All my inhibitions are gone as I stand in front of him tweaking my nipples. "God, Neal, I've missed the feel of your cock inside me."
"Fuck, baby, you need to talk this way more often," he says, pulling me toward him. I climb on top of Neal, straddling his body and gliding my slick folds along the length of his erection. I pull his hands up to my breasts and moan as he kneads and pinches.
I lean my head forward to kiss him, claiming him with my mouth. My tongue reaches deep into his mouth and skirts along his teeth while his fingers roll my nipples into stiff, aching peaks. Breaking the kiss, I push one breast into Neal's mouth while I continue rocking my hips along his body.
I feel his tongue, warm and wide, lapping at my nipple. His hands remain on both breasts, gripping the sensitive flesh. Neal begins to alternate licking my nipples, sucking hungrily at one before popping off and lavishing attention on the other.
Suddenly I am overcome by the need to feel him inside me, and I raise myself up. As I begin to slide down onto the stiff tip of his cock, Neal reaches out to stop me. "Dahlia, wait. I don't have a condom."
I shake my head. "I have an IUD Neal, and I haven't had sex without a condom before. Ever."
His face is concerned, and I remember his origin story. "I won't get pregnant." I kiss him. "I want to feel you inside me, with nothing between us." I rock my hips again, lowering ever so slightly down onto the silken tip. A moan escapes his throat and he swallows. I watch the large Adam's apple slide up and down and lean in to kiss him.
"Dahlia," he whispers into my mouth, and I sink down until every inch of him slides inside me. I'm so wet that his hard stick glides along my skin like rain down a windowpane. His shaft is smooth as ice, but hard as marble in the moist heat of my pussy. "Fuck, baby," he says. "That feels so good."
His hands move around to my ass as I begin to ride him. I start with my hands braced on his shoulders, moving my hips faster and grinding my clit against his pubic bone with every stroke. I adjust my legs so my feet press into the mattress. I'm squatting above Neal's cock now, plunging down onto him hard as his hands help support my weight.
I bounce up and down on top of him, my tits swinging and my thighs burning until I feel my release building like a wildfire inside my core. "Neal, I'm so close," I say between breaths. "I need you to touch me. Please," I beg him as I continue to ride his dick.
He slides a hand between my legs, the pads of two fingers finding my clit and gently pressing in a slow circle. Neal sits up half way, supporting his weight on one forearm while the other hand massages me. The change in angle is all I need until I'm screaming his name, erupting on top of him, barely hearing the slap of our bodies joining.
My heart is still racing and my legs feel week when Neal lifts me off his lap. He stands up with me, and we frog walk across the room to the mirrored closet. Neal kicks a stool in front of the closet door and sets my feet on top of it. He's so tall that I'm still a half foot shorter than him, even standing on the stool. "Turn around and face the mirror, Dahlia," he says. His low voice rumbles against my body and I feel it vibrate all through me.
Still drunk from my orgasm, I comply. I lean my forehead against the mirror and get a thrill when I can see his reflection behind me. His eyes are wild with lust as he lifts my arms up, spreading my fingers open against the glass beside my head. Neal presses me against the mirror until my breasts are crushed against the cold surface. I feel his hands sliding down the sides of my body and reaching around to massage my thighs.
Neal is still rock hard and pressed against my ass on the stool, but I sigh when he spreads me open with his fingers and slides his cock into my pussy from behind. My breath escapes me with each of his thrusts. I peer into the mirror and meet Neal's eyes as he rams into me. I love the feel of his body against my back, the muscles of his chest sliding along the sweat on my back. "Does it feel good for you, baby?"
I can tell he's holding back, but I want all he has to offer. I want it rough and wild, to make up for the anguish of the past few days and burn off my elation at the resolution. "God, yes, Neal. Fuck me. Please." He redoubles his effort, moving faster. Neal withdraws almost entirely and then slams balls-deep with every thrust. I jerk my hips back to meet him, using my hands on the mirror for leverage. "I love it when you fuck me like this, Neal. Please."
