by Teagan Kade
I place the last box on the bed in the master bedroom. I point up at the mirror above. “What do you think? Pretty rockstar, isn’t it?”
She smiles, but it’s far from the gloom-busting grin I was starting to get used to. “Don’t get any ideas, mister.”
I point to myself. “Me? Ideas? You’ve never noticed the mirror above my bed?”
I’m trying to lighten the mood, but so far it’s not working. I haven’t told her about the private investigator. Maybe I should. She deserves to know. I just can’t bring myself to crush her spirits like that.
Help her forget.
I pull her close to me, breathe in the vanilla-scented smell of her hair. “What can I do to help you relax?”
Her breath catches when I run my hand up the back of her neck.
I run the other down the front of her pants. I wasn’t sure she’d be in the mood, but the way she kicks forward for more tells me I’m on the right path.
Five minutes later we’re putting the king bed to good use.
I watch Sam sleeping, the window blinds creating lines of shadow on her skin.
I’ve never wanted to protect something more in my entire life. On tour women and children were a common sight. I felt a hint of that compulsion then, a fierce desire to protect the innocent, and I have no doubt Sam is innocent. She doesn’t deserve this.
I stand up and take one final look before heading down to the bathroom. I reach for the shower tap. I’m not even sure Morgan has had the water hooked up yet, but it flows freely. Good ol’ Morgan—always on top of things.
I turn the shower on full blast, letting the room steam up nice and good before stepping inside.
I let the water wash over me, reluctantly cleaning the memory of our arousal from my body. It all spins down the plughole in a cloudy ring.
I close my eyes, running cheap shampoo from the shelf through my hair. The shower door opens. Soft hands press against my sides.
“Hello there,” Sam says, voice husky.
“Hello.”
Her lips come against my own. Even with the water blasting over our bodies I can hear her wince, but it doesn’t matter. The shy girl is long gone.
“This is becoming a habit—you and me, tight places.”
She comes against me with animal urgency.
Our tongues meet. I press myself firmer against her.
I spin around and lift her leg, driving upwards to fill her in one thrust.
She breathes out against my shoulder, biting down on it in the steam and fog as I drive in and out of her sopping sex.
I position her against the cheap tiles, water streaming down her back and running in rivulets between us, around the root of my cock as it runs up inside her.
She comes hard, bearing down upon me, fingers woven into the thicket of my hair. I follow, clenching my buttocks and pumping her full of my release.
We emerge from the shower laughing, naked.
I’ve never heard anything quite as beautiful as that sound.
“I needed that,” Sam says, still breathless.
“Any time,” I reply.
For a merciful moment we’re fine, nothing in the world to worry about… until I look out the window and see a security guard strolling across the parking lot, weapon by his side. That makes it real again.
I just really fucking hope he won’t get a chance to use it.
Chapter 13
Sam
Chance and the boys have a real challenge on their hands with the Patriots. The heat doesn’t help. Even the stands are a little emptier than usual, all manner of beverages flowing thick and fast. Morgan must be making a killing.
Chance smiles up at me as the team heads to the sidelines at the end of the second quarter. Given the wall of defense the Patriots are putting up, I don’t know what’s he’s smiling for until I remember last night, and the morning before, and the night before that…
We just can’t keep our hands off each other at the moment. I don’t think there’s a type of sex we haven’t covered yet, from wall-pounding, screaming-at-the-roof fucking to slow, sensual, I-need-you-more-than-anything lovemaking. I’m starting to wonder if the security guards outside have worked out why the trailer I’m living in is constantly rocking and rolling.
Chance throws a cup of water over his head, shakes it out. He’s like a puppy dog—a really cute, really hot man-puppy.
A police officer walks down the stairs beside me, the third since the game started. I also noticed more security stationed around the exits and at the gates. Neither Morgan nor Chance mentioned anything about it to me, but there’s definitely an increased presence here. I have no doubt it’s for my benefit.
The fans don’t care, including the bachelorette party-esque trio sitting behind me who holler and call whenever Chance comes close. Before he heads back onto the field he places two fingers to his heart and sends them in my direction. Of course, the girls behind me think it’s for them and go absolutely wild. “I want your baby, Chance Adams!” one of them calls.
I laugh, but it does get me thinking. I mean, we would make cute babies.
If you live long enough.
I breathe in, trying not to think about the contract that’s out on me, the two men who followed us from the restaurant. There was no one around. They could have easily taken me out, so why didn’t they?
Taken out—such a strange turn of phrase. I consider what it would feel like to be shot, for my world and all I know to suddenly be snipped away, and what then? Darkness. All-consuming black.
The crowd cheers and I bring myself back to the game. Chance gets the touchdown and does a backflip, forever the show-off.
So why are you smiling like an idiot?
The Wildcats win, but the crowd’s eager to get home and back to their air-conditioning. I meet Chance on the sidelines. He gives a little grimace as I approach, running his hand down his calf.
“Everything okay?” I question.
He smiles, standing straight. “It is now.”
“Is your calf still giving you grief?”
