On the Edge of Scandal

by Tamsen Parker

She jerks. I tut at her as some of the cold water sloshes out of the open bag, and her fingers get even tighter in the covers. When the ice has melted in my mouth, I fish out another piece, and run it directly over her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Around her navel, over her abdominals, the sharp cut of her hipbone, and along the border of her pubic hair.

  Bronwyn is breathing heavily, making these mewling sounds that send blood pulsing straight to my dick. As if I needed to want her worse than I do already. After a few more go-rounds, my fingers are freezing, Bronwyn is twitching under my touch, and outright begging.

  “Please, Ash, please touch me.”

  “I am touching you.”

  “No, you’re using the ice to touch me. It’s not the same. Touch me, please. I want your mouth again.”

  Demanding woman. I’m of half a mind not to give it to her, to make her wait, and wait, and wait. But my fingers are about to freeze off, which is when I get an idea of how to warm them right up.

  With no warning, I press them inside her. The heat of her burns me, feeling like I’ve put my fingers in a pot of boiling water instead of sliding them inside of her. Also, a pot of water wouldn’t gasp and buck, sending more water spilling onto the mattress. Good thing there’s another bed in here, because I think we’re going to need it.

  I don’t stop, though, just keep rocking my fingers into her until they thaw, and she’s pushing back, trying to get more of me. I use my other hand to grab yet another ice cube out of the bag that’s mostly cold water now, and pop it into my mouth, before lowering my head and giving my baby what she’s asked for.

  The moment my cold mouth makes contact with her clit, she squeaks a curse, and it’s the cutest thing ever. I’ll have to figure out more ways to make her do that again, and again, and again. But for now, I’ll concentrate my efforts on giving her that mind-blowing orgasm I’ve promised.

  Tongue, teeth, fingers, lips, ice, I use them all to pleasure and torment her until her thighs are pressed to the sides of my head, and she’s wound so tight I think she might shatter. That’s what I want. My Bronwyn in a million pieces I’ll sweep up and hold in my arms until she’s whole again. Give her a safe place to rest so she can put herself back together.

  With a last worry of my teeth over that sensitive bundle of nerves, she’s crying out my name. Also a lot of swear words, which I will take as a compliment. Besides, I can barely hear them, muffled as her voice is from my ears being covered with her powerful legs. I hope the tension isn’t putting too much strain on her hip, but I don’t think it’s going to last long.

  As if to prove my point, she rocks up against my mouth a few more times. I can feel the pulse of her climax around my fingers and then her thighs fall apart, letting in the world that isn’t her. I’d much rather be trapped between Bronwyn’s legs than basically anywhere else, but now that I’ve brought her off, it’s time for the next part of my plan.

  Her eyes are closed, and she’s mumbling softly, incoherently, her fingers searching in the sheets for I’m not sure what, but I’m hoping it’s me. I hush her, rubbing my hands all the way from her ankles up her thighs, and finally taking the ice off her hip, depositing the bag on the floor, careful not to make a giant puddle by letting it spill.

  The pillows I remove carefully, keeping one arm under her sacrum so she isn’t jarred by the drop of her hips. I have to grit my own teeth as I use a foot on the floor for leverage, but it’s over soon and then I’m lying beside her, gathering her into my arms and she’s rolling to her side to clutch me, holding on tight and saying my name over and over and over again.

  It’s like she can’t get enough of her body close enough to enough of mine, and while I appreciate the sentiment, because I love the feel of her, too, it’s starting to worry me. Did I go too far? In my efforts to keep her safe, have I failed? Hurt her in some way I didn’t see coming? I meant to take her out at the knees so she’d have to give in but maybe when she hit the ground, she lost her breath.

  She’s not angry, though, at least not at the moment, so I give her what she’s asking for, holding her as close as possible, wrapping my body around her as best I can, and telling her over and over, “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

  I hope she can’t feel how my heart is racing—don’t want to give her something to worry about—but I need something from her. A sign that she’s okay somehow, which is when I get it. She laughs. It’s choked and breathy, but there it is and it loosens the tension that had ratcheted up in my body.

