Before Fi, I had no idea how much I needed to be touched. It isn’t something you can fully understand until you have it. Fi’s hands on my skin eases me in an elemental way, down to my very core. I crave it now, want it always.
And she’s leaving me. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. I don’t know if she’ll come back, because I wonder. She’s told me she loves me. I’ve told her too. But is that enough? I want to tell her again, now, but the words get stuck in my throat. To say them at this moment feels like it would be another plea. I can’t do that. Not when agreeing she should go to London has her more relaxed and herself than she’s been since the pictures were released.
But it doesn’t stop the aching weight that’s settled in my chest.
Fi threads her hands through my hair, and little shivers run down my spine. It feels so good, I lean into the touch. She does it again and again. “The first time we met,” she says, “you were wearing faded jeans and a white button-down shirt.”
I exhale in a ragged rush. “You remember that?”
Soft lips brush over my cheekbone. Scooting closer, she kisses my temple, the spot right before my ear. “Your hair was shorter then, but you had that thick beard and kind, knowing eyes. You sat next to me at dinner, staring at me.”
A half-laugh lifts my chest, even as I stroke along the curve of her waist. “Jesus, you must have thought I was a total creeper.”
I can feel her smile against my skin. “No. It turned me on.”
“It did?” Shit, did that sound like a squeak? No. I don’t squeak.
Her smile grows as she nuzzles my neck. “Of course it did. You were this big, solemn guy looking at me like you’d rather have me for dinner. How could it not make me hot?”
I had wanted her for dinner. I’d wanted to place her on the table and sink my tongue into her pussy and discover her taste. Had I any idea at the time how sweet she’d truly be, I’d probably have had to excuse myself from the table.
Fi keeps talking, even as she pets and kisses me everywhere she can find. “But I had a boyfriend…” —Fucker. If he let Fi go he had to be one— “…And I was too young for you.”
I have to chuckle. “I’m only three years older, Cherry.”
She lifts her head. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed, she’s perfection. Her gaze is soft and tender, and it kicks me right in the heart. “I was a child then, spoiled and not ready to grow up. You were a man. You’ve always been a man, Ethan. Strong and steady, watching over everyone. I knew that just by looking at you.”
She’s killing me, bit by bit. I tuck a lock of her hair back, use the gesture as an excuse to stroke her cheek. But she isn’t finished talking.
Pressing her cheek into my palm, she smiles a little. “At graduation, you wore a robe, of course, and a dark red tie. Nothing special, but you stood next to me while I took pictures of Ivy and Gray. A guy running by almost knocked right into me, but you stepped between us at the last second and took the impact.”
I can’t speak. She doesn’t seem to need that. Fi leans down and kisses the hollow of my neck. I feel it in my heart, in my toes.
“Draft day, you wore a dark gray suit and a sky blue tie. It made your eyes look more blue than hazel. Everyone around you was nervous. Gray was practically jumping in place, sweating and pulling at his collar. But you simply sat at the table and drank your water.”
She chuckles, the sound a purr that makes my skin go tight. “I asked if you were nervous, and you winked at me, told me—”
“Nerves won’t get me drafted any sooner,” I finish for her, my voice husky and thick.
Her smile blooms wide. “Exactly.”
She presses her lips to my sternum before lifting her head again. “I remember everything about you, Ethan. It just took me a while to do it.”
I take a breath. Then another. Pressure builds at the bridge of my nose and behind my eyelids. “Cherry.”
I kiss her softly, gently, just because I can. And she threads her fingers through my hair, playing with it as if she loves the feel of me.
But she doesn’t linger. Instead she moves on, kissing my brows. My eyes close, and she kisses the lids. Her voice comes at me like a dream. “I’m no one special, just a girl who tries to do the right thing when she can.”
My eyes snap open. “You are everything,” I protest with a fierce whisper. “You are perfect—”
She gives me a quick kiss. “To you, I am. But I guess that’s the point. No one has ever looked at me as though they want me—all of me just as I am—until you, Ethan.”
