Coach's Daughter

by Jessa Kane

  Oh God. Oh God.

  The way he’s stroking that bud is so perfect, all filth and friction, his shaft slapping in and out of me, tapping some magical region deep, deep in my core. Throw in the positively ferocious way he’s looking down at me, like I’m a bunny rabbit and he’s a wolf, gives me no choice but to be mowed down by the bullet train of bliss. My whimper turns into a scream of his name, my sex clenching around him, the deepest recesses of my tummy straining with the force of the pleasure. I see nothing, my back arching off the bed like I’m tied to the ceiling with a rope—and Eric keeps up his attack, leaning down to suckle my nipples, heightening my climax to unimaginable bounds, growling as he takes each bud into his mouth, his shoulder muscles flexed so tight, surely they’re going to snap.

  No, I won’t let him.

  My body will relieve him.

  And my orgasm must have wiped my memory clean, because until he pulls out and ejaculates in heavy white ropes on my stomach, groaning wildly at the ceiling, his hand moving in a blur on that trunk of flesh, I forget all about his vow to keep his climax from me. To pull out.

  I don’t expect his actions to frustrate me so thoroughly, but they do. I’ve been robbed. I wanted all of him. I missed him finding satisfaction inside of me and I hate it, I hate it that any part of him is being kept away. It’s not fair.

  I’m keeping a part of me away from him, too, though. Aren’t I?

  Does giving him my body without my heart hurt as much as this?

  What if it hurts more?

  I sit up in bed, alarmed. Am I really worrying about how he feels after he tried to pull a fast one on me? Jeopardizing my freedom?

  Our eyes lock from across the rumpled sheets, mine conflicted, Eric’s rapt and intense. Oh lord, if I sit this close to him much longer, I’m going to forgive him, aren’t I? I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt, make excuses for his behavior, give him a second chance. And I’ve witnessed far too many women regret giving second chances to their significant others.

  Eric is just like them. Isn’t he?

  I start to get out of the bed, intending to lock myself in the bathroom so I don’t forgive him, but Eric catches me around the waist and throws me down before I can gain my feet, climbing on top of me, flattening my body between him and the mattress. “I’m sorry for playing dirty, angel, but after a week without you, I’m losing my fucking mind. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat.” He leans down and exhales roughly into my neck, making my eyelashes flutter. “I’m in love with you. So punish me as long as you want, Greta. I’m not going anywhere.”

  As fast as he blew into my apartment, he’s gone, the door closing behind him.

  My heart is ten times its usual size and stuck in my throat, stuttering and aching. He loves me. A part of me knew there was nothing rational about our connection the night we met. It was instantaneous and heavy and unrestrained. But hearing the words repairs something inside me that was broken a long time ago. When my mother took the cash and abandoned me. When my father shelled out a payment so his reputation wouldn’t take a hit. Time after time of watching people in my life use money to make people they used to love go away. After all of that, I stopped believing in love, but I can’t help but doubt that conviction now.

  I can’t help but believe Eric.

  How can I do any less when he says those three words to me in that agonized tone? How can I doubt him when he looks at me with a wealth of feeling and truth in his eyes? He loves me.

  And I love him, too.

  It came on like a whirlwind, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

  If anything, the swiftness increases the potency.

  Oh my lord, I do. I love him. But can I forgive him?

  My phone rings on the nightstand and I reach for it, finding my father’s name on the screen. Sighing, I hit talk. “Hi.”

  “Hey, Greta.” He’s been cautious with me ever since the scene at the arena. We’ve never been close and because of that, I’ve never let him see me so upset. But over the last week or so, he’s been calling to check in on me, the way a father is supposed to. It’s almost like he’s started looking at me and seeing a real, live human being now, instead of a commodity. “How are you?”

  I stare at the door Eric just left through, a jagged lump in my throat. “I’m…not that great, actually. Conflicted.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I consider it, but the relationship between me and Eric has such a wild physical element, I’m sure that conversation would get uncomfortable pretty fast. “Maybe some other time. How are you? Getting ready for your first pre-season game?”

