Out of Bounds (12 page)

My hands shoot into his hair, gripping the strands harder, tugging him even closer still. My belly tightens, and I near the edge. My noises grow louder, filling the air as I moan and groan his name.

Then, I’m panting and saying
oh God, oh God, oh God
, over and over as I rock my hips into his face, curl my hands tight around his head, and soar into the sky from the pleasure. I come undone on his lips in a wild frenzy.

He pulls away and tugs off his shirt, as I blink open my eyes. What a lucky lady I am. The man undressing in front of me has a body to die for. No surprise there, but then I’d never take this kind of masculine beauty for granted. I could enjoy the view all day long.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” I say.

“Why thank you. You’re pretty fucking bodacious yourself.”

I crack up. “Bodacious? I haven’t heard that word in ages.”

“I haven’t used it in ages. Or ever. But it fits you.”

I sit up and reach for his jeans, unbuttoning, then unzipping, and soon I’ve stripped this gorgeous man down to nothing. I’ve seen him close enough to nude before—shirtless on the
beach,
and bottomless in his car. But right now, he’s wearing nothing and the look suits him. I gasp. I can’t help myself. He’s so stunning. His body is unreal, and I get to play with it, use it, have it, taste it.

I grasp his hips, raise my face, and say, “I want you to fuck me now.”

His eyes darken. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

He reaches for a condom from his wallet and rolls it on, as I lie down on the couch. I open my legs for him, but he shakes his head.

“Maybe I misunderstood, but I thought this was where you wanted to be?”

He laughs as he parks himself on the couch, and pats his legs. “Get on me. I want you to ride me. And I want to play with your tits at the same time.”

His game plan sounds good to me.

I straddle him and he grasps my hips, positioning me over his cock. I rub the head against my wetness, and he draws a sharp breath, his mouth falling open. “Fuck, I want to be inside you so bad.”

I ease down on his erection, and as he fills me inch by delicious inch, I moan. It feels so good. He’s big, but I’m ridiculously wet, so taking him in isn’t a problem. Soon, he’s in deep, and the feeling is intense. Goose bumps rise all over my skin as I start to move on him. His strong hands dig into my hips and he guides me. Shuddering from the wild sensations, I lean in closer, my breasts brushing his chest.

He groans as he thrusts inside me, stroking up.

His big hands run up my waist to my stomach and he covers my belly with one palm. There’s something strangely possessive in the gesture, in the way he’s touching me, and I like it.
I
ride him, savoring the fullness, thrilling at the way pleasure burrows deep inside my body, spreading and slinking to every corner. His hands glide up and he cups my breasts, squeezing.

I cry out. “Oh God, that feels so good.”

“So fucking good,” he says as he plays with them.

I’m not one of those women who has a special spot—I’m not a breast girl, or an ear girl, where I can get off with a lick or kiss in a certain zone. But here with Drew, my entire body feels like an erogenous zone as he fucks me and fills me.

“You look so beautiful riding my cock, Dani,” he says in a filthy whisper. His words seem both dirty and tender.

I moan, letting my head fall back as I find my perfect pace, rocking up and down on him.

“Love the way your sweet pussy grips me,” he growls, and I gasp from the lovely smut that falls from his mouth.

Then, with one hand kneading a breast, he drops the other between my legs. He finds my clit, and he rubs. The sensations make me moan. Make me groan. Make me cry out in wild, thrilling pleasure.

And before I know it, my words are as wild as his. As base and as dirty.

Fuck me.

I’m begging you.

Harder. Deeper.

Love your cock so far in me.

Fuck me harder. Please, fuck me harder.

His groans turn carnal. Animalistic. We become a hot, wild thing, a smashing of sweaty, greedy bodies, and I’m nothing but desire and the wish to come. As my muscles tense, pleasure
erupts
everywhere in me. There’s no part of me that’s untouched by this climax that simply consumes me. “Oh God, it’s so good, so good, so good.”

And on my twentieth
so good
, he pulls out, flips me over, and positions me on all fours on my couch. He gets behind me and slides back inside.

Talk about deep.

