by Luis, Maria
Using the flashlight on my phone to guide the way, I hurry across his neatly trimmed lawn. Unlike my house, there aren’t any French doors to peer into, so I’m forced to knock on the single back door and wait like a total lurker.
“C’mon, Dominic,” I mutter, bouncing from one foot to the other in my impatience. I knock again, adding a little ratta-ta-ta for fun.
Hello, my name is Aspen Levi and I come to your house in the middle of the night bearing show tunes.
Imagine all the restraining orders I’d get with a calling card like that.
With my hand balled into a fist, I thump on the door again to the rhythm of Eiffel 65’s Blue. I’m midway through the chorus when the door squeaks open and a set of bulky arms haul me inside.
The door shuts behind me.
My back is shoved against it.
Surprised, I lose grip of my phone as it falls to the floor. In the same moment, aggressive masculine lips find mine in the dark.
Oh, yes.
This isn’t what I came over for but it’s certainly what my body needs.
I thread my fingers through Dominic’s dark hair, rising up on my toes so I can meet his kiss fully. His palm finds the base of my spine, and he groans, the sound so seductive that I answer with a needy whimper.
He drags me closer, until his hard-on is like a brand on my stomach and my breasts are squished flat against his chest. Fingers slip into the back of my shorts, ignoring my panties—they’re fun ones today, with the words “Not Today, Satan” printed on them—so he can fill his palms with the curve of my ass.
A single squeeze and my legs tremble where I stand.
I grip his shoulders for leverage. Moan into his mouth when his hand slips farther south to cup me right there, where I’m hot and needy, and oh, God, he needs to warn a girl before he goes straight for the grand prize.
“Fuck, Aspen,” he growls against my mouth, “you’re so damn wet.”
Gasping when his finger strokes my clit without preamble, I clutch his biceps and hold on for dear life. “You have that effect on me.”
“Oh, yeah?” His wicked fingers don’t apply any more pressure, keeping the grazing touches light and airy and simply not enough. “What else do I do to you?” he taunts, his lips finding the column of my throat. Teeth nip my skin, then suck the sting away.
My core clenches. My toes curl. My head . . . “You turn my brain to mush.”
“Sounds messy.” As if wanting to determine if what I say is true, he pushes two thick fingers inside me, curling them just so.
I cry out, my head tipped back. And, sure enough, it’s as though he’s reduced me to nothing but his thrusting fingers and the rapid rate of my pulse and the feel of his massive body caging me against his back door.
It feels wonderful.
Wild.
Reckless.
“Keep talkin’, Coach,” he works out on a heavy breath, the word coach sounding more like an endearment than a reminder of who we are and how we found each other. “You stop, I stop.”
“That’s cruel,” I pant, rolling my hips to keep rhythm with his ministrations, “and so unfair.”
“That’s life.” Slowly, he drags the pads of his fingers through my wetness. “It’s cruel. It’s unfair. And that’s what makes it beautiful.”
To my surprise, he drops to his haunches and promptly makes quick work of my shorts and underwear. They’re down around my ankles, and then completely gone, before I can even utter his name. And then he’s tracing the line of my leg with his fingers, up, up, up, until he palms my thigh and pushes my leg off the floor.
The sole of my foot lands on his broad shoulder.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more exposed.
I whisper his name, a question in every syllable, but he cuts straight to the chase, as he always does: “You stop talking, I stop too. Those are the rules. Good luck.”
Good luck?
“Sometimes, you’re still the same jerk who told me that he wasn’t trying to pick anyone up at the bar—ohhh, okay.” His tongue slicks from my entrance to my clit, never missing a beat. I can talk. However long he needs, I can . . . My lids fall shut against the dim lighting filtering in from another part of the house. “I lied. I so lied. You were wonderful that night. A true gentleman.”
His hands clasp my hips, nailing my ass to the door so I can’t escape his tongue.
The man is out of his mind if he thinks I’m going anywhere.
