by Madison Faye
“That all?”
I scowl.
“Yes, Waverly, that’s all.”
“It’s not that you saw, I don’t know, a guy flirting with me, and decided to come over and play caveman?”
My eyes narrow. Basically, she’s entirely right, but I shove it aside.
“Why would that bother me?”
“I’m curious too,” she snaps. “Seeing as there’s nothing here.”
“There isn’t,” I growl quietly.
“So?”
“So what.”
“So I’m not allowed to flirt with a cute boy? What If I liked him flirting with me?”
Instantly, red mist clouds my vision, my jaw clenching tight as my hands close to fists.
Waverly grins wickedly.
“I never pegged you for the jealous type, Coach,” she purrs teasingly. She winks as she leans close, pretending that she’s stretching.
“I don’t want Ian Cavanaugh,” she whispers. “Just so you know.”
“Waverly—”
“I just want you, Coach.”
The words drip from her lips, and I groan as my pulse thunders.
“You realize you’re playing with fucking fire here, don’t you?” I growl lowly.
“Good thing there’s a pool right here.”
I roll my eyes. “Waverly, I know you think this is a game—”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop playing it.”
Her lips purse. “Who say I’m playing at anything?”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath as my blood pumps like diesel in my veins.
…Seriously, what the fuck am I doing? And suddenly, a sliver of clarity settles over me as I shake my head and open my eyes to look right into hers.
“You know what?” I growl. “Maybe you should go flirt with Ian.”
Her grin fades, her eyes narrowing at me
“Is that what you want?”
“You’re a student, Waverly,” I hiss. “I’m a teacher.”
“You’re a Coach.”
“Same fucking thing,” I mutter. “Waverly, the other night—”
“Camden—”
“Coach,” I say quietly. “And the other night was a gross overstep that could cost me my fucking job and you your integrity.”
“I knew what I was—”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I growl. “And it doesn’t fucking matter. Because this?” My brow narrows as I flip a finger between us. “This is fucked up. I shouldn’t have come to your house last night.”
“So why did you?” She snaps.
I look away. I look away because I don’t trust myself to keep looking at her and not cave entirely.
“This is how this is going to work,” I groan quietly.
“You be you. The student. The swimmer. The fucking eighteen-year-old. And I’ll be me.”
“Which is?”
“Your coach, Waverly. You’re ten years older than you coach. And that’s it.”
“That’s it, huh?” she snaps.
“Yes,” I groan, my pulse racing. “That’s it. That is all this is.”
Her lips purse, and when our eyes lock, I swear I almost break. If she were to reach out and even just touch me with a single finger, I’d snap entirely.
But she doesn’t.
“Fine,” she says quietly, her mouth small and her eyes looking straight ahead. “So, what are we doing for drills today, coach.”
My jaw tightens, and part of me wants to grab her, yank her into me, and kiss her like I did that night at the bar, before I knew she was her and before my whole world was rocked.
“Grab Brynn and Sasha and work on your relay hand-offs.”
“Great,” she mutters flatly before she storms past me, brushing my chest with her shoulder, her hair billowing past my face as she storms off.
I tell myself this is how it has to be. I tell myself this is the smart, rational, right thing to do. I tell myself I’m over the whole fucked up situation with Waverly and that I’m going to just move on from this whole thing.
I tell myself this shit on repeat for the rest of the day.
…It doesn’t help.
5
Camden
I eat dinner out, alone, after practice—catching a little of the Yankees game over a burger before I head home as the sky begins to darken. But I’m not even through my front door when my phone goes off with a text message. I frown, sliding my hand into my jeans and pulling it out, and when I see the message, my pulse begins to beat faster.
It’s from Waverly. Well, it’s from the number I have for MermaidChick01, the one and only woman I’ve ever even chatted with since signing up for Sparkr a few weeks ago, who I’m now very aware is my goddamn eighteen-year-old swimming star.
So, that’s all this is, huh?
Part of me—a very, very large part of me, wants to say “no, the fuck it isn’t.” I want to tell her that I’ve been craving her—that she’s been haunting my fucking dreams and hounding my every waking thought. I want to tell her that the memory of that kiss is like the first hit from the most powerful drug imaginable, and that I’m a fucking junkie for it now.
But I can’t. Not with her. Not with who she is, or who I am. Not with how old she is, or me for that matter. I can’t because the ramifications of me and Waverly Owens could and would destroy her and the life I’ve managed to carve out for myself in the aftermath of what I’ve been through.
Hell. Darkness. Redemption.
Well, at least sort of.
So instead, as I shut my front door behind me, I just send a one-word reply, even though there’s a damn novel’s worth of words I’d rather be sending.
Yes.
Her response comes fast.
The text convo above says otherwise.