He begins to suck on my shoulder, holding on to both of my hips as bangs into me. And then he meets my eye again in the mirror. He wraps one hand around my body so his fingers graze against my clit, but then his other hand begins spreading my ass cheeks. "Oh God, please. Yes, Neal."
As he continues to fuck my pussy, Neal slides his finger into my ass. I'm sandwiched between his solid arms while his massive cock invades my body and his finger begins it's journey into my most private place. Like before, I feel stretched in every possible direction. This time, with Neal entering me from behind, the experience is more intense. The dual penetration is too much. My knees start to give and I hear myself moaning from somewhere deep inside my soul. My head drops back against his body and I'm screaming, grunting with every thrust as his dick matches pace with his invading finger.
I feel my ass contracting against his finger, the waves of this orgasm spreading through my body until my pussy walls are milking his dick inside me. Somewhere in my consciousness, I become aware of Neal shouting my name. I'm seeing stars as the aftershock of my orgasm continues rolling through my body. And then I feel Neal cum inside me. Warm jets of him spurt inside me, milky and wet. He collapses against my back and we lean against the mirror until I feel his cum sliding down my legs.
Neal reaches a hand down between my legs, touching the aftermath of our efforts, and laughs softly. "That was so good. Dahlia, I never came that hard before."
I still can't talk, but manage to turn around in his arms and kiss him. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close, and I feel so perfectly content. I want to freeze this moment in time, when I feel so safe and so close to him. My body is still stretched from drawing him inside but when he kisses me, I know that nothing in the world can harm me in this moment.
He carries me back to the bed and we fall asleep in each other's arms, the words "I love you" the last I hear or speak before I slip into the deepest rest I've known in weeks.
~~~
By finals week, I'm so busy I barely have time to eat. I wake up at five each day with Neal, only instead of the ice I head to the math lab to work on calculations for my final projects. I stay there until my eyes start to cross with wariness each night, and Neal protests when I collapse into the bed beside him, too tired even to make love. I finally turn in the last paper for my logic class and rush over to the building where I know Neal will be sitting for his final exam.
He's been studying late into the night, scratching his playoff beard and throwing pencils at me as I try to reorganize his flash cards. But I promised Dr. Meyer I'd make good on my offer to give him a good luck kiss before the test, even though I'm confident he doesn't need it.
I wait for him outside the auditorium, perched on a bench wearing my new Sweeney jersey over the red pi shirt I want him to find later when he peels off my layers. When the doors open an hour later, he smiles, finding me sitting there. I raise my eyebrows in question and he pumps his fist before scooping me up into his arms.
I squeal in excitement for him, knowing this class was one of his final hurdles in his college career. As his hands grope me in the auditorium lobby, I urge him back toward his dorm. "You need to get your rest, Mr. Sweeney," I say, as he ignores me and begins sucking on my neck. "You have a national championship to win."
~~~
The day of the big game arrives, and I leave Neal and the guys to prepare. I head to the arena to sit with Gayle and the other hockey parents. I swell with pride as the announcer calls Neal's name in the starting lineup. His face shows up on the jumbo TV screen and they ask, "What are your plans for after the season?"
Video-Neal grins. "I gotta work on getting drafted by the Boston S
aints. My girl will be at MIT."
Tyler's mom squeezes my shoulders. "You didn't tell us you're moving to Boston," she says. I smile at her and she gives me a knowing look as Neal skates forward for his recognition lap. It's his final game as a senior at SCU, and he knows he's up for the draft this spring. As he skates by our section, our eyes meet.
I mouth "I love you," to him and smile as he bangs on the glass and says, "I love you, too."
As the puck drops for the faceoff, I know, for maybe the first time in my life, that everything is going to be ok. Neal comes out with the puck and he's off, dashing toward the goal.
