only a foot or so from me, and then lifts a hand. He strokes the side of my head lightly, then leans in and kisses my forehead. He moves my hair to one side of my neck, then lowers his lips to my ear. “I see someone intelligent and sexy.” He drags his tongue along my neck, to my shoulder, and kisses me there. “And I see beauty.” He then leans forward and, while my heart races and my fingers begin to tremble, delicately tips one of breasts up, so my nipple reaches his mouth. I moan softly as he sucks my nipple, lace bra and all, into his mouth; I nearly fall backward at the sensation, but Tyson wraps an arm around me and keeps me upright. He releases my nipple, which feels cold and tender now in the air, and looks up at me. “And I see innocence. Someone that hasn’t burned through the world like a wildfire. Someone who has been too careful.”
I bite my lip, torn between wanting him to suck my nipple again and wanting to tell him the truth. “I’m a virgin,” I say fearfully, voice rattling.
“I know,” Tyson says with the most telling expression I’ve seen on his face. The expression is one of pure hunger, pure lust. He leans in close, rubbing his thumb over the nipple that’s been between his lips.
“Tyson,” I tremble. “I’m— I’m more than just a virgin. I haven’t really done anything like…anything—“
“Don’t be scared. Besides, I’m not going to fuck you. Not right now anyway,” he says calmly, his words a promise that thrills and terrifies me. “I don’t like to hurry through things.” Tyson steps back a foot or so, and my body feels hot and wet and dizzy and needy. It’s not until he’s paused for a long while that I realize what I’m doing: Waiting for instructions. Waiting for him to tell me what to do. Because Tyson is in control now, and it’s exactly what I’ve wanted since that night under the deck.
He reaches over and opens the door of my bedroom, looking inside as if he’s deciding if the space is to his liking. He then turns back to me and takes a slow, deep breath, like he’s having to work hard to manage his desire.
“Go on,” he says, motioning through the door. With shaky knees— with shaky everything, actually— I step into my own bedroom, which is suddenly Tyson’s domain. I stop in the center of my room as he shuts the door behind me, and somehow, being sealed into this space with him relaxes me a bit. Tyson knows what he’s doing, clearly. I don’t have to worry, or be responsible, or study up, or be the person in charge. Not here.
Chapter 7
Tyson turns on the lamp at my desk, a dim, golden light that leaves us half in shadow. I watch him, arms folded over my waist instinctively, some of my residual nervousness still rattling into my fingers. He takes another breath— his body is so massive in my suddenly small bedroom. I see his eyes glance over the space, taking in my perfectly made bed, my stack of textbooks, my organized and paired up shoes. Each observation seems to make his desire to have me grow stronger, and I chew my lip when I notice his penis straining at the front of his pants. For me— he’s hard, he’s huge, and it’s for me.
“What are you looking at?” he says, and I start guiltily.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he replies. “You were looking, Anna. I saw you staring.”
I feel my face flush. “Fine, maybe I was,” I say, trying to own it. “I was looking at your…”
“My dick. You can say the word.”
“Your dick. It’s…just…really standing out right now. It’s difficult to pretend it’s not there.”
Tyson tilts his head to the side, studying me, calculating. He then r
eaches forward to take my hand, and before I know what he means to do, he’s pulled my fingers to his groin. “Go on,” he commands. “Touch it.”
I am shaking so hard that it’s almost comical, but I’m also mesmerized by the feeling of Tyson’s hard, solid cock beneath my fingers. I run my fingers up, feeling contours at the head, wondering at how large it is. It’s at least nine inches long, I’m sure, and it’s impossible to think of this thing fitting inside me. I grow bolder, pressing my palm up against him, and Tyson groans, startling me. I yank my hand back; he’s quick to grab it and pull it back to him.
“Unbutton my pants,” he commands, and I obey, fumbling with the button and carefully dragging the zipper down. He nods at me, signaling that I should go on and pull his pants to the ground. When I’ve done so, I’m left kneeling on the floor; when I look up I yelp at the sight of his cock now straining at his boxers, tenting them out so far that it looks like something falsified— real life photoshop.
Tyson puts his fingertips under my chin and raises me to my knees, so my face is right in front of his cock. “You’ve never even seen a cock in real life, have you?”
I shake my head. “No. No—I…I haven’t.”
“Good.”
Tyson reaches down and pulls his shirt off, revealing rippled abs and pectorals that look like molded clay. I swallow at the sight; Tyson reaches down and guides me to stand before him, then puts my palms flat against his chest. His body is hot, his skin smooth, and I can’t stop myself from pulling my hands down, exploring the muscles, thinking of how strong and hard every part of him feels. He steps closer, and his cock presses into the top of my stomach; I gasp at the sensation, but don’t move away.
“That’s very good,” Tyson says, nodding. He leans his head down— I’m so much shorter than him— and pulls my lips to his, kissing me deeply, sliding his tongue between my lips until I lick back at him. He pulls back and says, “Take my boxers off, Anna.”