by Brit DeMille
“I came in to talk about the plan for this player with the torn rectus abdominus,” I say. “I don’t want him getting soft in the six to ten weeks he’ll be on the IR list.”
“He’s not going to make it ten weeks,” Dale says. “You know that, right? He’ll be lucky to get six before he’s back on the ice, and I’m betting on three.”
“Three?” I ask, in credulous. “He would in no way be ready.”
“I’m not saying he’ll be ready. I’m saying he’ll want to get back on the ice.”
“Well, my goal is to hold him off as long as possible,” I say. “But in the time we do have, can you work up a plan that will allow him to work arms and legs with minimal core engagement?”
“I sure can,” Dale says. “Anything else I can do for you? Take you to lunch? Drinks? Dinner?”
“Well, it’s nine in the morning, so don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say, grinning.
“Pfft. Fine then. I’ll ask again later.”
Georg nearly falls off the treadmill, he’s trying so hard to listen to our conversation. The scene grabs both my and Dale’s attention, and Dale jogs over and asks, “Are you okay, buddy?”
“Kusok der’ma,” Georg spits in Russian.
“No speakie Russkie,” Dale says. “English please, big guy.”
“Trakhat’ tebya,” is Georg’s response.
I let out a little giggle and Dale turns his attention to me. “What did he say?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, but he usually saves his Russian for swears and insults, so…”
Georg chuckles.
“Alright, well, I guess I’d better get back to kicking this guy’s ass, then,” Dale says.
“Okay, well, don’t kick it too hard. I don’t need to see him on my PT table later,” I answer.
I leave, knowing both sets of eyes are on me as I walk out.
When I get home later that evening, I decide to just take a walk around my neighborhood. It’s incredibly hot outside, so I wear just a tank top and short shorts with my tennis shoes as I wander around. I don’t really exercise, per se…not like Holly anyway. I mean, I do Zumba and yoga every once in a while, and I’ll hit the gym periodically, usually just to scout guys.
Now I’m a curvy girl. Always have been. Big on top, small at the waist, thicker on the bottom. This is a figure that can be hard to dress. Fitted clothes make me look like a porn star and attract the wrong kind of attention. Baggier clothes make me look overweight. But I wore mostly baggy clothes through high school. Especially after my mom’s husband number three decided he was going to come into my room every time my mom was out. The first time, I woke up to his hand rooting around in my pants. He made all kinds of bribes to keep me quiet about it, and I thought it was done. A couple of months later, he was back in my bed, naked and hard. He grabbed at my breasts and told me how gorgeous my body was before humping my leg, spraying his gross orgasm all over my bare leg.
I was fifteen. Very developed compared to other girls my age. I thought it was my fault, so I started wearing sweat pants and baggy t-shirts to school nearly every day. It didn’t stop my stepfather, who came in to sweat on me and grab at me and come on me about once a month for nearly two years.
My ex-stepfather is due for parole pretty soon, but I try not to dwell on that too much.
I need a distraction. I’ve been through all kinds of therapy and usually I’m pretty good about managing my feelings about what happened, but sometimes it rears its head and I end up feeling the pit of anxiety in my stomach.
Flirting helps. Feeling in control of my sexuality helps.
There’s a hot guy washing his car about two streets away from my condo. He looks up as I pass, his eyes moving along my curves as I give him a subtle smile. He gives a lopsided grin back before our flirtation is interrupted by not one but two small children, who run out yelling “Daddy!” He turns a smile on his kids, running a hand through his hair. And yep, there’s the glint of sun on metal against the wedding ring on his finger.
I keep walking, ashamed of myself. Annoyed with him.
When I get back home, I’m sweaty and anxiety-stricken. Thinking about the past always gets me worked up. It makes me want to control my sexual situation to the nth degree. And what really gets me worked up is thinking about how poorly I’ve managed my sexual life these past years. I just turned twenty-five. I have a master’s degree. I have a great job. I usually feel pretty good about myself.
And I’m still a virgin.
Yep. Inquiring minds want to know: How does a sexy, flirty lady like Pamela Jenson stay a virgin? Well, she panics every single time she tries to have sex, that’s how. She has a literal panic attack whenever it comes time to “do the deed” and so she sucks the guys off and sends them packing, her embarrassment too intense to ever see them again.
Yes, I just spoke about myself in the third person. Sue me.
The fact is that even after multiple years of therapy, I’m still a hot mess when it comes to sex. And while I’ve certainly gotten close, I’ve never actually had intercourse.
I jump in the shower, ready to find some pajamas, order a pizza, and curl up with a little Netflix. I’m too hyped up. I need to relax.
The water is hot, not scalding but close, and it feels good to wash the day away, wash the thoughts away. I force myself to breathe, force myself to think about good things, fun things. How I love my new job. What a great stepping stone it is. How happy I am for Holly and Evan, who will be parents soon.
And Georg. Silly, messed-up, vodka-drinking Georg. Beautiful Russian bad boy, Georg.
In the warm water, I find my own hands traveling to the sensitive places between my legs. I wash, but my fingers linger there. Georg’s face comes to mind. A nose slightly crooked from a break or two. Blue-green eyes, vibrant like the tropics. Long hair, usually messy. Wide shoulders. Sharp cheek bones. The small scar above his right eyebrow.
Memories of dancing with him, kissing him, come at me like a flood and I’m swept away. I switch the shower control to the massage setting, letting the hard spray of water hit my clit while my fingers spread my pussy lips wide. I push my hips forward, flexing my muscles, pushing myself toward pleasure as I think about Georg Kolochev.
It doesn’t take much to push me over the edge. I think of his goofy smile. His hands on my waist. The way his breath felt, hot on my neck.
An orgasm pounds through me, leaving me sagging against the shower wall. I have to catch my breath before I turn that stream of water on my hard nipples, the pressure of the water causing pain, feeling like little bites. I imagine it’s Georg’s teeth there and it makes me come again.
I say a quiet “thank you” to Georg for helping me orgasm, for helping me get past the icky memories of the past. For helping me conquer the anxiety that had filled my belly with dread, replacing it with the endorphin rush that comes from a good orgasm.
Did I mention I’m the only person who’s ever made me come?
I get back to my plan, finding my soft, blue silk PJ’s and crawling into bed with my cheese pizza, a beer on the night stand, and a binge-worthy show cued up on the television.
I know that Georg Kolochev is off limits. Our work policies, alone, prevent me from dating him. I know Evan and Holly got around the no-fraternization policy, but I don’t think I could. I think, just by virtue of having my hands on these guys during PT, I need to stay professional. And I know how it would end. We’d have a good time. I’d think I was ready. I’d freak out and end it. And then what? I’d have put my career in jeopardy for nothing. For a fling.
No, it’s not worth it.
No matter how much I want it.
About the Author
Brit DeMille is the alter ego of a NYT Bestselling author who wanted to try writing something new for her. Brit really likes stories about sexy billionaires [millionaires make the cut too] who fall in instalove with young women who may or may not be virgins, and then go on to make adorable babies together. In addition to billionai
res, hot hockey players are at the top of her list of favorite heroes, along with royals and ex-military bodyguards.
The most important thing to Brit when she writes a story is a happily ever after. But during the actual writing of the story, the most important thing to Brit is a cup of hot tea with a splash of milk, and a stash of cherry Jolly Ranchers. A dog or two will likely be in between Brit and the chair at any given moment, which is very handy, because they are the ones who approve everything she writes.
Email Brit: [email protected]
www.britdemille.com