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
It's the last week of classes and I've decided to go easy on my freshmen calc students. Somehow they managed to figure out that I'm engaged to Neal Sweeney, rookie forward for the Boston Saints. Half the class shows up wearing Saints jerseys, pleading with me to skip homework so they can all watch the big game.
"Besides, Professor Ward," which they've all decided to call me, "then you won't have so much grading tomorrow night and you can celebrate a big Saints victory. Am I right?" I roll my eyes at them, but assign only one set of problems, with harsh reminders that our final exam is next week.
I pack up my things and move to follow my students out of the room when I see a hulk of a man with wild, curly hair and bright blue eyes standing at the back of my classroom. I rush over to him, jumping into his arms for a kiss. "Neal! I didn't think I was going to get to see you today." He leaves our apartment early on game days to review video and spend time with the trainer. "Don't you have to be on the ice soon?"
He grins and pulls the classroom door shut behind him. I raise an eyebrow at him and he says, "I wanted to talk with someone about my angles first. Are there any formulas to help with my slapshot?" Neal drags a chair in front of the door and wedges it under the handle.
His mouth is on mine before I can think of a witty comeback, his hands pulling my blouse loose from my skirt. "Do you have time to be doing this?" I worry he's going to get caught in traffic and miss his own professional hockey match.
"I've been thinking about you in your teacher clothes all damn day," he breathes into my neck. "I need you now, and again later after the game." He lifts me up and carries me to the desk at the front of the room. I'm about to protest that someone might walk in despite his chair trick, but I know half the campus has either gone home to study or gone to the student lounge to watch the pre-game show.
Once Neal gets a hand up my skirt, I give up worrying and lift my hips as he slides my panties down. "Do you need help lining up your shot, Sweeney?" I pull on his jeans, yanking open his fly.
He's stiff and ready for me and when he glides into my waiting depths I moan into his mouth, smothering the sound of my pleasure. Neal slides one hand up my skirt to press into my clit and steadies himself with the other arm wrapped around my back. Caught up in his arousal and his need for me, I'm soon convulsing against him, wrapping my legs around his waist. I feel him shudder and the warm spray of his pleasure spreads inside my body.
Afterward, he zips up his fly and finds my panties on the ground. He pockets them and winks at me. "For luck," he says. I laugh at him and grab my things, following him out into the cold Boston winter.
"You're coming to the game, aren't you?" He takes my hand and looks at me, concerned.
I reach up on tiptoe to kiss my fiancé under the streetlight. "Always, babe. I go where you go."
He drops me off at the apartment we share along the Charles River. I hurry to change into my custom Sweeney jersey and make my way to the stadium to watch the love of my life take the ice.
POSSESSION
CHAPTER ONE
Olive
Hey Liv, u got any mac n cheese? His texts come at all hours. He’s always hungry whenever practice lets out, and the dining halls are always closed by the time Coach lets the team go from evening practice. But does Baxter Morgan keep his cupboards stocked with snacks? No. No he does not.
And I definitely enable him. I sigh. I tap back, Of course I’ve got mac n cheese.
UR a lifesaver. C u in 10.
I remember the first day I met Baxter Morgan. His family bought the house next to mine months prior, but my parents were never the type to bring over a casserole or welcome anyone to the neighborhood. I was 8 years old, and I didn’t really have the words to explain that my parents’ drunken arguments terrified me, but I knew I felt better when I climbed inside the forsythia hedge between our two properties and hid there until my parents screamed themselves to sleep.
One night, I nearly peed my pants when I heard the leaves rustle and the branches parted to reveal a curly head in the dark. Wide brown eyes blinked at me. He looked like he’d been crying, too, but neither of us ever talked about that.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” I told him that night in the hedge.
He shrugged and climbed in, sitting next to me in the dirt. “Yeah, well I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”
In the 12 years since, we’ve hardly been separated. Baxter Morgan is my best friend in the entire world, the only person I consider family. He comes to kill the spiders I find in my dorm, I buy him processed cheese pasta, and we look out for each other.
