by Kat T. Masen
I can see Wes’ demeanor change instantly, watching me with cautious eyes.
“Hadn’t thought about it. I might call Ash tonight and see if I can squeeze some time with him.”
“Oh, kid, call him later. They’re out on a double date. Alessandra set Logan up with a nurse from her work. Can you imagine that? I hate to admit, but I think those boys have a fetish for medical professionals.”
Logan’s on a date with a nurse?
My stomach hardens at the thought. I’m well aware Wesley’s still watching me, so I quickly come up with something to say to suppress my jealousy. “All right, Mom, I’ll give him a buzz tomorrow.”
“Night, kiddo… night, Wes.”
We say goodnight in unison before I hang up and throw my cell on the sofa beside me.
“What are we watching?” I ask, eyes fixed on the screen ignoring my head telling me that I have no right to be jealous. We agreed that whatever went on outside that hotel room doesn’t matter. Who we saw, what we did.
“Game of Thrones?”
“Sure, why not.”
He pauses the screen and turns to face me. “Em, I’m trying here. I fucking miss you,” he strains.
“I know,” I say quietly, turning to face him.
His stubble covers his square jaw, and with his eyes serious and begging for forgiveness, I find myself softening under his gaze.
Placing his hands on my cheek, I rest my face in his palm allowing myself to revisit the feelings of being in love with Wesley Rich. He’s warm, and only a small part of me wishes things were the same. The other part of me is raging with jealousy that Logan’s fucking some slut.
I allow him to kiss me—without the cameras present.
It’s soft, sweet, and nothing like the ravenous Wesley who would practically maul me each time we kiss. When I retract, he tugs on the string of my tank and pulls it down, exposing my shoulder. He kisses my skin, and when my eyes close all I see is Logan.
This isn’t fair. I feel guilty no matter which way I look at it.
Moving his hand against my stomach, he moves upward until he’s cupping my breasts, growling into my neck and applying pressure with his body weight. The passion builds, but the mere thought of screwing Wes again is outweighed by the guilt of what I’ve done.
“Stop,” I murmur, laying my hands on his chest and pushing him back.
“Emerson, please don’t. I need you,” he begs.
“I need more time.”
His expression changes, eyes wild and full of anger. “You can’t fucking do this,” he yells. “Walking around and teasing me, telling me now when I know you need to be fucked. It’s been over a month, Emerson. If you don’t need to be fucked then you’re fucking someone else.”
“I’m not fucking anyone else,” I lie so easily.
“Then prove it. Fuck me. That’s all I ask of you.”
“No, Wesley, give me time to forgive you.”
“You’ve had time,” he pushes, disrespecting my wishes.
“Two months is not enough time to get over the hurt of you fucking two hookers,” I argue back. “We were supposed to get married. You threw that out the window, for what?” With my heart racing, scared he will call me out on what Logan and I have done, we both remain as silent as possible, the vibration of my cell distracting me. I quickly pick it up wanting to diffuse the argument.
There are two notifications on my screen. One from Farrah tagging Wesley and me in a picture. I forgot she’d even taken it. Wes has his arm around me and I’m smiling. The caption reads—Even when the cameras stop rolling, these two can’t keep their hands off each other. #SoontobeMr&MrsRich
I don’t know why she would post something like that, but I show Wes the picture calming his curiosity. I can see his shoulders relax, the breath of air he’s holding in releasing slowly.
The second is a text from Ash.
Ash: Mom just told me you’re coming to London. I’ll call you tomorrow. Trying to find somewhere else to crash tonight because Logan took his date home and told me he’s fucking her till the sun is up. Night sis.
I don’t know why I showed the text to Wes, maybe because I wanted him to see that Logan and I have nothing going on. That, and my heart’s pumping so hard, emitting a burning sensation in my chest. Placing the cell down, I sit against the couch pretending my silence is driven by our argument and not by the hurt and jealousy over a man who means nothing to me.
“How long do you need?” Wes breaks the silence.
I answer with haste, “For what? To repair a broken heart?”
“I said I was fucking sorry!” He raises his voice again, running his hands through his hair.
My stress levels peak, on a night when I want to lay here and do nothing. I don’t understand why Logan has to be such a prick. Demanding me to come play then running off with someone else. Mom’s right, he will destroy any woman who falls in love with him.
Not that I’m in love with him.
“How many times do I need to tell you? You can’t erase the past so easily. And by the way…” I add, bringing up his stupid comment during lunch, “… your barbaric persona at lunch today was not well received.”
“Neither was your comment on fucking British men,” he shoots back.
“I never said I was going to fuck British men.” I shake my head, laughing at the way he twists my words and makes me out to be the bad guy.
“That’s right. You won’t. Nor will you fuck any other man.” He puts his arm around me, flipping me beneath him and pinning me on the sofa. He stares me down, keeping his body upright on both his arms. With a supremely threatening gesture, he bellows over me, “I’m no longer taking no for answer.” Tugging my top down, he exposes my breasts, reacting with wild eyes.