  “Holy fuck, Ash. That was amazing. You weren’t kidding. I can’t . . . You’ve . . . I’m . . .”

  “A little fuck-stupid?” I offer, and she laughs like a hyena.

  “Yes, fuck-stupid, that’s exactly it. I can’t . . .”

  “Form full sentences?” Oh, this is fun. And the best compliment about my sexual prowess I’ve ever gotten. To reduce this brick wall of a woman to rubble. Now I just need to make sure to build her back up again before tomorrow.

  She punches me as well as she can, which isn’t very well in this position, and then snuggles against me. “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “Okay, okay, I won’t tease anymore.” I’ll just lay here with a big, stupid smile on my face for having accomplished what I set out to do beyond my wildest imaginings.

  Bronwyn does, in fact, fall asleep in my arms and I relish it, carefully pulling a blanket over us—okay, mostly her. I’m not the one who doesn’t have any pants on. Unfortunately, it’s not so long until my phone buzzes with a reminder that I’ve got to suit up for an interview I don’t really want to do. It’s Carla from Hour 25, and she likes to flirt with me in a harmless way.

  Still, it’s hard to drag myself out of bed, leaving a satiated and sleepy Bronwyn behind. While I’m up and rummaging in my drawers, I toss my Halpern jersey on the bed so she’ll have it when she inevitably gets cold from not being able to siphon off my body heat anymore. I leave her a note on the bedside table to tell her where I’m going and that I won’t be gone long. I’d love it if she were still here when I return.

  I don’t want to wake her, but I can’t help leaning down and brushing some hair away from her face to press a kiss to her forehead, taking with me the sleepy way she stirs and skims a hand down the side of my face as I whisper that I’ll be back soon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bronwyn

  Ash has been a bit of a story unto himself in the SIGs, which is kind of funny. I mean, sure, the coaches get some credit—usually not enough, but some too much—but for whatever reason the press has developed an interest in him. Not quite the fascination they seem to have with Crash Delaney or Blaze Bellamy, but still.

  He does, I suppose, have a good story, what with the being injured and being forced to leave the game as a player and coming back as a coach. I wish they’d talk to him more about what a phenomenal coach he is, though, instead of poking at his sore spots. But that’s what they seem to enjoy.

  Of course, they’d probably have something to say other than those things if they had any idea I was in Ash’s room, curled up in his bed with some hot chocolate in his SHUT YOUR FIVE-HOLE mug, wearing nothing but his Jeff Halpern jersey.

  All I want to do when he gets back is take off his shoes, have him take me over, mind and body, for the next couple of hours, and then fall asleep while snuggled into his side. For now, I’ll maybe sneak a peek at his interview, because I bet Ash is adorable on camera. Maybe kind of uncomfortable, wishing he could go back and watch tape of our opponents instead, or put together the ultimate playlist for our locker room psych-up tomorrow.

  There’s no TV in here, so I’ll have to watch Ash be charming and bashful on the small screen of my phone, but I’d rather do that here in the privacy of his room than in one of the common rooms, or the lounge outside the dining hall, or the entertainment complex, or well, basically anywhere else. Here smells like Ash, and feels like him.

  Which is when it hits me. Like yeah, I’m not stupid or delusional, so
I know the SIGs are coming to an end in a few days, but I hadn’t actually thought about what that might look like. My entire relationship with Ash has been in Denver, under the billions of white flakes that swirl around in the SIG snow globe. It may snow back in Boston, but everything is going to be different. The question is, how different?

  I’ll be finishing out my senior year at BC, Ash will be back coaching at BU, but aside from that, does anything really need to change? I can’t imagine him in my apartment, but we could still . . . date. Except that’s not really what we’re doing is it? He lives in Carlisle, and that’s not super far, surely—

  Which is when Carla Carruthers welcomes Ash to her show. He is so fricking cute. Not even the stylists for the show could make his hair totally behave so he looks sort of disheveled, even if his suit is on point. Man looks good, and I wonder for not the first time how I could’ve overlooked him for so damn long. His smile is easy and charming, and I like the way he talks with his hands. Of course, there are other things I like that he does with his hands, too . . .