I groan as I scroll up—up to our previous text conversions. The filthy talk, from both of us, but mostly me. And the pictures—Jesus fucking Christ, the pictures. My cock instantly swells as I let my eyes drink in the sight of her perfect, perky, soft tits, capped with these mouthwatering pink nipples. There’s a shot of her cupping one of them, her fingers teasing the nipple as her lip twists in her teeth.
I scroll higher, up to one of her lying across white sheets, her legs wide and her fingers obscenely spreading her pink, glistening pussy lips open for the shot.
The beast inside of me roars for release, and I’m seconds away from doing exactly that when reason somehow sanity finds a foothold in me again. I growl to myself as I scroll away, squeezing my eyes shut, like that might ward off the forbidden temptation.
Before was wrong.
I manage to text back.
Why
You fucking know why
And she damn well does. I know this is her playing games. This is her being the Waverly I know from the pool—tenacious, persistent to a sometimes-annoying degree, and not ever backing down from a challenge. And right now, I’m thinking I’m her challenge.
Because you’re my coach
Bingo
There’s no reply for a second or two, and I drag my eyes away from the phone to step into big-ass house I’m currently calling home. When I took the job with Winchester, my accountant thought buying rather than renting in a well-off town with an always on the up housing market like Southworth was a sound investment. And I mean, what the fuck else was I going to do with the money I made in my previous life? The life I lost with the crash; I mean.
Across the cavernous living room, the wall of windows overlooks the river, and it’s there that I stand in the semi-darkness of the room. In my old life, now would be a great fucking time for a drink. Or ten.
But that life is over now, and when I glance over to the shelf next to the big flat screen on the wall, the one with the title box full of coins—coins marking milestones of this new life of mine—I’m reminded of that.
The glass and my face are suddenly illuminated by the phone as another message pops up.
You wanted me before…
> When you lied about your age and I didn’t know who you were? And besides, you don’t know what want and lust even means, Waverly.
Bullshit. I’m pretty sure I do.
I turn, shaking my head as the smile finally creeps across my lips. Damn is she persistent. A handful, you might say.
My phone dings again.
We could have an experiment.
Responding at all, to anything at this point, is a terrible idea. But then, there I go typing anyways.
Such as?
A test. To see if you really mean it.
My jaw tightens, and I’m about to ask her what she means, or what the fuck we’re doing, when suddenly, a picture comes through.
Fuck. Me.
It’s her, biting her lip and standing in her bedroom in a white, lacy, see-through bra. I groan, my eyes dragging over every pixel of the shot, my cock swelling at the sight of her nipples slightly visible through the gauzy lace before I shake my head to focus.
I can’t look at this. I can’t look at her like this, or I’m going to break.
Stop it.
All you have to do is put your phone down…
And then she sends a fucking winky face emoji, followed by more dots of her typing. And then, anther picture comes through, and my pulse spikes.
In this one, she’s pulling the bra down with a thumb, showing her plunging cleavage and her nipples clearly visible and poking out through the flimsy material.
Shit.
We’re done here.
I send it to her, but I might as well be saying it out loud to myself, because it’s me who needs to hear it, and take it to heart.
K. So stop answering then. Put your phone down.
I’m serious.
And no one’s forcing you to look.
I growl, my pulse racing as move back from the windows and sink into my couch. My cock aches as it pulses rock hard, my balls swelling with cum as my eyes burn into the phone in my hand.
I’m putting my phone down now. This is over.
You sure?
Yes.
But you’re still responding…
My jaw tightens as I sink my head back into the couch. I tell myself to stop. I tell myself to turn the fucking phone off or throw it out the goddamn window and just leave it. But, I can’t, and that’s not at all what I do. Instead, I grip the phone in one hand, and even as I’m telling myself to knock it off, the other hand drops to the front of my jeans and rests on the thick, pulsing bulge there.
My phone dings.
Still there?
No. Say no, or just don’t fucking respond you fucking idiot.
We’re beyond the pale here, and way, way over the line. This isn’t just some woman I’ve got an inkling I shouldn’t be flirting with, or even speaking too. This is Waverly Owens. My barely legal, utterly forbidden, her-mom-is-my-boss, say-goodbye-to-your-career off-limits Waverly Owens.
And yet, she’s more than that, and there’s my problem. She’s also gorgeous, and captivating, and irresistible in a way I haven’t felt, well, ever. It’s more than lust, too. I wish I could just chalk this madness up to blue balls from over a week of flirty texts, and scandalous pictures, and filthy suggestions, and promises of what would happen when we met. I wish it was just that, but it’s not.
I’ve looked at the situation with clear eyes. Even before I knew that my mystery girl was actually her, I stroked my cock, came, and looked at what I thought about the whole thing with clear, post-orgasm clarity. And I was still into her. But now that I know who she is? Now that I know that the girl behind the words that got my blood boiling and had me excited for what comes tomorrow for the first time in years?
Now it’s worse.