“Because I do,” I tell her. “I always have.”
“And I don’t want anyone but you. It doesn’t matter if we’re a thousand miles apart or right next to each other, I will always want you. Because that’s how it is when you find your forever.”
My nostrils flare on a sharp breath. I haul her close, wrapping my arms around her so tight, I’m probably crushing her. But I can’t let go. My face burrows in her hair. On the next breath, I’m rolling over her and pushing inside of her with a mindless need to feel the tight clasp of her body.
She makes a little sound—half-whimper, half-groan—and I freeze, realizing that, in my desperation, I didn’t check to see if she was ready. She’s slick, but not enough. I move to draw away, maybe kiss between her legs and make it better.
But her hand slides down my back and grasps my ass. “Don’t stop,” she whispers. Please don’t stop.”
A groan tears out of me, and I thrust again, find her mouth with mine. Her body yields to me, soft and luscious, slick and tight.
Awareness ripples over my body. I feel the clench of my ass when I thrust, the tight pull of my abs as I drag back out. My skin prickles with heat, and my panting breaths mix with hers.
I get lost in the act of loving Fi, moving in and out of her with strong, steady strokes that have my cock pulsing and my balls drawing tight. I kiss her until my lips are swollen and sensitive.
Beneath me, Fi’s slim body trembles, little gasps leaving her as she lifts her hips to meet mine every time.
“You like that, darlin’?” I murmur into her mouth. “Like my cock moving inside you?”
She grips my ass harder, urging me deeper. “Yes. Yes.”
“Good, because it’s yours, Cherry. You’re the only one who will ever own this cock.” I rock into her, the bed creaking beneath us. “The only one who ever has.”
She whimpers, her back arching, her sweat-slicked skin pearlescent in the dim light. “Ethan…” The stiff tips of her nipples brush my chest as she writhes. “Ethan…”
She’s close. So close. The knowledge sends a punch of hot pleasure up my inner thighs. “Let go, Cherry love.” I thrust, working that spot within her that I know she loves. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Fi’s entire body locks up on a wordless cry. Her head presses into the pillow, her nails digging into my flesh as she comes. Slick wetness coats my thighs as the walls of her sex milk my cock with rhythmic tugs.
It sends me over the edge, and I come with her, shouting so loud it echoes through the room. Panting, I roll to my side, pull her close. My body is limp with release. Fi lies quiet, and I can feel the pounding of her heart against her ribs.
A lone tear trickles down her cheek, but she’s softly smiling, her expression relaxed. “I needed that.”
I’m pretty sure I needed it more.
I brush away the tear with the tip of my thumb and kiss the corner of her eye. “Whatever you need, Fi, I’ll give to you.”
Even if it breaks my heart to do it.
Chapter Forty-Three
Fiona
Trudging to the bathroom, I feel hollow, yet calmer. Last night with Ethan made me remember how good it can be between us, how necessary. Nothing is perfect, but I feel grounded now. A little more myself.
In the shower, I turn the water to as hot as I can stand it. Ethan’s shower is a glorious thing with multiple heads, designed to shoot out water at different speeds and strengths. The first time
I used it, they were all adjusted to his height, and I got a face full of water.
Hearing my shouts of ire, Ethan had run into the bathroom—and promptly laughed his ass off. A wet washcloth to the face ended his glee. He’d retaliated by fucking me up against the shower tiles until I cried for mercy.
I smile at the memory, my thighs tightening with a luscious pull that makes me want Ethan here now, loving me hard and deep all over again. But he’s already gone to the stadium to prepare for his game today.
I know he doesn’t want me to go to London. While he’s excellent at hiding his thoughts from the rest of the world, I can read him like a favorite story. I know the idea of me going away hurts him. But he agreed to it anyway. Because I wanted it.
For so long I thought I needed a man who was always there. One who’d cling to me and tell me he couldn’t bear to leave my sight. Which makes me wonder what the hell I was thinking. I like my space, those quiet times when I’m in my own world, creating a design or working on a piece.