Most of the soft-tissue damage from the dog pile has healed nicely, but the calf remains a problem.
He pulls me into him. “A couple more sessions and it will be right.”
“You really shouldn’t strain yourself, Mr. Adams.”
A raised eyebrow. “’Mr. Adams’ again. It’s like that now, is it? Does that make you Mrs. Adams?”
I hold up my hand. “Do you see a ring on this finger?”
He brings his lips close to my ear. “Not yet.”
I shove him. “Go on, hit the showers. You stink.”
“Like a sexy man beast?”
“Like football.”
He sniffs his armpit. “Best god-damn smell in the world.” His eyes run down to the area where my legs meet. “No, scratch that. Second-best.”
I pick up a cup of water myself and throw it over him. He doesn’t flinch, tongue snaking out to lick it off his lips. “Thanks. I needed that.” He nods his head towards the tunnel leading to the locker rooms and showers. “You want to join me?”
I laugh. “And thirty other sweaty males? I think I’ll pass.”
He shrugs and picks up his helmet from the table. “Suit yourself.”
He leans forward and crushes me with a hug, the water soaking through my top. He gives me a quick peck on the cheek before releasing me. “See you soon.”
“You did that deliberately, didn’t you?”
“So sue me.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got a press conference in twenty minutes.”
He holds his helmet out with one hand. “You’ll be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
And as he turns and heads down the tunnel, that tight little butt of his compressed in white, for one merciful moment, everything is forgotten.
A quick change back in the trailer and I’m ready to head to the press conference.
I pass Morgan in one of the halls on the way.
“Sam. You headed to the press conference?”
I nod.
“You keep Chance in check, okay? You know what he’s like at these things.”
“A schoolboy who thinks he’s Superman?”
Morgan smiles. “Precisely. Damn, you’ve really figured him out, haven’t you?”
I’d like to think so. These last few days Chance has been so open. Nothing has been off limits. “I don’t think I’ll ever truly be able to figure him out, but I’m definitely trying.”
Morgan places his hand on my shoulder, another fatherly gesture. “We’re happy to have you, Sam. Remember that.”
“I will.”
“Good,” he nods, and walks off.
I ask one of the tech guys at the back of the conference room where I can find Chance. He directs me to one of the green rooms down the corridor. To get there we snake through a throng of reporters and journalists eager to hear from the one of the biggest personalities in sports. You see, Chance doesn’t just put on a show on the field. His antics after games are legendary, from kissing one of the reporters to strip-teasing Magic Mike style right there on the desk. Hopefully I haven’t softened him up too much.
Chance? Soft? There’s nothing soft about him. You should know that better than anyone.
I giggle a little to myself. Sure, Chance might be a schoolboy, but I’m the infatuated schoolgirl, constantly hunting him down for a bit of action. That shy and quiet Sam? She left the building a long time ago.
When I enter the green room, I find him standing there pulling on a black tee.
“No, no, no.” I reach to the back of the door and take a white, collared shirt off its hanger, tossing it over. “You look much better in white.”
He strips off the shirt he was wearing and flexes. “Or how about nothing at all.”
I point behind me. “You want half of that conference room out there to die from shock?”
He places the shirt I tossed him on the table and approaches me. “Fair point, but tell me. How long until I have to be out there?”
I start to tingle as he steps towards me. I gulp. “Five minutes.”
He takes my hands in his and slides them down his waist, a dance.
I want him to continue. I never want him to stop, but this isn’t the place. “Chance,” I whisper, “I really want to, but there’s a roomful of press right outside the door waiting.”
His hands drop further. “Let them wait.”
My composure’s slipping. “We can’t.”
“No?” comes his teasing reply.
His hands rise and he starts to unbutton my blouse. I go to protest again, but a finger silences my lips.
Oh hell. Why not?
Buttons undone, Chance’s hands help the blouse feather to the floor, a thumb looping under the shoestring strap of my bra, my breasts unveiled.
“Chance…” I moan, careful to keep my voice down.
He slides the bra down around my torso, the pale peaches of my breasts coming free, nipples swollen awaiting his touch.
He bunches my skirt up, using the wall to pin it in place against my back as he crushes himself against me, cock hard and willing. His hands reach underneath and find the two ripe halves of my ass, the line of the thong I bought yesterday dividing them.
He lifts me, cradling my ass in his hands while I bring my legs around him, rocking myself forward to feel his heat and hardness.
Odd, breathy notes escape from my mouth as his head drops and he takes the finger of a nipple inside, wrapping his tongue around it until it’s a divining rod of sensation. He removes one hand, holding me effortlessly in place while he strums my ribs with his free hand, my chest pressing out against his own, my core already drawing taut with need.
I reach down between us and fumble with pants, fishing for his zipper and the hot rod of his cock below. When it’s finally free, it slaps against me as if released from a mouse trap—red, angry, rock hard.
I draw the band of the thong aside and lift, using the wall for leverage, my nipple popping free wet and glistening from his lips.