This man fills me and stretches me like I’ve never been stretched before. He’s so far inside, I swear I’m feeling him in new places. But it all seems like heaven as he clasps his hands on my ass and punches his hips, pounding me.

That’s what this is. It’s the lashing of rain against a window. Like a wild storm. Like thunder. Like the ocean waves crashing into the shore. And I want that wave. I want to fall under it, feel all of it.

“Fuck, Dani. So fucking good. I’m gonna come so hard.”

Knowing he’s reached the edge is all I need to find it again. Another orgasm rattles through my body as he comes inside me, and I join him in that sweet land of ecstatic bliss, our moans and groans layering on top of each other in the soundtrack to our first time.

Soon, we collapse in a sweaty heap on my couch, and he smothers my neck in kisses again. Then my cheek, then my ear. “Hey you.”

“Hey you.”

“We’re going to do that again soon, right?”

“We better.”

“I need to warn you. I have a big appetite, so I’m gonna need a lot of sex. Because I love fucking you,” he says, his voice husky. Then, he takes a beat, looks into my eyes, and says, “And I’m also totally falling for you.”

And
there’s little better than this. Sex with the person you’re falling for. The dopey smile on my face matches his. “I’m falling for you too.”

Chapter Twelve

Drew

I open the door to leave my apartment on Saturday morning, and do a double take.

Jason stands outside, fist poised to knock.

“Dude, what’s up? I need to head to the stadium for the walk-through,” I say, since today is all about reviewing the strategy and playbook for tomorrow. We have a chance to make it five in a row when San Francisco comes to town.

“Just this little thing known as a meeting.” He taps his watch. “I was at the coffee shop down the block waiting for you, man. To talk about Qwench and some other stuff that I’m looking into. But you didn’t show. What’s up?”

I drag a hand through my hair. “Right. Shit. Sorry. I forgot.”

He jerks his head, and gives me a quizzical look. “That’s not like you. But that’s why I texted to see what was up. You didn’t get my texts?”

“Um,” I say, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. Truth was I was messaging Dani for the last twenty minutes. “Must have missed it.”

“Just like you missed it a few nights ago when I told you I was working on some new deals for you?” He arches an eyebrow. Jason’s a chill dude, and he’s rarely ruffled. But there’s a fine layer of irritation coming through loud and clear in his tone.

“Sorry, man. Been a crazy week.”

After holding back for what felt like forever, Dani and I have made up for lost time. I’ve seen her every night after practice, and hell, every night it gets better and hotter and longer.

“You getting enough sleep?” he asks, his protective side out in full force.

“
Yeah, totally,” I say, because it’s true. I know myself. Know my body.

“Good. You’ve always needed a solid eight hours.”

I do the math. Last night I clocked exactly eight. I give him a thumbs-up. “I’m getting it, man. I’m getting it.”

“Good. And I’m guessing you missed my message this morning because you were busy texting with the woman as soon as you woke up?”

I look down, then back up. Why do I feel guilty for missing his messages? Maybe because I’ve kind of been missing shit all week. But that’s what happens in the early days of a relationship, right? You can’t get enough of each other, and all I’ve wanted to do for the last week has been to play ball, and then to play with her.

So that’s all I’ve done.

“Yeah,” I say, admitting the truth.

He claps me on the shoulder. Squeezing harder than I expect. “Glad you’re into her, man. Just . . . you know.”

I cock my head to the side. “You know, what?”

He taps his temples. “Just keep your focus.”

I clench my teeth, then answer him. “I am all focus. I’m pretty much made of focus. And right now, let’s focus on Qwench. Because here’s the thing. I don’t think this company is a good fit.”

“Yeah?”

We’re still standing in the doorway, but the clock’s ticking, and Dani’s words ring in my ears. Another thing that’s slipped my mind is bringing it up with him. No time like the present. “Dani told me that Qwench ran into some trouble with tax fraud.”

Jason
frowns in confusion. “You were talking to her about your business affairs?”