A clinger would annoy the shit out of me. Ethan doesn’t do that. He has his own life, and while it sucks when he’s at an away game, when we’re together it’s perfection. Being apart and having those times to myself only makes me crave him more, makes me treasure our time together.
I tell myself it will be the same when I go to London, that our eventual reunion will be awesome. But it all feels off, wrong in some way. I think about leaving, and I’m not happy; I’m sad, desperate to hold onto Ethan and not let go. Does that make me the clinger now?
Frowning, I turn off the taps and reach for a towel. Only I make the mistake of turning on my phone as I brush my teeth. It’s habit, checking for messages, trolling the Internet. Stupid habit.
Because they’ve found me again. Doesn’t matter that I’ve changed all accounts. Ugly messages find their way to me.
U Suk cum slut
You dnt deserve him whore!
I wanna fuk U good.
With a shaking hand I delete it all, set the phone down, and close my eyes. I didn’t sign up for this, never wanted attention. But it’s my world now.
The reality of it threatens to break me. Even now, I can feel all that judgment pushing into my flesh and expanding outward, filling me with hate and self-loathing.
It makes me want to run. Far away. London seems like the answer. But even as I cling to the thought, I think of Ethan. I fear running will break us. He blames himself for this. If I leave, I’m confirming that it’s true.
They claim love conquers all. I used to believe that. Used to think that if someone just loved me enough, it would make everything better.
Now I know the truth. Ethan’s love won’t fix me. I have to do that myself. So, no, his love isn’t the cure. But it is something to live for. Without him, I might not want to fix myself. Ethan Dexter makes me want to be a better person. To be brave.
With a hard swipe, I clear the condensation away from the mirror. A version of myself stares back, her eyes ringed with fatigue and stress, her cheeks hollow. I rake my fingers through my wet hair, and Mirror Fi’s face comes into sharper relief.
I take her in, study her with unblinking eyes. She looks like shit. Ragged. Defeated.
Before he left, Ethan kissed this face, raining soft gifts of love over cheeks, nose, chin, mouth. Ethan worshiped this face, whispering, “You’re beautiful” with each reverent touch. Thing is, I knew he wasn’t talking about the way I look, but about how he saw the whole of me.
Who is the real me? I’m not sure I’ve ever really known. Despite what I project to people, I’ve never taken the time to get comfortable with myself as a person.
Truth is, we all project a false front to the world, peppering our social media pages with witty words and silly emoticons. Life narrowed down to 140 characters, staged selfies, and tirades over opinion posts. Life lived for the approval of the masses, all while tearing strangers down for the slightest misstep.
And when you turn away from that electric glow, when you no longer see those silent, pixelated opinions, who are you, really?
Who do you see in the mirror? When did the regard of those unknown masses become your existence? Those who will never be there for you except to judge.
If I run, I’m saying that every ugly word thrown my way is true. Worse, if I run, I’m taking the easy way out. I’m letting those people define me.
Staring in the mirror now, a surge of potent rage hits me. It’s all bullshit, these pictures I’ve let tear me down. I let myself feel the rage. And it gives me power. It fills me up and breaks free with a scream. Because I’m over feeling ashamed, and I’m never running away from life again.
Ethan once told me I’d been searching for my joy. I’ve found it. Now I need to reclaim it.
The edges of my phone bite into my palm as I clench it and dial.
“You’ve reached Bloom,” a woman’s voice purrs. “What is your pleasure?”
I grit my teeth, clutch the phone hard enough to feel it creak. “My name is Fiona Mackenzie. I took Ethan Dexter’s virginity. I want my million-dollar prize.”
* * *
Dex
I have absolutely no desire to play the game today. But there’s no such thing as taking a personal day in the NFL. Certainly not because you want to watch over your girlfriend. And sure as shit not on a game day.
Fi had shoved me out the door with the assurance that she’d be fine. Right. As if I don’t see the shadows under her eyes, the tight lines around her usually soft mouth.
