Shutdown: A Playing Hard Novella

by Johnston, Marie

  “I was trying not to get an erection.”

  He chuckled softly. “So did you?”

  “I waited until I got home.”

  “Fuck, Ava.” He rested his forehead against mine, but his eyes were open, looking down at us.

  I could get a case of the coverups, but he’d seen what I looked like and from the hard length prodding against my core, he liked it.

  So fuck it.

  “I want to sink into you and not stop until you’re screaming my name.” I was ready, but he didn’t move.

  “Coach Ortiz?” He scowled at my use of “coach.” Had I thought this man wasn’t expressive? “Um, what’s stopping you?”

  “Would you think I was moving too fast?”

  He asked that when I was wrapped around him like kinesiology tape? “We’ve worked together for three years.”

  Nibbling along my jaw, he stopped to say, “And I don’t have any protection.”

  “My purse is in the box on the floor at your feet.”

  He straightened, the surprise in his gaze matching the hopefulness. “Serious?”

  “I want to see if you’re as good as I imagined.”

  “Ava,” he groaned. “Have you really had a thing for me this whole time?”

  “So bad. You?”

  “I think you can feel that I have.”

  I leaned up to drag his ear lobe between my teeth. “Then get my purse.”

  Chapter 2

  Right now, I could use the foam hand that said I was number one.

  Sam’s strong hands rolled a clear condom onto a very large erection. As firm as the rest of him, his cock was lined with rounded veins and a glistening tip.

  Someday, I wanted a taste.

  I looked up and caught his amber gaze. He stepped out of the sweats pooled around his ankles, leaving his shoes behind, too, and moved back between my legs.

  “Let me take your pants off, Ava.”

  I shivered. The cool air in the office-slash-treatment room made it around the shield of his body heat, but my reaction was from anticipation.

  My feet were already on the ground as I pushed off the desk.

  He snagged his fingers in the waistband of my yoga pants and peeled them down, kneeling as he went. The sight of him on his knees, his head at my belly, made me even wetter.

  He curled a hand around my foot, slipped my shoe off and freed my leg, then did the same with the other side. I was completely naked.

  Stroking his fingers up and down one calf, then the other, he made his way toward my dripping wet center.

  “Ready?” His voice was gruff.

  I’d been ready for this for years. All I could do was nod, otherwise, I’d beg.

  “I want to make sure.” Sliding his hands between my thighs, he parted them. My ass hit the edge of the desk and I hung on to it for dear life.

  He draped my left leg over his shoulder, used his fingers to part my folds, and laid a hard kiss on my clit.

  I bucked against the cold surface of the desk. He flicked and licked with his tongue until my moans grew louder and louder.

  He held me in place as he tongued me. My back arched, my breasts jutting toward the ceiling. Pleasure gunned through my body until I thought I’d combust.

  The orgasm was screaming down on me when he inserted one long finger.

  “Sam!” I almost slipped off the edge grinding into his face.

  He moved in and out, and I exploded. Coming hard against his face, I cried out, grateful the building was mostly empty. But then, I didn’t work here anymore, so who cared?

  When I finally drifted back to myself, I looked down, past my flushed torso to where he watched me from between my thighs, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  “Fuck, Ava, that was glorious.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  He prowled up my body, lowering my leg to his waist. His cock angled toward me, and he gave me one last questioning look.

  “Fuck me, Sam.” The orgasm was amazing—the best I’d ever had. But I needed to feel him moving inside of me.

  He positioned himself, nudging my sex. No, Sam Ortiz had sex like he coached. Deliberate. Practiced. And using all his expertise.

  The farther he pushed in, the more I strained to take him. It was like he knew filling me was the ultimate pleasure.

  And it was.

  Both of my legs were once again around his waist. My thighs clenched, my walls gripped him, but he wouldn’t go any faster.

  Slowly he withdrew, then languidly thrust his way in again.

  I sighed his name. Changing my grip from the table to his shoulders, I watched where we were connected, how I stretched to fit him, how I coated his cock.