  “Tomorrow night!” I hear him rubbing his hands together in the background. “The offense is looking great, thanks to…” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

  “You can say his name. It’s okay.”

  My father is silent for a moment. “I worry Eric is actually playing a little too hard lately. He has no sense of self-preservation during practice. It’s almost like he’s hoping to get hurt. He’s…possessed. Not himself. Short-tempered.”

  “I hope you’re not calling to ask me to help with that.”

  “I’m not. I’m just calling to see if you want tickets to tomorrow night’s game. Front row, opposite our bench. I can leave them at the box office.”

  Instinctively, I start to decline. How painful would it be to sit across from Eric for two to three hours? To watch him play and miss him up close? But I sense my father is trying to repair some of the damage between us and I don’t want to turn him down outright. “Sure, that would be nice.”

  We say our goodbyes, we’re about to hang up, when a curiosity pops into my head. I’m not sure why. I hadn’t even thought about this before, but… “Dad. Um…just wondering. What phony name did Eric sign on the contract?”

  A beat passes.

  When he answers, there is a grudging smile in his voice. “He signed it Mr. Greta Welding.”

  I end the call in a daze, my pulse flapping at the base of my throat.

  My feet move on their own and carry me to the window where I look down at Eric where he has resumed his post outside my building. His hair is mussed from my fingers, his mouth swollen from the vigor of our kisses, arms crossed. Absolutely gorgeous. But not just on the outside.

  In my anger, I’ve forgotten how he came to my rescue at the club.

  How he carries the responsibility for the loss of his friend.

  How he allowed me to restrain him so I’d be in charge of my first time.

  I’ve been so focused on his trickery, I haven’t stopped to think about how fiercely he is fighting for me. And that…that is something I haven’t witnessed throughout my life. Nor have I experienced. Not with my family. Not with anyone.

  He’s not like everyone else.

  My heart beats with that truth and I can’t deny it anymore.

  I know what I have to do.

  Eric

  I just want to be unconscious.

  No matter how many risks I take, no matter how many times I drive the lane at men seven feet tall and built like tanks, I can’t seem to catch that blessed elbow to the face that will finally knock me out. I don’t want to be awake because the pain is too sharp. My heartbeat is beginning to flag, my head full of sand. To call this the worst eight days of my life wouldn’t even begin to cover it—and now I’m expected to win a basketball game. To prove the worth of the investment made in me when all I want is to be outside her window. Waiting outside her classes. When I’m close to her, at least I know she wasn’t a dream.

  The arena is packed to the gills, fans wanting to see the new point guard in action. It’s loud and bright. My skull is a prison for an incessant buzzing sound that has only gotten louder over the last eight days. Pain beats in all areas of my body. My head, chest, stomach. I’m passed the ball during warm-ups and it feels like a foreign object in my hands. I wish I was touching her skin. I wish I’d come inside of her.

  How did I stop myself?
/>   How did I pull out of that tight perfection?

  I’m still not sure. I just couldn’t allow myself to become an easy hookup to her, because, Jesus, that would end me. For good. I hoped that by leaving that one thing undone, she might be tempted to find her way home. What else do I have to work with? None of the gifts I’ve sent have worked. None of my apologies have been good enough. I’m running out of ideas and I’m scared about what I’ll do when my options are gone. How many times have I dreamed of kicking down the door of her apartment, throwing her over my shoulder, bringing her home and locking her up?

  Too many times to count.

  And it is beginning to look like my only viable choice.

  She’ll hate me. But at least she’ll be with me.

  This distance is torture. Not hearing her voice is driving me insane.

  I go through the motions of a lay-up, passing off the ball to the next player in line. Some fans call my name from the sidelines and I glance over, planning to give them a perfunctory wave—and that’s when I see her.

  Greta.

  On the sidelines by herself, watching me with…is that affection in her eyes?

  Do I even have the audacity to hope?