I don’t know if it’s the forbidden nature of it, or maybe it’s that I’ve been captivated by Waverly Owens for far longer than I should ever admit. There’s a closeness between a coach and athlete—more so when you’re both half naked and wet in a pool together. But again, that’s not it. It’s not just that I’m revved up, or hard over this barely legal prick tease.
It’s that I’m hard for her, specifically. The forbidden might be part of it, but the root problem is Waverly.
…The problem here is that I fucking want her, and the more I deny it, the worse it gets.
Yeah, I’m here.
This is me stepping over the line. Because I know I just passed the last exit on this highway, and now, I know there’s no going back.
What’s your endgame here.
My message sends, and I frown, sitting back into the couch with my hand just resting on my cock, my pulse racing.
The little dots of her typing appear, and then suddenly, a picture sends through.
I growl.
She’s ditched the bra, and now it’s just a shot of her bare tits, with those perfect little pink nipples hard and begging to be sucked. I groan, my cock swelling almost painfully hard against my jeans. There’s a roaring in my ears, and before I know it, I’m yanking my belt open and tugging at my zipper.
Waverly sends an emoji of a winking smiley face, and I snap, swiping to her number and dialing.
“What the fuck are we doing,” I hiss when she picks up.
“I—I don’t know.”
The saucy boldness from her texts is gone when we’re talking voice-to-voice for real, and there’s an innocence in her tone that has my muscles straining and my pulse racing.
“Fuck, Waverly,” I groan. “We need to stop this.”
“Why?”
“Because this is wrong, and you know it.”
“So do you,” she breathes, her voice tight.
And I do. So why in the hell am I even talking to her right now?
Oh, right, because I may or may not be completely wrapped around her finger at this point.
“No more pictures,” I groan. “I’m serious, Waverly. Please.”
“Oh, there won’t be.” There’s a pause. “Not until you send some of you.”
I grin, shaking my head.
“You trying to see my tits, Waverly?”
She giggles.
“Maybe.”
What are you doing? Stop this shit right now.
But deep down, I know I stopped listening to that voice of reason in my head the second I even answered her first text. I reach down and grab the hem of my t-shirt, yanking it over my head and tossing it aside. And before I know it, I’m bringing up the camera app on my phone and snapping a shot of my bare chest and torso and hitting send.
Waverly laughs. “Wait did you seriously just text me—”
Her words catch, and I hear her breath softly.
“Checkmate,” I growl, a hungry grin on my face.
“Oh, are we playing a game?” she whispers.
One with stakes higher than I even want to admit, I groan to myself.
“Maybe I’m just curious how far you’ll go,” I growl lowly. “Maybe I’m just curious when you’ll realize you’re in over your head.”
“With you?” She swallows. “Oh, Coach.”
Fuck. The way she says my title like that has my cock straining as my hand slides under the denim to stroke my length through the cotton of my boxers.
“I was born in the deep end.”
I chuckle darkly. “You want to dance, little girl?”
Her breath catches.
“You want to play bad girl with me?”
There’s a soft whimper through the phone, and my eyes close, my jaw clenching as I grip my cock and stroke.
“Yes,” she breathes, so softly and so innocently that my balls swell with cum.
“Well, it’s your move,” I growl.
There’s silence on the other end, then the sound of something rustling. Then more silence. And then, my text messages ding. I glance at the phone, and the fire roars behind my eyes.
Shit am I in trouble.
The picture is a wider shot of Waverly’s bare torso—her pert, mouthwatering tits and her flat, swim-toned stomach. But it shows even more
than that. She’s wearing black yoga pants, and she’s got her thumb hooked into the waist of it and the waist of a pink thong, pulling them both dangerously low, right over her smooth, bare mons. I groan deeply, my jaw clenching tight at the sight of her panties pulled down to right above her pussy lips, and as my cock pulses, I can feel precum begin to drip from my swollen head to make my boxers dark and slick.
“Did…” she swallows. “Did that come through?”
There’s a vulnerability in her voice that hooks me—traps me. And the heat blazes through me as my eyes drink in the image again.
“Yeah,” I growl. “Yeah, it did.”
She breathes quietly.
“Fuck, Waverly,” I groan.
“You like?” she breathes.
“You know you’re gorgeous,” I growl back.
I can hear her breath quickening.
“Okay, your move.”
I chuckle. “And if I’m not wearing my yoga pants right now?”
She giggles. “So eager you already took them off?”
I grin. “Funny.”
“Coach…”
“Waverly,” I murmur.
I swipe to the camera again, and this time, I tug my jeans and boxers down low, past my abs, past the v-lines of my hip, and all the way down until she can just almost see the thick base of my cock. I take the pic, and I hesitate for one second, knowing how far over the line I’m about to go, but knowing we’re already past it anyways.
The picture sends, and my pulse thunders as I wait.
“Oh shit,” she whispers.