A kernel of guilt takes root inside me, like maybe I shouldn't have. But it didn’t seem wrong. It seemed really fucking helpful. “Dani said she’s happy to share the details with you. She was just trying to be helpful,” I add, but the words sound awkward coming out of my mouth, and I feel like an ass. Like I’m defending my girlfriend to my buddy, and I should not have to do that. Nor should I feel like I did something wrong by talking to her.

He arches an eyebrow. “I’m sure she was. I’d love to know more. I’m just surprised you went to her for advice.”

“It wasn’t advice. I was talking to her about you, man,” I say, poking his chest because he’s pissing me off. “Telling her you’re a good friend, how we did everything together as kids, and how we work together now. I mentioned we were working on a potential deal. And she fucking offered the information, okay?”

He holds up his hands in surrender.

A heaviness sets into my chest. Fuck. Now I’m that dude who questions his buddy because of a chick. “She’s a lawyer, you know. She knows stuff about business and deals.” I say, like I have to defend my thought process. But screw that. Jason’s had my back my whole life.

“Bet you don’t miss meetings with her though.”

I roll my eyes. “Low blow, man.”

The corner of his lips quirk up, like he’s saying,
yeah, but you deserve it, asshole
.

Maybe I do.

“But either way, I’ll look into it. That’s what I do.” Then his expression softens. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

It’s not entirely heartfelt, but I’m not entirely feeling that way either.

I
wave a hand in the air, erasing the conversation. “Need to go. Can’t be late. I got a streak on the line.”

Then I take off for work.

At the stadium as we walk through our game plan, I put both my friend and the woman out of my mind. I have tunnel vision, and that’s all I need right now. I don’t talk to either one of them the rest of the day or on Sunday. By the time the team hits the field for kickoff, I’m in the zone.

***

And it’s not enough.

We lose and we lose hard.

After falling behind at the end of the first half, I have to throw even more. I’m chased around the backfield, tossing rushed passes, which turn into dropped passes, and then I launch a motherfucking interception that puts San Francisco ahead even more.

They pad their lead and never look back, finishing with what can only be described as a pummeling.

Elkins is as sullen as they come when we walk off the field. “I shouldn’t have left my lucky socks where my dog could get them.”

I snap my gaze to him as we head into the stadium. “Your dog ate your socks?”

Elkins nods, his face dejected. “My German shepherd chowed down on one of my lucky socks last night. I wore them for the first four games, but he found them and chewed the heel off one.”

I pat him on the back. “Pretty sure it was my shitty throws, not your dog’s taste for stinky footwear.”

Elkins
shakes his head adamantly. “No, man. You never fuck with a streak. And I did. He taps his chest. “This one is on me.”

“Then does that mean if you catch twenty passes in a row like a badass mofo, that it’s all due to your socks, not your skills?”

“It’s different when you win. Winning is skills. But messing with a winning streak? That’s just something you don’t do.”

The conversation nags at me as I shower, as I head to the parking lot, and as I drive home that evening, dreading tomorrow morning’s first post-loss workout, because Coach will likely tear us a new one. The whole time I reflect on what Elkins said.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe you don’t fuck with a streak.

But not for the reasons he said. Not because of luck, or superstition, or football gods shining in your favor when you wear smelly socks.

You don’t fuck with a streak because it ruins your focus. It messes with your head. And football isn’t just a physical game, it’s a mental one. When your priorities change, when you stretch yourself to fit in more than you think you can, that’s the real screwing with a streak.

That’s what I’ve been doing.

Once inside my home, I crack open a beer and flick on the TV. Force of habit takes me straight to SportsCenter. Why I do this, I don’t know. But there’s something about putting your finger in the flame. You know it hurts, but you do it anyway.

Let it burn.

Pointing the remote at the TV, I crank up the volume. Soon enough, the host launches into his football recap, and lands on my team.

“
Drew Erickson has played impeccably all season, but today the Los Angeles Knights earned their first L of the season. Let’s dig into what broke their four-and-zero record.”

Part of me wants to shout, “It was just four games.”

But another part of me knows deeply that every goddamn game matters. Muting the TV, I park myself on the couch, head in my hand. What went wrong in the game? Where did I fuck up? How can I learn?

When I raise my face and take a long swallow of the beer, the answer rears its head once more.