by West, Jade
I don’t know how we managed a trip downstairs to the kitchen and put some semblance of a steak dinner on to cook. I don’t know how I managed to drink nearly two bottles of wine and she managed to take her medication at the proper time.
I definitely don’t know how I managed to find her snuggled tight in my arms under the bedcovers with a smile on her face as we soaked in the euphoria of a day to remember.
I was just so damn fucking pleased I did.
I eased off to sleep with no idea what time it was, only that the very first scrap of morning light was blooming outside. She was breathing deep and steady, lost in dreams with her head still tight into the crook of my shoulder as I closed my eyes and said goodbye to the ten year hello.
And then, finally and truly gratefully, I slept better than I had in a decade.
Chapter Seven
Anna
I woke up in instinctive panic, my hand plunging straight down between my thighs and patting around the bedsheets.
Please, please, please.
Clammy, but not dripping. No wetness. Not that kind of wetness anyway.
Thank fuck I hadn’t pissed myself in someone else’s bed as an embarrassing farewell.
I took a breath and settled back down, letting the calm wash over me – what little there was of it, at least.
There really wasn’t any calm left in a ten-mile radius once I looked over at the man who’d fucked me senseless, kicked free of covers with his shoulders rising and falling steady, still lost in slumber. His ass was the ass I knew so well, so perfectly shaped, he looked like he’d been pulled down from a podium in a Roman amphitheatre. He was worthy of tourist snapshots, sculpted from stone and hot enough to scorch a thousand souls.
Screw my life. One look at him and I was thrumming desperate for another go.
His back had the same glorious ladder of a spine, with dips at the base that made me want to dig my fingers in and lick a road all the way up. His butt cheeks were screaming out to be pulled apart, my eyes desperate to snatch and steal every sliver of his privacy.
Holy shit.
I was doomed.
My whole body was rattling, desperate for another taste of him eating me alive, but no. My brain was fighting it this morning, holding on to the frayed edges of reason. Finally. I had some. At least thirty seconds of frayed reason enough to swing my legs out of bed and shove myself to my feet.
I didn’t have a clue where most of my stuff had been cast aside – not even my phone – but luckily my medication tray was on the top of his chest of drawers with a half full glass of water standing next to it. I ate up my morning dose, then resolved to drag myself to some kind of order and get the hell out of there, party over, see you later.
See you never fucking again, more like it.
I’d clipped my bra back on and tugged my dress down over my head by the time I realised he was looking at me. His leg was lazily kicked out, arms deliciously muscular as they grabbed a load of pillows and propped his head up.
His stare was anything but lazy as he lapped me up. I could feel him. Drinking me in and swigging me deep.
He patted the covers next to him with a smirk, but no. Just no.
“Fuckathon over,” I said. “One off, remember. Nice to know you.”
I sounded a whole load more sure than I felt.
“You’re really fucking off before a morning repeat?”
My back was to him when I nodded. “Yep, I’m really fucking off.”
I didn’t hear him moving and I daren’t have looked around to check, just kept on grabbing my stuff up from the carpet and piling it back into one of my cases. Still no sign of my phone.
“I can give you a lift back to your place,” he said, but I shook my head.
“I need the train,” I replied. “Can’t have anyone seeing us together. If I’m a scrap of lucky, I’ll get away with this bullshit without having to spend the next decade explaining my crazy.”
“Maybe a decade explaining the crazy is better than a decade living without it,” he said, and his words thumped me deep.
There was only one person on this planet responsible for the decade living without it, and he could go and get fucked. I spun to scorch his stare with mine, wishing my clit believed a sliver of the spite the rest of me was such good friends with.
“I’ll be living without it for more than a damn decade this time around,” I told him. “It was a splurge. A stupid splurge. That’s all.”
“I can still taste your pretty cunt,” he said, and I hated him. I hated the way he licked his lips and kept that smirk at full volume. I hated the way he was bursting for more without even breaking a sweat. I hated the way he had me on fire, even though my heart was ice cold and seething.
I hated the way his cock was hard and my mouth was watering.
I hated the way I was fluttering like a weak little heartbreak with jelly legs.
“Get me to the train, please,” I said, and he held my stare for a few long seconds before getting to his feet.
“Sure.”
He kicked aside his strewn shirt and pants and grabbed some jeans from his drawer. I cursed myself for watching as he pulled them up, and cursed myself harder when his eyes met mine in the mirror, catching me in the act. I got the hell out of there and found his bathroom at the bottom of the landing.
My heart was panging weirdly as he burst right on in while I was taking my morning piss, that same smirk on his face as he checked out my pussy as I peed. He loaded up his toothbrush and got to work, and I couldn’t stop that pain at the familiarity. His presence was so matter of factly at ease with mine. I knew his movements by heart, even after all this time. The way he tilted his head as he washed his hands up and smoothed down his beard. The way he cleared his throat and shoved his toothbrush back in the holder.
“Know when the trains are?” he asked, and I forced myself not look at him, just kept my eyes on the toilet roll and wiped myself dry.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Just get me to the station, please.”