  I stop dead in my tracks, my heart booming deafeningly in my ears. “Greta?”

  A smile spreads across her mouth, her eyes luminous. And when she stands up, I notice for the first time what she’s wearing. It’s an LA jersey. I know before she even turns around that my name is on the back and Christ, I go to her, weaving through photographers and a sideline reporter, the buzzing sound growing dimmer in my head the closer I get to my girl. Please don’t let her be a mirage. A figment of my imagination after eight nights without sleep.

  But no.

  She’s real.

  When I reach Greta and she opens her arms, I scoop her up and hold her, breathing like I’ve just run eighteen miles, my pulse speeding fast enough to make me dizzy. Oh God, she feels so perfect against me. My missing piece. “Have you come back to me, angel?”

  Please please please.

  “Yes,” she whispers into my neck.

  Relief floods me, so heavy I almost drop to a kneel. “You’re wearing my jersey. Does that mean I won the bet? I made you love basketball?”

  “No.” She pulls back and looks me in the eye—and I can see our future there, endless and rich. “It means you made me love you, Mr. Greta Welding.”

  My heart soars up into my throat.

  This girl…despite everything…loves me.

  With wonder, disbelief and gratitude, I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her until she’s writhing against me, the crowd going wild around us. “I love you so much,” I rasp at her lips, just as the buzzer sounds. “Build a life with me. Starting now. Be my life, Greta.”

  “Be mine, too,” she breathes, dragging her fingers through my hair. “I want that more than anything.”

  “I was yours from the first second.”

  The buzzer blares again and the audience begins to chant my name, making Greta giggle and shove me playfully toward the bench. “Go conquer the court, Silent Assassin. You’ll conquer me afterward.”

  And I do.

  Over and over again.

  Forever.

  Epilogue

  Ten Years Later

  Greta

  Carrying my box full of medical supplies, I walk into the gym only to find a familiar sight. My husband trying to teach a bunch of second graders how to play basketball while our daughter hangs from his neck, our other daughter listening to him lecture with the deep concentration she inherited from Eric. Our girls couldn’t be more different from each other, one serious about honing her basketball skills, the other one just in it for the socializing and snacks.

  His voice is like coming home after a long journey, even though I’ve only been gone a couple of hours. I’ve been back at the house working on the website for our youth basketball program, founded by me and Eric when he retired from the league three years ago. After winning four championship titles for the city of LA, his only wish was to spend more time with me and his girls, so he got to work, creating the number one girls’ basketball program in the state.

  I’m the on-site medical trainer, splitting my time between practice, games and my work at a local sports rehab clinic, so I get the best of both worlds, healing world-class athletes and bandaging boo-boos.

  Sometimes, like in this very moment, the happiness hits me so hard, I have to stop and take a deep breath. How can I be anything but blissfully joyful 24/7 with this man as my foundation? And me as his? Thank God I gave him that second chance ten years ago—he’s never squandered it once. No, he finds new ways every day to make me the happiest woman in the world and today was no exception. This morning, when I got into my car, he’d left me flowers on the dashboard and a note detailing every single act he plans to perform on me tonight.

  As if my husband can sense the direction of my thoughts, he turns and spies me over his shoulder, his face transforming with love, lust, relief to have me home. It takes him a visible effort to concentrate again on what he’s saying to the miniature basketball players, but he manages and I lean against the wall, watching him. This man I adore beyond reason. This man who gorges himself on my body like it’s his last meal, never missing an opportunity to get me alone.

  Eric is turning forty tomorrow. He won’t find out about the massive surprise party I’ve been planning until then. But tonight he’s asked me for a different kind of gift. One he gets frequently. Also one he swears to God gets more delicious every single time. One he craves to the point of insanity. Eric wants to use his mouth between my legs. However he wants, for as long as he wants—and the anticipation of it is creating goosebumps up and down my arms.

  It takes an hour for practice to finish.