I battle with his touch, missing the parts of him that still feel the same. I fight the jealousy reminding me that at this moment, Logan’s buried in some other woman’s body. My emotions run deep, tugging me in each direction without an answer in sight.
And so, I do what I need to do to remind myself that Logan isn’t mine.
“Fine, Wes.... have your way.”
Chapter Fifteen
“It takes a moment of terror
to realize everything
that’s missing from your life.”
~ Logan Carrington
I can’t get her out of my mind. I’ve done everything I can to forget about her. Nonstop personal training from the crack of dawn. Then team training at the main fields. When training’s over, I exert myself at the gym. Then when night comes around, the exhaustion kills me.
And, repeat.
Day after day.
“I know you want to win, but don’t you think you’re pushing yourself too far?” Ash worries, stretching his legs before our game.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, raising my arms above my head and stretching my muscles.
“You haven’t been the same since we got back from the States. I think I know what your problem is.”
I raise my brow, wondering if he knows how hard I fucked his sister and that’s why I can’t sleep at night. If he knew the image of her lying beneath me is so ingrained in my memory that nothing else matters right now.
“You’re lonely. You haven’t fucked some good pussy and you’re on edge.”
I shrug, bored of his interrogation. With the ball at my feet, I shoot for the top right corner.
Fuck. I missed it by barely an inch.
“You never miss.” Ash panics under duress. “We’re going out tonight.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Not even another nurse?” He winks, positioning the ball in front of him.
“Maybe...” I play the idea in my head. “No, actually, I’m busy.”
He exhales, distracted by the whistle as Coach calls us in to begin our warm-ups.
We’re a strong team, and this close to winning our quarter-finals. Where our team let us down, Coach is quick to point the finger. Coach is an angry man,
dedicated but unforgiving when it comes to mistakes. He repeatedly warns the both of us to pick up our game and not allow our personal lives to affect it whatsoever.
Ash proved himself—Alessandra’s not a distraction. She’s a nothing. Although she lives with us, she’s rarely home, and on occasions when they both are there they do separate things.
We finish on time and instead of hitting the gym, I stumble back home and lay in bed. Even when I try to relax, I think of her. The way her body melted underneath my touch and how her eyes begged me to fuck her hard. I couldn’t stop staring at her body, from her nice round tits that pinched perfectly between my fingers, to the smell of her sweet pussy.
She’s perfect in every fucking way.
And I hate that.
Yesterday had me weak. Coach drilled me for sloppy defending and even I knew something was off. I needed a release, and it began with an innocent text that ended up with her rubbing her clit and coming for me. I came three fucking times watching that video.
My dick’s red, raw, and stinging like a motherfucker with how hard I rubbed it out. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight—wet, bare, and perfectly pink.
I wanted to call her and hear her voice, but I held back, reminding myself that we’re having fun. Playing this dangerous game of not wanting to be caught and standing on the ledge playing with fucking fire.
But all of it, everything, begins to eat away at me.
I couldn’t curb my jealousy when I saw an image of her on Instagram with Wesley, posted by Farrah Beaumont referring to their lunch date and how happily in love they are. I recall the moment vividly—punching the lamp beside me and seeing it smash to the floor in a million pieces. I didn’t expect to experience that type of jealousy, yet I did, and there’s no cure but to forget she even exists.
Ash was pumped that I agreed to go out on a double date. The nurse he set me up with was a friend of Alessandra’s, a woman named Georgia. She was pretty, long legs and firm ass. Small tits but it didn’t matter. I fucked her once with my red-raw dick and ended up having to pull out when the rubber got uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have done it, but I needed someone else to make me forget about her. I’ve never been so preoccupied during sex. My mind wasn’t in it, thinking about Emmy the entire time.
I’m tired of it.
I want my life back without Emmy in it.
Georgia became clingy, demanding a second round and wanting to stay the night. I told her I didn’t do sleepovers so she left the apartment in a blind fit of rage while calling me every name under the sun. I didn’t care, because I long for solitude.
Without Ash or Alessandra, I have too much time to think about all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Then, I caved.
Season One—Episode One.
I binge-watched the whole first season of Generation Next and finally saw the so-called ‘moment’ Wesley Rich fell in love with Emerson Chase.
I hated watching him gain her love.
I hated, even more, witnessing their first kiss and subtle walk to the bedroom. The way her smile changed after that, she was happy and content.
I detest he makes her feel that way.
I hate the fact he still controls her.
Actually, I hate everything about them.
Yet, the masochistic side of me continued watching until my eyes grew heavy and sleep was imminent. I’ve started a bad habit and it’s one I don’t know how to break.
***
We ramped up training due to the big game this Saturday against Manchester. I’m pumped and ready to go. They have had straight wins—no losses this season—and I want to break their luck and show them we’re going to take this game to the next level.
Ash leaves training early to run some errands. I don’t ask, annoyed that ‘errands’ are more important than the fucking game. With Chris watching on, I know he will control his son—I don’t have to be the responsible one today.