“No breakfast?”
“No thanks.”
I prayed he wouldn’t play on my favourites. That he wouldn’t offer me his speciality poached eggs and fried mushrooms, and his smile across the breakfast table.
He didn’t.
“I’ll get ready to roll, then,” he said, and my heart dropped.
Disappointment.
I hated myself in that moment almost as much as I hated him.
I found my phone downstairs on the kitchen counter, blinking with low battery and a whole ton of missed calls and texts. Mum. Nicola. Vicky.
Shit.
No doubt they all thought I was spasming somewhere, with no idea of my own name.
Again, I hated myself for letting them worry like that, all for the sake of getting my clit sucked by an asshole.
I was ready to leave and petting his dogs when he joined me downstairs. He was so much more casual today; a regular t-shirt that he buried under a regular coat and grabbed his shoes from the rack. He let the dogs out, then grabbed up his keys and tossed a glance in my direction, heading down the hallway and holding the door open for me to step out.
I hated myself a whole load more for just how much my tummy churned at the knowledge that this was really it. Goodbye forever. So long for another long decade, and hopefully loads more of them to follow.
He took my cases and dumped them in the back of his truck, then climbed on in as I clipped my seatbelt up.
We didn’t speak. No small talk. No laughter. No grinning memories of an epic night together. Nothing but the countryside rushing past outside the window and Lydney train station getting closer.
Until we were there.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything, just dropped on out of the passenger seat and grabbed my cases before he had a chance to.
Please God, don’t try to hug me goodbye or wave me off.
Luckily, he did neither.
I wanted to thank
him before I went, but the words burnt my throat too hard. I wanted to at least throw him a smirk and a hell, that was a fuckathon, but I couldn’t. I just pushed my feet to walking a step at a time on stupid heels, feeling like an idiot as I made my way to the platform.
He didn’t join me, and I was grateful.
I had enough battery in my phone to fire off some don’t worry, sorry, be back soon messages to the blinking contacts, then shoved the handset back in my bag as the next train pulled up at the platform. I took a seat and a breath along with it, resolving afresh that this was really it. No more Lydney train station and no more Lucas Pierce.
I just wished it didn’t feel so bloody hard.
I also wished I hadn’t broken enough to leave my dirty knickers tucked under his bedcovers when I’d been zipping up my case and bailing on his bedroom. Because why? Why would I leave a parting gift like that, knowing full well it was one of his drive you crazy fetishes?
Because I wanted to drive him crazy.
Because I’d always wanted to drive him crazy.
Even half as crazy as he drove me.
I should have felt better as Cheltenham pulled closer and normality pulled closer with it, but I didn’t. I was still a mess from his flesh on mine, and his tongue in my mouth, and his fingers digging tight on my scalp. I was still a pool of want with my pussy still dripping for another fill of his dick.
There were so many things we hadn’t gotten to. Toys still to play with, and filth still to explore. An ocean of repeat performances stacked up and looming with no chance of expression.
Turns out that one night isn’t enough to fulfil a decade of need. Who’d ever have thought it? Not this little moron with her stupid notion that this could have ever been a sane enough move to skip right away from. I scrolled through my messages, contemplating using the last of my battery on a confession text to Nicola, to seal my fate and push this crazy night aside for ever. My thumb was paused over her name and Cheltenham was just a stop away when a ping tried to seal my fate in an entirely different direction.
Thanks for the panties. Tennis this p.m.?
And there it was. A picture to follow. My knickers around his dick. His magnificent dick with the precum glistening.
Fuck you, Lucas Pierce and your perfect manhood.
Fuck you, clitoris, and your idiot needs.
No tennis, I fired back. And no more dick pics, please.
My brain tried another bullshit argument, shouting to my pounding heart that this would truly be a game of tennis. Just us on the court with me trying to kick his ass and failing miserably.
Maybe I’d manage to break his nose with a super strong serve and gritted teeth. That would be a game worth playing.
Scared of getting thrashed? he replied. I’ve still got your racket, btw.
There was a burn with that. A weird little burn I couldn’t place.
My racket.
I remembered the pink flash on the handle. The way it felt when I would spin it in my hands between serves.
Surely, I could check out my racket one last time? Surely, it wouldn’t have to mean the world to share a match on a Sunday?
But it was about more than the racket or the memories. There was something bursting in my chest. A stranger over the years, so long buried that it brought a stranger of a smile to my lips along with it.
Fun.
It was fun.
I was having fun.
Not scared of getting my ass kicked, I replied, and I meant it. I might well kick yours, asshole.
I clicked on a smiling emoji and sent that off to follow.
Show me then, he said.
And I could. I could remind him just how fierce I battled when he summoned the spark of fight. Just one game to revisit another great snippet of the great life I thought we’d been living together until he chewed my heart into nothing.
Tell me when and where, another ping followed up, and I cursed myself out loud as I used the final few battery percent to look up the sports clubs on the city outskirts and pull up an available court. I cursed myself again as I fired off the details, and trusted he’d got them when my phone blinked out.