  Sam did the same. My gaze drifted to his stomach. The ripples it made as he thrust, the way his delicious muscle flexed that curve around each hip.

  He stopped. I yanked my gaze up.

  Sam held himself rigid, his jaw tight. “Put your legs down and turn around.”

  I froze. Did he not like the view?

  He cupped my face with a hand that smelled like sex and murmured, “I’ve watched you strut around in those athletic leggings for years. I need to see that ass as I fuck you.”

  When he put it that way... I dropped my legs as he withdrew, and turned, draping my front over the desk.

  He pushed in from behind. There was no slow pace this time. His hands dug into my hips as he held me still and pounded into me.

  My skin squeaked along the wood laminate top. With this angle, he continuously hit a spot that flooded warmth back into my body, but I didn’t think I’d orgasm before he came.

  Sounds of our skin slapping together, the wet suction of me around him, echoed through the room.

  I stretched my arms over my head and let him control my body. It was heady. Until he leaned his long frame over me and wedged his hand underneath me.

  As soon as his finger touched my clit, I cried out. So sensitive. All he had to do was keep his hand still, letting the force of his thrusts get me off.

  Within seconds, my hands were wrapped around the opposite side of the desk, pressing back into him.

  “Ava.” He made me feel special. His tone soft, reverent. “That ass.”

  A roar ripped out of him. His fingers dug into my ass cheeks as he came with a force I hadn’t expected.

  I tumbled after him. The way his cock twitched and jerked only enhanced the climax.

  He didn’t pull out right away. Light kisses peppered my shoulder.

  I looked back at him. He stroked from my neck down my shoulder to my hip.

  “Let’s get dressed,” he murmured. “I’ll help you load the boxes up.”

  I turned toward the desk, just in case his answer to my next question gutted me. “Are you going to stay a while?”

  Another hot kiss landed on my nape. “Do you have more condoms?”

  * * *

  I was giggling as I shut the office door. My body was deliciously relaxed and my mood brighter than I thought it would be for days, weeks even.

  Great sex was an excellent antidepressant.

  Sam insisted on carrying both boxes. I held the baggie of garbage. We managed to find a tissue to wipe the desk off and would toss the trash to erase all evidence of our office fornication.

  As I pushed out the exit door and held it open for Sam, I glanced up and squeaked. A white Cadillac was parked across from my car.

  “Mr. Foster.” To see him sitting in the lot, by my simple sedan, after he’d fired me was disconcerting. To see him after I had had sex with his head coach in the office that was no longer mine was worrisome.

  Mr. Foster had a lot of money and connections. It was why I didn’t pitch a fit or threaten to make sexual harassment claims against his son. I wasn’t going to not do anything, but I had to consider carefully what my action plan would be. If I ever wanted to work in this town again, I’d have to play the game, and it wasn’t baseball.

  Sam paused as he stared at the SUV. “We’ll lo
ad this and I’ll talk to him.”

  I did as Sam said. As long as it meant I didn’t have to talk to Mr. Foster and relive the humiliation of being terminated for my alleged sloppy appearance.

  Sam settled the boxes in the trunk of my car, but he didn’t leave. He opened my door and held it while I slid in. “Don’t leave yet.” The door shut, closing me into the dark.

  Dropping the garbage onto the passenger seat to throw away at home—Mr. Foster didn’t need more evidence of my impropriety—I briefly pondered what to do.

  My curiosity would kill me. And Sam had been…more than I imagined. So I’d wait like he asked. I fired up the engine and watched in the rearview mirror. Sam went to the Cadillac and stood at the window. He was in his coach stance: legs spread, arms crossed, head tipped down as he listened.

  The last few years, I’d thought he was ignoring me, letting my advice on players’ health go in one ear and out the other. But Sam Ortiz missed nothing. And I’ll grudgingly admit he had to balance my recommendations—often demands—with the player’s career and the profitability of the team.