Cupping the back of his head, I fumble for words. “Have I mentioned how I figured out about your no-underwear policy before you fessed up? Because I-I totally noticed—” I break off, unable to sheathe a moan when he circles his tongue over my clit. We may be indoors but I’m seeing stars. Thousands of them. “Y-You would do drills with the team and I . . . I couldn’t stop myself from noticing how free you were. Down there. If you know what I mean.”
He chuckles, then pauses to husk out, “dirty girl.” His hot breath wafts over my sex and damn it if that doesn’t feel magical too.
Dirty girl.
I don’t feel dirty.
I feel reborn.
Positively fantastic with each swirl of his tongue, and—
No. No!
Keep talking. That’s right. All I need to do is turn into Chatty Cathy and we’ll go right back to it.
“I have another confession and this one is embarrassing, but so long as you keep doing that, I’ll spill all my dirty secrets.”
I’m instantly treated to the heady sensation of his fingers getting reacquainted with my core. Dominic scissors his fingers, and I nearly break down. It feels amazing. That I’m holding my weight up at all is a miracle. My hips grind down on his fingers, then roll upwards against his tongue. My breathing comes shallow.
As much as I want to beg him to please get on with it, I agreed to the game.
And I always set out to win.
“I looked you up,” I breathe out, biting down on my bottom lip. “That day you took Topher mini-golfing, I looked you up.” Sensing his gaze on me, I don’t stop rambling in fear of him pulling away. “Turns out, you’re so famous that people . . . people role-play as you.”
He sinks a third finger inside me, stretching me almost impossibly wide, and those sparkling stars come back with a vengeance. “Where?”
Welp, here we go.
“Porn.”
One second he’s there and wrapping ribbons of pleasure around me, and then he’s gone.
Gone!
“Oh, c’mon,” I cry out, “you said keep talking and I did. In fact, I even told you something incredibly embarrassing about myself—oh!”
I’m upside down. Literally, upside down with Dominic’s shorts-clad bubble butt in my face as he storms through the house. My breasts provide padding against his muscular back, although they also attempt to strangle me. For what it’s worth, bras do not work wonders when you’re dangling over a man’s shoulders.
“Too much?” I ask, using my hands to keep my boobs away from my face. “Should I mention that you’re in much better shape? Also, you have a bigger penis. You know, in case that was a question that popped into your head when you decided to throw me over your shoulder like a rag doll.”
He pauses in what looks to be the living room. A lamp is on in the corner, and from my angle, I can see a couch and a coffee table. The couch has pillows—bed pillows, not the living room accessory kind—and a comforter. Does he sleep out here?
One boob slips from my grip and knocks me in the chin.
Double-Ds were a dream of mine before Topher. A goal, if you will. Then I gave birth, gained thirty pounds, and can’t even be carried like a damsel in distress without being suffocated by one of my own tits.
There is something dreadfully ironic about this scenario.
“For the record,” I say, putting Boob A—the left one, it’s always the left—back into place, “he didn’t dirty-talk like you. By which I mean, you do a much better job.”
“Aspen?”
/> My heart positively flutters at hearing him using my first name. “Yes, Dominic?”
“You drive me batshit crazy.”
And then I fall, somehow angled just right so my back lands on a cushioned foam mattress that has no sheets or pillows. I bounce once, twice, and then twist my head in time to watch Dominic undress. Thanks to the overhead light, I have a front-row seat to the way he pulls off his T-shirt, fingers grasping the fabric at the back of his neck. One by one, his abs are revealed. I count them all because I’m a stickler for certain things.
Eight.
Eight.
And, oh boy, but he’s got a single tattoo. The number twelve printed across his lower rib cage in Roman numerals. Twelve . . . the number on his jersey from when he played for Tampa Bay.
I wonder what he might do if I get on my hands and knees and lick every one of those glorious ridges. I give it only a moment’s consideration before I’m shuffling onto all fours and crawling over to where he stands beside the bed.
The unused bed.
Under my hands and shins, the mattress truly feels brand new.
Not that I give it much thought once I cup his butt, squeezing each cheek, then kiss the lowermost abdominal muscle. His skin twitches and I grin. Oh, how lovely it feels to give him a taste of his own medicine.