Every limb, bone, part of my body is in deep pain. I can barely walk to the elevator, even pressing the button’s a struggle. I don’t ever remember training so hard and mentally killing myself on the field. I’m drenched in dirt and sweat but opt to shower at home peacefully rather than in the locker room with the boys so I head home.
As I open the apartment door, I plan on taking a shower but having only an hour to spare before heading out to the studio to join a panel to discuss this week’s highlights.
The smell of Alessandra’s strong coffee graces the apartment, along with a familiar laugh.
“Look who’s here.” Ash is sitting on the coffee table, facing the sofa, and I don’t notice anyone until Emerson sits up and gazes straight at me.
My chest broadens, my muscles stiffening harder than I thought possible, as I’m shocked to see her sitting inside my apartment. The first thing I notice is her hair has changed again, it’s a silver tone with light brown roots. She’s dressed in a pale pink knitted sweater with dark blue jeans and knee-high boots.
Why does she have to look like that?
Casually sexy.
The worst type of sexy.
The sexy that reminds you why you’re drawn to her.
Her smart mouth and alluring eyes make you want to fall to your knees and worship her like no other man has.
Fucking hell! Grow some balls. You’re still angry at her.
The back of her hair is a mess from lying down, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“Hey.” She waves, watching me cautiously with her deep blue stare.
I force a smile, scared to give any other reaction away other than my state of shock.
Alessandra has joined us, handing Emerson a cup of coffee.
“You’re here?”
“She’s filming for the next three days,” Ash tells me animatedly. “We should go out to the pub or something.”
“I’m on a tight schedule,” she announces, moving her eyes away from where I’m standing.
“Then don’t let us stop you.” I carry my bag, walking straight past them. Inside my room, I throw my bag down, while leaning back on the door with my eyes closed.
She’s here.
She’s real.
She’s no longer a figment of my imagination.
Opening my eyes, I try to get the image of the way she stared at me out of my head. Her blue eyes always do that to me. It’s like putting me in some kind of trance that stops me from thinking straight or with some sort of reason.
Stripping down to nothing, I step inside my bathroom and take a long, hot shower, relaxing my tense muscles. The only muscle I can’t relax is the one down below which is raging hard with no happy ending to cure the sadness it’s currently facing.
I could rub one out, but choose not to—a way to avoid the torture of reliving our moment in the hotel. Something I’ve done on too many occasions that only makes everything worse.
I get dressed in my navy suit, white collared shirt, and matching navy tie. Splashing on some cologne, I finish with placing my watch on my wrist and then make my way to the living room to be greeted by only Ash.
Fixing my cuffs, I pretend to be uninterested asking, “Where she’s gone.”
“I think back to her hotel.”
“Where’s she staying?”
“Somewhere in London,” he responds without giving me many details.
I hide my disappointment, wishing I hadn’t acted like a dick because I’m pissed off she’s still with Wesley, even though I have no reason to be since we both agreed to have fun without getting involved. Probably the most-stupidest idea I have ever had.
“I’m meeting her tonight for drinks if you want to tag along.”
“We have a game tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just one drink. How often do I get to see my sister, huh?”
“Get changed, we only have ten minutes before the car arrives.”
Ten minutes later he emerges fully dressed and looking presentable.
“It’s like
you’re fucking Clark Kent,” I joke, always amazed at his ability to get ready within the smallest amount of time.
“It’s called… a wife... and an ironing board.”
“You’d be caught dead saying that in front of her,” I point out.
“Probably. She likes to suck my dick so I could save myself that way.”
We both laugh, closing the door behind us as make our way down to the hire car and toward the studios.
***
The panel took four hours for a one-hour segment. I’ve done several of these and being in front of the camera’s no biggie. On panels, like today, we engage in a healthy debate over club corruption and how it affects the players and coaches. The discussion lasted for most of the segment, and by the time we finished I needed a drink.
The car service drives us to the pub where Emmy and her crew are hanging out tonight. I dread seeing Wesley, knowing I have to restrain myself from punching him in the fucking face.
Then there’s that part of me that wants to play dirty.
A challenge if you will, to make her squirm while under his watch.
The pub’s located in the West End—small, quaint, with the usual drunken crowd that frequent these types of joints on a Friday night. When Ash and I moved here a few years ago, we hit all the pubs each weekend until it no longer became fun and the women were all the same.
Outside the pub, there’s a hoard of paparazzi standing by with cameras in hand. A few attempt to take photographs through the glass, but appear disappointed when they look at their cameras.
Two of them spot us and ask for a picture, and whether we’re ready for the game tomorrow. Ash talks their ears off, and I start to pull him along desperate to get inside.
Two bodyguards stand out front—tall, built like fucking tanks who watch anyone who enters.
“Oi…” the bearded one holds Ash back, “… what business you want in there?”
Ash bravely removes the man’s hand from his chest. “My fucking sister, Emerson.”
He lets us go while his facial expression remaining impassive.