  I looked around the dimly lit parking lot. The field stretched behind me, the clubhouse to my left. My office was in the stadium to my right. I’d enjoyed working here. The guys I worked with, the other trainers, the team staff, most of them were decent people. It had been, overall, a nice working environment.

  If it weren’t for Mr. Foster and his handsy son, I could’ve spent another twenty years training collegiate athletes. At this stage, the players knew how good they had it and were excited about the opportunities playing for this team would give them. Many of the athletes were glad to keep playing, grateful for their health, and that made it a positive workspace.

  Usually.

  What would I do now?

  Sam nodded and then walked toward me. I rolled the window down, my pulse kicking up.

  His stark features were grim, but all he said was, “I’ll follow you home.” He spun around and strode toward his club-cab pickup, parked next to the clubhouse.

  I punched the button to raise the window. Why was I feeling dejected? I should rejoice Mr. Foster was satisfied enough to see me go that he wasn’t creating new drama. I knew I didn’t mean enough to the owner to receive a second of remorse. But what had he said to Sam? Mr. Foster had been waiting by my car. Didn’t that mean it was about me?

  I puffed a lock of hair off my face. My ponytail was crooked, but mostly functional. If I wore makeup, my mascara would’ve been smeared to raccoon levels, but I didn’t.

  I barked a laugh. Perhaps I’d still have a job if I’d have worn makeup.

  A moment of panic squeezed my lungs. What was I going to do? Two weeks’ severance was all I was given. Two weeks to find employment near the level I’d had.

  The drive to my quaint bungalow was quiet and depressing. Sam’s headlights behind me weren’t enough to boost my spirits up to post-coital levels. What had they talked about? And why was it bothering me?

  Because of Sam’s expression when he said he’d follow me. How quickly my insight into his lack of emotion changed after seeing him lost in pleasure. He wasn’t an unfeeling man. He just hid it. And whatever Mr. Foster had said disrupted his post-coital bliss as well.

  Did Mr. Foster know we’d had sex in the office? Would he retaliate? If Len had adopted any of his father’s attitudes, I’d expect Mr. Foster to high five Sam and award him an “atta boy.”

  My heart twisted as I pulled in front of my square little house. The porch had sold it, stretching across the front of the house and facing west. Some evenings, I poured a glass of homemade kombucha and sat out there to get my probiotic on.

  Despite my chocolate obsession, I had plenty of good habits—in line with the image the Mavericks expected.

  “Get over it, Ava,” I muttered to myself.

  I parked under the carport and Sam pulled in behind me. His headlights flicked off.

  He was staying.

  My belly fluttered. I could so use another round of sex to forget the night. And it was only eight o’clock. If Sam hadn’t delayed me at the ballpark or accompanied me home, I’d be pint deep into Chunky Monkey—after my evening run.

  I missed my run, but as I got out of my car, muscles in my back and thighs protested after having stiffened up during the ride home. The workout I’d done was much better.

  Sam got out and met me on the walk up to the house. He clicked his fob and his pickup beeped.

  “It’s a pretty safe neighborhood.” I was the only one on the block without a kid or a pet.

  “Are you saying I don’t live in a safe part of town?” His tone bordered on hard. Had I insulted him?

  “No, I’m assuming that with the money Mr. Foster pays you, and the fifty-thousand-dollar truck you drive, that you live in a part of town that’s either gated or targeted for robberies because of all the expensive vehicles.”

  “I live in a condo on the north side,” he said with a trace of humor. “No gates, but I have a garage that I keep locked. Because thieves can strike anywhere.”

  “Why a condo?” I asked as I let us into my house. Good thing I’d done laundry last night, or I’d have bras hanging in the living room and draped over my recliner.

  “I work too much to worry about a yard and maintenance.”

  Made sense. Summer was his busy season.

  I closed the door and flipped on the light. The burning question couldn’t be suppressed any longer. “What did Mr. Foster talk to you about?”