I trace my tongue over the sharply ridged line of his stomach.
“Shit.” His fingers sink into my loose hair, following the curve to the back of my skull. “Aspen.”
Up, up, up, I go with my tongue. How do you like it now, Dominic? Out loud, I casually suggest, “Keep talking or I’ll stop. Weren’t those the rules?”
His guttural laugh might as well be a furnace inside my chest, it warms me from the inside out. “Batshit crazy,” he reaffirms, but he doesn’t move his hands and I take that as the go ahead. “And I fucking love every moment of you surprising me, Asp. Every. Single. Moment.”
I cup his erection through his shorts, smiling to myself when his breath hitches and his grasp on me tightens.
Dominic DaSilva at my mercy is the best gift of all.
I follow the waistband of his shorts with my mouth, pressing little kisses here and there. When I reach the drawstring tie, I don’t bother to undo it. Instead, I kneel down onto my heels and lower my face, kissing my way over the heavy ridge of his cock concealed by the fabric.
A sharp, masculine gasp greets my ears.
And then, “The only time I’ve slept in a bed since I was a kid is when we traveled for games and when I was on Put A Ring On It. No other option. A couch feels temporary. Like I always have one foot out the door—fuck, fuck, fuck, that feels so good.” I lick my way up the length of his erection, pulling his shorts down at the same time, so when I kiss the tip, it’s all Dominic. Every last bit of him. “I, shit—I can’t think.”
“Try,” I tell him, just before I take him all the way into my mouth.
1-Aspen; 0-Dominic.
I like this game.
“I don’t do permanent. I don’t do predictability. But you . . . I’ve thought of nothing but fucking you in a real bed, with you riding my cock before I flip you over onto your knees and take you from behind.” His hand shifts to the top of my head, and I don’t issue a single protest when he applies pressure. “You’re turnin’ me inside out, Coach, and I’m trying . . . Jesus fuck, I’m trying to turn it right back around but I can’t. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up, and I experience a hundred different moments throughout the day when I—oh, God. More, baby, give me more of that.”
More of that is me taking him all the way to the back of my throat. It hurts to breathe. But the baby he whispered raggedly spurs me on, and I bob my head. Twist my hand around the base of his cock and squeeze tightly before slicking my palm up to meet my mouth.
My eyes water but I’m not sure if it’s due to how deep I’m swallowing him or how precious his words are, especially when I know how rare they are for him to ever admit out loud.
Hands link under my armpits, and I have the wherewithal to go with it as I’m gently rolled onto my side. I hear the tear of a condom wrapper and then it’s Dominic’s big body weighting down the mattress behind me. With my back to his front, he hooks my left leg up and back over his hip, spreading me wide. I feel the blunt head of his cock at my entrance, as well as his flexing fingers on my hip.
In my ear, he husks out, “Last chance for you to tell me to stop.”
I arch my back, twisting my head so I can see his face. “Why would I ever do that?”
His throat works with a rough swallow. “Because I don’t think I can let you go.”
It’s as much a declaration of love as he’s ever given—I read the truth, and the fear, in his familiar black eyes. But beyond that, I see hope simmering there. It catches my breath. Shatters my heart. I nod, shakily, and press two fingers to that dimpled chin. “I trust you,” I whisper to him.
In my heart, I say three very different words.
I love you.
It’s too much too soon. I made that mistake with Rick, falling for the façade without getting to know the person behind all the fancy, polished walls. Except that it feels right with Dominic. It feels right when he thrusts deep inside me, angling his hips so every drive forward pulls a cry from my lips. It feels right when his fingers smooth down over my not-so-toned belly to rub my clit in tiny, electrifying strokes that feel like heaven on earth.
And it feels so incredibly right when I grip the mattress that has no sheets because he bought it for me—for us—and my hand skids when my palm turns sweaty.
Dominic loops his other arm under my head, providing a literal man-made pillow.
“So good, baby,” he groans in my ear, sliding in and out of me on a sensual, toe-curling glide, “every time I touch you, you feel so good.”
He can win this round.