  And another forty-five minutes for Eric to answer questions from the parents who arrive to pick up their children. We pass out game schedules, the newly designed jerseys, go over some practice techniques for home. After that, the gym is finally empty, no one but me, Eric and our girls. Our snack queen is now hanging from his arm, using it like a monkey bar. The other one is trying to spin a basketball on her finger. We leave the gym together and drive to my father’s house, laughing the entire way at their anecdotes from practice.

  “Now, be good for Grandpa and CeeCee,” I call as the girls run to meet the older couple standing in the driveway wearing smiles ear to ear. My father remarried a few years back and we love my stepmother. She’s become a huge, indispensable part of our lives, especially the children, whom she adores—and she’s definitely turned Eric’s longtime coach and friend into a big softie.

  Yes, there might have been a speed bump or two at the beginning, but our family is united now. Happier than we’ve ever been. And I can’t help but credit the man with his wrist draped over the steering wheel, sexier than any human being has the right to be.

  “You’re speeding,” I point out, trying to hide my smile.

  “Damn right I am,” he growls, reaching over to squeeze my inner thigh, his fingertips traveling higher, all the way to my panties and brushing up and down on my slit. “I fucking need this.”

  Slowly, I peel the underwear down my legs and drop them in his lap. “Don’t worry. You’re going to get it, Daddy.”

  “Shit.” His chest heaves. “I can’t make it home. I need to lick it now.”

  Before I know what he’s going to do, my unpredictable husband pulls the SUV off the road into a wooded area, parking out of view of the road. He’s out in a flash, dragging me from the passenger side and hustling me toward the back seat.

  I know what my husband wants.

  To use his tongue to pleasure me. Over and over. Until I’m a mess who can’t string a sentence together. It’s his favorite pastime. But maybe I want to give him more than one gift for his birthday. I’m allowed, aren’t I?

  Before he can throw me into the backseat, I go down on my knees and start to unbuckle his belt. “Ahhh, Greta.” H
is fingers tangle in my hair, his voice thickening. “What are you doing? You know I can’t think straight when you put me in your mouth.”

  I lower his zipper and bring him out in a fist, rubbing the weight of him against my cheek, stroking reverently. Worshipping the part of him that has brought me unimaginable pleasure over the last decade. “I don’t want you to think straight,” I say, licking the salt from his tip. “I want you to think crooked.”

  Eric groans, bracing a hand on the side of the SUV.

  Knowing exactly what I’m asking for.

  “You want Daddy to fuck that little mouth?” I nod shyly, gasping when he fists my hair, guiding his erection to my lips with the opposite hand, feeding it to me roughly. “Ohhhh shit. I’ve had my eye on this pretty young mouth for a while. Wondering how much it would stretch for a man’s cock.” He pushes deep, bringing tears to my eyes. “Wondering if you could keep that innocent look on your face with my balls pressed to your chin.” He eases in another inch, that smooth, heavy sack finding my face. I blink up at him naively and he pulls out with a curse. “I can’t, little girl. Can’t play when you’re sucking me off. I’ll come. Jesus.”

  I’m still gasping from lack of oxygen when I’m maneuvered into the rear seat, pressed down on my back by an impatient hand.

  “Give up the hot-ass pussy, Greta. Give it,” he growls, shoving my knees open and diving into my flesh with an eager tongue, grunting as he tries to get his fill. Though we both know he never will, he still tries, his lower body rubbing against the side of the back seat, his tongue leaving no land unclaimed. “Ahhhh. FUCK,” he shouts into my flesh, eating me with stiff lips, raking his hands up and down my thighs. Panting and lapping at me when I climax, his thumb finding my clit and working it in little circles until I’m mewling his name, fingers tangled in his hair. “Sweetest little thing,” he says gutturally, kissing my sated folds, tracing his mouth up my belly, trailing the tip of his tongue over my erect nipples, before finally finding my mouth, kissing me with the same amount of passion—no, more—than the first time we kissed ten years earlier. “I’ll give you a minute to rest, then I want more, wife.”