There’s just one problem.
I’m hopelessly, fully, desperately in love with him.
Bax taps on the glass window of my dorm room and I ease it open for him. We figured out that if I got a single room on the back side of the first floor of McPherson Hall, he could get around the visiting hours and “no male overnight guests” rules by climbing in and out as he pleased.
The microwave beeps as I try not to stare at the exposed skin on his muscular back when his t-shirt catches on the window sill. This one-sided attraction I’ve got? It’s just something I have to deal with, something I have to figure out how to tamp down. He sinks into the couch beneath my loft bed, groaning in pleasure as I hand him the steaming bowl of microwaved noodles. “Fuck, Liv, this hits the spot.”
I have to choose, like always, if I’m going to sit at a safe distance, across the room from him in my computer chair…or curl up next to him on the loveseat, waiting for his silent signals that it’s ok to rest my head on his sweaty shoulder. I used to just enjoy being near Bax. Just felt warm and safe around him. I’m not sure when all that shifted so that my pulse races and I feel flutters deep in my belly just thinking about the scent of his soap. Jesus, I’m so far gone, I don’t even care that he smells like a shoe after practice.
It’s sweet, agonizing torture to touch him and know that his soothing hugs mean something different to him. I’m the sister he never had. He’s told me so again and again, and it’s true. Bax is family to me. But my heart just hasn’t caught up with the rational part of my brain. It’ll happen. Eventually this lust I feel for him will pass and all that will remain is the deep bond of friendship.
That happens, right? We grew up together. We went through some terrible shit together. We look out for each other. It’s not my fault he’s drop-dead gorgeous with the body of an elite college athlete. Baxter Morgan is objectively hot as sin. His light brown curls are always just the slightest bit overgrown. His deep brown eyes are always just the slightest bit puppy-dog. And that deep voice of his melts my bones as it vibrates through my body.
“Hello? Liv?”
Shit. He’s talking to me and I drifted off again, obsessing about our relationship. “Sorry. What’s up, B?”
He talks with his mouth full, inhaling the bowl of noodles in just a few forkfuls. “I asked if you’re coming to my game on Saturday. We’re home this week.”
I grin and tousle his hair, still damp with sweat from practice. “And just when have I ever missed a home game?”
He nudges me with his elbow. “Um, hello? You missed the game against Ohio.”
“I was in the hospital with pneumonia, asshole.” He grins and reminds me that he tried to convince the coaching staff and the hospital to set me up i
n one of the executive suites in the stadium, IV pole and all.
“I play better with you there,” he says, tossing the empty bowl on the milk crate I use for a coffee table. He belches and leans back in the seat with his hands clasped behind his head, stretching his long legs out and practically filling up my entire room.
I wrap my arms around his broad chest for a hug and murmur into his shirt that I need to get back to my homework. “I’ve got an 8am class tomorrow,” I say, hoping but not actually daring to hope that he’ll lift my chin and kiss me until I don’t notice that I’m tired.
I don’t want his usual peck on the cheek or the top of the head. That’s standard fare for us. No, I want Baxter Morgan to kiss me, like I see him doing to countless jersey chasers over the years. I want him to slam me against the wall during a party and roll his hips against mine, take me by the hand and lead me back to his room and destroy my body.
But he doesn’t do any of those things. He stands and stretches, giving me another painful glimpse of his abs when that damn t-shirt rises up again. He leans down and pecks me on the top of my head and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t work too late—you do your best thinking while you’re asleep anyway.”
“Who told you that?”
He lifts the window and starts climbing out, winking at me as he goes. “Smartest gal I know.” And then he’s gone into the night, leaving me to my essay.
CHAPTER TWO
Bax
“Fuck,” I mutter as I brush myself off. Climbing in and out of Olive’s window is getting old. I know I shouldn’t call her at all hours, but I swear, if I don’t see her at least once every day, I feel tight through my chest. Like my skin doesn’t fit.
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