He finds my opening with the blunt head of his cock and drives upwards, filling me swiftly. His hand rushes up to the side of my face, holding me in position. I can smell my sex, musky and damp, when he pulls out, letting me hover there before filling me again, the base of his cock pressing urgently against my clit.
He kisses me, his tongue snaking between my lips and driving deep, fighting with his cock for penetration.
We break apart and I sink into the crook of his neck, a slow, breathy climb spilling from my lips as I’m pummeled and fucked from below, the sensation unstoppable.
I think about the press, all those poor souls waiting just outside oblivious to our act of intimacy.
Chance’s thrusts grow more forceful, the friction of the wall against my back a welcome contrast to my slick folds split wide and open, my core crimson and hot.
I build, allowing my weight to sink down on his cock fully before he powers me back upwards, pressing and groping, his hands constantly in motion, no part of me to be left unexplored.
There’s an excess of saliva in my mouth, a languid state of desire clouding out all else until only Chance and I exist in our little world of pleasure, my clit pulsing every time he enters me.
My climax comes rushing up, spreading out from my core. My chest heaves with the effort, my nipples trembling against him, muscles tight and tense, released by the beautiful snap that follows when I allow myself to fall into sweet oblivion.
Chance stiffens, fingers clawing deep into the fleshy pillows of my ass, a pulsing gush of release following to the end of me, my own arousal pressed out around his cock.
I throb and shake, caught between the hard wall behind me and the marble body of a flesh-and-blood man intent on taking me to the furthest planes of pleasure.
I stretch and quiver, convulse and twitch, a fish caught on the line, my orgasm endless.
Finally, he withdraws still hard, lets me down onto shaky legs, only the wall to keep me from collapsing.
He kisses me again, the heat and swelling scent of sex all around us, the intangible elements of our act surely to betray us as soon as that door opens.
As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. “Chance? You ready?”
“One second,” he says, stuffing himself back into his pants, his cock still wet and slippery from the heated grip of my pussy.
I pull my bra back into position, hooking my arms through the straps and swiping my blouse off the floor, pulling it on and buttoning as fast as my shaky hands will allow. I barely manage to get my skirt back into place before the door opens and one of the team assistants waves Chance out.
The assistant sees me and smiles, perhaps aware something is amiss, but not quite able to place it.
Before he leaves, Chance turns and winks, a hand running back through his hair as he steps out into a storm of camera flashes and questions.
When the door closes, I slump to the floor, the space between my legs still filled with his phantom appendage and the memory of it. I draw in deep breaths, a good five minutes passing before I’m able to stand and compose myself.
I slip out of the door quietly, the press thankfully engaged with Chance on a small stage on the other side of the room especially set up for conferences such as this.
I work my way across the back, a reporter asking, “How about your recent calf injury? Are you receiving treatment?”
Chance finds me, his eyes meeting mine, cheerful glee written all over his face. “Yes, I’ve been working closely with the team massage therapist on that. Suffice to say, I think I’m in good hands.”
The following week Chance stays with me in the trailer every night. I didn’t tell him to, but I think he knows deep down I still feel unsafe, and sure, it’s comforting having him there. It also means he’s on hand for other things, naturally, and schoolgirl in me has been more than willing on that front, even more so after the little stunt he pulled
before the press conference the other day. For a second, I was sure he was going to blurt it out, casually announcing to the world, “Oh, and by the way, I just had hot, wet, back-scratching sex with the most beautiful girl in the world.” I wonder how that would have gone down…
About as well as Chance did last night.
Wow. Even my head’s turning into a perv. Still, as nice as all the sex and attention has been, there are constant reminders I’m essentially locked away from the world, stuck here on stadium grounds until the threat has passed, but when will that happen?
Maybe it never will.
Chapter 14
Chance
“We can do more.” I’m pacing around Morgan’s office frustrated. It’s not helping that the AC to this entire place has been down all day. My damn shirt’s sticking to my back for crying out loud.
David watches on from the wall. He’s keeping out of it for now, but everyone knows this is dragging on too long.
“Sam can’t live caged up here forever,” I continue. “She might seem like she has it together, but I can tell you she’s close to losing it. She wakes up in the middle of the night calling for me, for help. She’s terrified.”
Morgan looks down at the field, hands in his pockets. “That’s all well and good, son, but what else can I do? I’ve already doubled the security near the trailer. There are more cops than ever at the games. Any more and someone’s going to report there’s been a threat on the team. That is a PR nightmare we do not need.”
David pushes off the wall. “What about the Feds?” He addresses Morgan. “Who that was guy at the FBI who came here when we had the bomb scare—sharp, kind of high cheekbones, moody.”
Morgan heads behind his desk and fishes through his top drawer, finally pulling free a plain white business card. He squints to read it. “Agent Anderson.” He looks up. “I can give him a call, but if the cops couldn’t help…”
It almost seems like Morgan’s giving up, and that’s very uncharacteristic. Even when he was in the game, when the Bears were forty down against Cincinnati, he pulled through. “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? They’ve got far more resources at their disposal than the LAPD, too busy trying to stuff their fat fucking faces full of donuts.”