  Displeasure rippled over his features. “He was being Mr. Foster.” Sam stepped out of his shoes and wandered through the room, looking at photos hanging on the wall. My brother and I at the finish line of a 5K. My family in Jamaica last year. The college graduation picture that’d never be put away because the eggplant empire dress I’d worn looked killer on my curves.

  “So he wasn’t wondering if I shoved staplers and pens in my pockets when I left?”

  “No”—his lips twitched—“and I didn’t tell him about all the athletic tape.” He gave a heavy sigh and shoved his hand through his hair. “It was about me and my future with the team.”

  “What?”

  “You got anything to eat?” My mind spun at his change in topic. “We can order in. My treat. Unless you don’t want me to stay.”

  Sam was actually in my home and he thought I’d kick him out? “I wouldn’t have let you in if I wanted you to leave right away.”

  He chuckled. “Your straightforwardness was always as attractive as it was frustrating.”

  Most people called it bitchy, but I’d take straightforward. “I knew I vexed you.”

  “Yeah, you did. You were ferocious about the athletes. At first I thought you were overprotective, suffering the newbie know-it-all effect, but it wasn’t long before I realized just how good at your job you were.”

  The warm flush whisking through me wasn’t sexual. Sam really thought highly of me and my work. “Yeah, well, I hope future job prospects realize it, too.”

  His expression shuttered again. “Is there a lot of opportunity for trainers like you in this town?”

  A town of a hundred thousand, big enough to have a collegiate team, a university, and two major hospital systems, and a smattering of private health facilities? “Yes. But the network isn’t big enough to be anonymous. As soon as I apply, they’ll know I got fired from the Mavericks.” Before that. Mr. Foster would probably post the job opening tomorrow.

  “I understand. Finding a position in our fields is difficult enough without someone sabotaging your efforts.”

  He did sound like he understood. But when would he ever have to decide between harassment and finding a job? “But you’ve made it, right? No worries about going back to the teacher-slash-coach gig. I mean, unless that’s your thing.” I breezed into the kitchen. It was small, with only enough space for a square table and three chairs. But it’d been updated before I moved in and was bright, breezy, and welcoming. Ambiance made up for lack of sp
ace.

  “I’ve enjoyed it.” Sam followed me in. His presence felt natural, like he belonged here.

  His gaze burned into my back as I gathered produce from the fridge and chicken strips from the freezer. Once the stove was on, I set the chicken aside. I grabbed a chopping knife and cutting board and set it at the table.

  “Mind cutting tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad?” His questioning gaze was on the bag of strips. “I prefer not to cry while eating my salads. That usually means breaded chicken. Or shrimp with good seasoning, cooked in plenty of butter. Or taco meat.” I opened the fridge and snagged a bottle of ranch dressing, salsa, and sour cream. Like I said, I don’t like to sob over a dry salad.

  Preparing dinner with him was…comfortable. He talked about his parents and sisters and the five nieces he lives to spoil. I told him about my parents and their crazy house flipping business. We went to the same college, and—I was close—he was only seven years older than me.

  “So, do you feel like an ancient around those college kids?” I asked after we sat down with our bowls of crispy chicken salad.

  “God, yes. When I hear them talking in the locker room, I feel like I need an interpreter. What does stan even mean?”

  Laughing with Sam about our work was nice. Wish I could keep doing it.

  “What’s wrong?” He shoved a forkful into his mouth. Crunching filled the room and I was momentarily mesmerized by the flex of his jaw muscles.

  “It would’ve been nice to not fear you while we worked together.”

  “I don’t date on the job.” He pushed food around, mixing the store-bought salsa in. “Those kids, they’ve got big dreams and I’m not going to ruin it because I’m distracted by the hot trainer.”

  “You think I’m hot?” A girl never got tired of hearing it.

  “I showed you how hot I think you are.”

  My cheeks warmed. “I believe that was about my ass.”

  “Which is spectacular. And I’ve confirmed your breasts are, too.”

  “Your body’s okay, I guess.”

  His hand paused and he glanced at me. I grinned and went back to eating.