I’m in a bad mood when I enter the locker room. But the familiar reek of sweat, body wash, and equipment soothes me a bit.
No one makes eye contact. It’s fucking awkward, and I spot more than one wince as I walk by. The idea that these fuckers have seen Fi’s naked body makes me want to break teeth.
I’m almost to my spot when Darren, a safety, mutters “titties” under his breath. He doesn’t get to take another. With a snarl, I grab hold of his throat, slam him into the wall. Guys explode into action around me, pulling at my arms to get me to let the little shit go. I brush them off, step into Darren’s face.
“You got something to say, motherfucker?”
Darren is wiggling like a worm, punching at my arms, his face darkening and sweaty under my grip. “Get the fuck off me.”
I don’t think so. No even when hard hands are jerking me back. Not when all the guys are shouting at me to take it easy. Fuck easy. I give Darren another slam before letting him drop. He stumbles but rights himself and takes a step toward me, murder in his eye. Good. Bring it.
“Dexter!” At my head coach’s shout, everyone goes still.
I give Darren one last glare as I turn around. No one will look at me.
Coach’s expression is tight. “In my office.”
I don’t say a word as I follow coach. There isn’t any needed. I’d do the same thing again, and everyone in the room knows it.
Getting called in to Coach’s office is never a good feeling. You remember training camp and the utter terror that hung over your head waiting to be called in to be cut or kept on. It permeates your bones until even walking by Coach’s office doors can give you the willies.
Inside, Coach stares me down from the opposite side of his glossy desk. “You going to be able to hold it together, Dexter?”
“Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. But he doesn’t want to hear any of that noise. So I stare back calmly, collected.
He temples his fingers—resting them under his chin in the annoying way of all coaches—and continues to stare like it’s a high-noon showdown.
Unfortunately for him, that shit has never worked on me. Something he clearly realizes when he sighs and his hands fall to his lap. “You’re one of the smartest guys on the team, Dexter. You’ve always played well. But that extra bit of intensity was missing. It’s there now. Focused. You’re playing better than I’ve ever seen.”
Great. So my rage is a bonus. It’s not like I haven’t realized this as well.
But I don’t like it. Maybe Coach knows that too because he leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk.
“This media circus will die down soon enough. In the meantime, take this as the opportunity it is. Channel that rage, Dex.” His expression goes brutal and dead serious. “But keep it on the fucking field.”
“Sure thing, Coach.” Because what else can I say?
I’m no less angry once I’m on the field and playing. Not by a long fucking shot. Oh, but I channel that rage, pushing it through my lungs until they burn, forcing it into my muscles until they twitch with the need to punish. I use it to break apart the defense, and I soak it up when the crowd roars it approval.
It feels good. All of it so fucking good—an adrenaline rush, the likes of which I’ve only come close to while thrusting into Fi.
I love football. Always have. Lived and breathed it. But it’s never been like this. This rage, the way it suddenly flows through me without hindrance, is something different. Something inside has finally broken free. No more holding back. No more fear.
But my logical brain can’t switch off entirely. Because I still know it’s Fi’s pain that has set this part of me free. How fucked up is that?
At the line, the defense scrambles around, and I sense a zone blitz coming. You can see it, if you pay attention, not just in the way the defense positions themselves, but in their eyes, the tension around their mouths.
I know they think Finn is too inexperienced to deal with them. They’re wrong.
I signal the play, and my guys adjust quickly. I get the snap off and we’re countering with an offensive blitz before the defense knows what’s happening.
It’s a beautiful play, and it clearly pisses them off. Norris, a nose tackle, and the fuck-nugget who outed me to the tabloids, whistles long and low. “Feeling good, Dexter? Yeah, I would too if my girl had them perky titties.”
Red fogs my vision. “The fuck?” I lunge forward, only to bump into Rolondo, who braces a palm against my gut.
The Game Plan (Game On #3) Page 26