And then I made my way home for a shower of shame and the terrible travesty of another looming Lucas Pierce experience.
Chapter Eight
Lucas
I dug the rackets from the case above the weed killer in the garage and wiped them down. Still fit to serve. I hadn’t played tennis in years, barely venturing near a court since Millie was born, but the rackets felt familiar in my grip.
Just like Anna. She’d felt plenty fucking familiar in my grip.
It didn’t matter that I’d busted an ocean of seed from my balls the night before, and another round into the dirty lace of her panties just a few minutes previous. I was still craving. Still strung tight with filthy lust for the filthy little bitch who knew my cock even better than I did. The strung rackets bounced off my palm, mirroring my tension.
If I couldn’t claim her tight little ass in my bed that afternoon, I’d damn well claim it on the tennis court.
I took the dogs out before heading into the city, taking the time to stretch my legs and pick up into a jog to get my limbs in gear. I was washed and dressed for the game, well stocked up on a brunch of poached eggs before jumping in the truck and setting off. I fired up the stereo and put on some usual radio chatter, but my mind was nowhere on the voices spouting on.
It was all on her.
No matter how hard my sanity of rationale was trying to cast this aside as a blip in hers, I couldn’t shake off the undeniable. I was excited. Bristling with the spike of adrenaline. Nothing the fuck whatsoever to do with tennis and everything to do with Anna Blackwell.
I pulled up in the sports club parking area, checking again on her message to make sure that this was the right venue. It was a way out of town, right on the outskirts and no location I recognised from days gone by, but yeah, it was the right one.
I was still sitting in the truck, ready to jump out when a taxi drew up in a space in front of me. I watched her legs appear before she did, her sweet little backside poking up high as she leaned back in to pay the driver.
She looked absolutely fucking divine. Hair scooped up messily, in the style I loved so much on her. Cheeks flushed with the taste of life as she stared on up at the building, seemingly as unsure of it as I was. Her top was tight and stretched just right over her perky little tits. Perky little tits I’d pushed hard in the way that drove her crazy, and drove me insane to match.
I knew they’d be tender as sin under the fabric, begging for a flick of my tongue on her nipples. Bruised just right to set her churning, grabbing hold and squealing for more if I dared to squeeze just so.
Her shorts were high enough to show off the legs she’d wrapped so tight around my back the night before. Socks cute and white in sweet little tennis shoes.
I dropped out of the truck and was up close behind her before she registered my presence.
She sure fucking registered it when she did, though. Her eyes were wide when she spun to face me, mouth open in the perfect invite to slam my tongue in deep and claim her for another battle of skin on skin. But then she saw her racket in my hand. Those wide eyes lit up as she snatched it from me, spinning it in her grip like a long lost friend.
“Wow, you really kept it.”
It seems she had considerably more affection for the strung plastic sports weapon than she had for me. Yet again, I couldn’t blame her.
“Let’s see if you really kept up with how to use it,” I said and saw the flash in her eyes I knew so well. Competition. Spirit. Drive to push herself to the limit.
It turned me into a prick every bit as desperate to claim victory as she was to win the fight.
“I’ll remember how to use it,” she said, and spun it in her hand again as we reached the entrance. “Let’s just see if you remember how to kick my ass as hard as you used to.”
“I’ll kick your tight little ass so ha
rd you’ll scream like a bitch all night long,” I hissed at her ear as she grinned at the reception attendant on the main desk.
“Blackwell,” she told them, but her voice was goofed up and unsteady. “Three p.m., for tennis.”
“Court four,” they replied, barely shooting us a glance.
Anna didn’t speak a word until we got outside. She took up her side of the court and did some stretches, and my dick was a total loser, straining hard in my shorts as she bent and scooped and danced around the place. She flaunted her ass, and knew it, flashing me a dirty glance over her shoulder and smirking like a minx as she saw my stare.
Yep. If that was her game, she’d stand a chance of winning. Slamming the bastard tennis ball over the net was right down on my list of priorities. Slamming my tongue in her asshole was a whole fucking world more captivating.
She bounced the ball on the tarmac. I braced myself for the serve.
It was a disaster when it came. She judged the racket swing wrong, barely scooting the ball over the net where it bounced in a pitiful little stutter.
She cursed. I laughed. She cursed louder and shot me the middle finger, and I shrugged. Then she was laughing too.
“False start,” she shouted, and I shrugged again.
“Start as many times as you want, I’ll always be the one to finish.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
Next time she caught it good. There was spirit in her slam, the racket connecting with the ball and striking hard. She delivered. I delivered right back. She leapt and dashed and swung like it was her life purpose to win the match, but I didn’t let her. There was no way I was letting her take the crown. She was mine to be taken, both on the court and off it, she just didn’t know it yet.
She was blushing pink in no time, breaths ragged as she fought the battle. My pulse was strumming, but steady, enjoying the rhythm of the game. Two people in the groove, predicting each other’s movements and using it to spur their downfall.