I can’t find any words. They’ve vacated my brain, even if they haven’t left my heart, and I’m nothing but a string of moans and sighs, each one pitched a little higher than the last.
“Come all over me,” Dominic grunts by my ear, his finger rubbing my clit faster, the plunge of his hips driving ever deeper inside me. “Let yourself go, baby. I know you want to give in.”
He pulls out, so much so that the tip of his cock nearly leaves me, and then thrusts in so hard, so swiftly, that I see stars.
Literal stars.
Or maybe not so literal, but it doesn’t matter because the orgasm is sweeping over me, and I grab at Dominic’s wrist to still those sensual circles because everything is so hypersensitive that I feel like I’m about to come out of my skin.
Devilish.
That’s how Dominic’s chuckle sounds as he firmly grips my hips, rolls me over onto my stomach, and enters me on a single thrust. The bedroom is empty, save for the bed, and one very well-positioned mirror that catches our reflection.
My hair is a mess and my cheeks are red and my lips are parted, but it’s Dominic who steals the show. His arms are tight ropes of muscle, his torso nothing but solid planes of rock-hard strength. With broad hands, he holds my hips as he pumps into me, never relinquishing the rhythm that catches my breath even now, when I’m already satiated and simply enjoying the ride.
Breathtakingly handsome.
He bites down on his bottom lip, his hips plunging forward. Once, twice, and then I feel each imprint of his fingers on my flesh as he drops his head forward, his gaze locked on the place where he’s entering me again and again.
“You ruin me,” he groans on a short breath, and whatever he might have said next is lost to his orgasm. He comes with his head thrown back, the veins in his neck tensely visible. Devastating. That’s how this moment feels, like we’re cracking down our last barriers and accepting whatever comes next.
Briefly, he turns me onto my back before collapsing down on top of me, his arms engulfing either side of my shoulders. “I’m fucked in the head,” he rumbles, his cheek against my own, like he’s trying to force me
to see the real him, the one that will send me scurrying far, far away. “I sleep on the couch and I bought this bed because I wanted to have sex with you in it.”
I tiptoe my fingers up his spine. “And the mirror?”
“I found it at one of those consignment shops down on Main Street yesterday.” A small pause. “I wanted to take you from behind and still see your face.”
A giggle warms my chest. “You’re a gentleman through and through.”
“I bought sheets, too. I planned to put them on the bed before I had you over.”
Is it too cheesy to hug him? It doesn’t matter. I flatten my palms on his back and squeeze him tight. “Are you trying to romance me, Coach DaSilva?”
His chuckle is low and sexy, the kind of laughter I want to hear every morning when I wake up. “Honestly,” he says, brushing my hair back from my face, “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. But I’m hoping if I throw a shit ton of darts, one of them will hit bull’s-eye.”
“Dominic?”
“Yeah?”
I think back to what I overheard him say to Harry, about not regretting the path his life has taken because it’s led him here to London. It led him here to me. “I’m glad Savannah Rose didn’t get to keep you.” Swallowing past the vulnerable knot of fear, I add quietly, “And selfish as it is, I’m happy your job fired you.”
“It’s not selfish.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.” His hand sweeps possessively down my side. “Because only one of us gets to be selfish, and I’ve already taken the position.” His fingers turn evil, tickling me. “Face it, Asp, you can’t have everything.” He pulls me underneath him, so he’s straddling my waist but keeping his weight from being too much. “Head coach,” he teases, his fingers merciless in their quest, “badass mom who rescues kids who need saving. Let the little people around here have the chance to make a name for themselves, would you?”
Laughter gurgles up within me. I twist, trying to get away from those tickling fingers, but I can’t squirm quite far enough. “Fine! Fine, I’ll give something up. Name your price!”
The tickling ceases, and when I meet his searing gaze, I already know what he’s going to ask for: “You, me, and this bed for one more round. And then I’ll send you home. Tomorrow we’ll go back to real life and talk about Harry and the calendar, and the fact that you don’t see why we need to have the kids running miles with me every morning to build up their endurance . . . but for right now, you’re mine. Deal?”