  Carla is clearly not immune to Ash’s charm, because she smiles and simpers while she asks him how the team is doing so far and whether he’s nervous about the game tomorrow.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “No, I’m not nervous.”

  Carla raises an eyebrow that must’ve been groomed to within an inch of its life, and her skeptical expression makes Ash laugh.

  “I mean, there’s definitely adrenaline pumping through these veins, don’t get me wrong, I’m not made of stone. But am I worried about how the team is going to perform? Not at all. They’ve trained incredibly hard, they work together beautifully, and they know what they’re doing. Honestly, I could not show up tomorrow and they’d be fine. That’s how solid they are.”

  If I had popcorn, I’d throw it at the screen. “Not funny,” I mutter to the mini-Ash in front of me. He’s so going to hear about that when he gets back.

  I get it, and it’s flattering, but it’s also outright not true. We’d flounder without him. At least I would. He doesn’t give himself nearly enough credit. Although, really, what would be enough? I don’t think there’s enough credit in the whole world. Ash is the best man I know. And maybe that’s the difference between him and Brody. Yeah, Brody looks like a man, but he doesn’t act like one. He’s selfish and self-centered, has zero empathy, and is as juvenile now as he was on the day I met him.

  Ash is . . . not that. Which is also something he’s going to hear about when he gets back. After I finish stripping him and showing him exactly how marvelous I think he is. Because that is a thing that’s happening over no matter what protests he might have. I think the interview’s about over when Carla presses a couple of fingers to her ear like she’s listening to her producer, and her gaze darts sharp to Ash’s face.

  This has been a softball interview, which isn’t Carla’s usual M.O. She’s more of the barracuda equivalent of a reporter for Hour 25, but she’s been a bit more cotton candy during the SIGs. Now, though, instead of looking like she’s flirting with Ash over drinks in a bar, her face gets hard, devious . . . predatory. I’ve seen that look on women’s faces, and it’s usually right before they try to steal the puck away from me. Good luck, lady, with whatever it is you’ve got because Ash is far, far tougher than he appears.

  “So, Coach Levenson, tell me. Is it ever challenging to coach women, from an attraction perspective? You’re not so much older than your players.”

  Oh, shit. Ash’s light eyes blink wide, and I can imagine the flush that’s creeping up his throat. Luckily, because he’s a teensy bit stuffy, his collar’s buttoned all the way up for his tie, so the rest of the world isn’t going to see what I know is there.

  He gets that funny wave-wrinkling around his eyebrows, and his eyes narrow. “I mean, in college it was hard when I was the manager for the women’s team. Those were the women I had everything in common with, who I thought were phenomenal athletes. Did I have crushes on them? All the time.”

  The constriction in my chest loosens up some, because he’s very good with the charm. But Carla doesn’t let it go. “Sure. But when you started your first university coaching job, you were the same age as your players. Have you ever gotten romantically or physically involved with one of your players? It’s a simple question.”

  I want to gouge the woman’s eyes out. What business is it of hers if he has? If she knew Ash better than ten minutes on a TV set, she’d know he wouldn’t do that.

  . . . Except he is. With me. But it’s not that simple. And heaven help me if she implies he’d use his position to get a girl into bed, or pressured her in any way. I’d march down to the studio and threaten her with my stick, but somehow I don’t think that would help anything.

  She must’ve brought her usual camera crew with her, because they do one of those close-up shots Hour 25 is famous for. The ones where they zoom in so close to the interviewee’s face it makes them look guilty just from the camera angle. It makes me sick, what she’s doing to Ash, and it makes me sick that this is partly my fault. This never would have happened if it weren’t for me. Would it? Or has there been someone else?

  Why is Carla Carruthers asking about this now? What the hell is Ash going to say?

  He doesn’t look away, doesn’t look at the ground, but keeps his gaze straight on Carla’s face. She looks like a mouser, waiting to catch up her prey between her paws and bat him around.

  “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying. Nothing inappropriate or untoward has ever happened between me and any of the women I’ve coached. I have never been physically involved with any of my players.”

  My stomach roils at his insistence even as I know he can’t very well say that yeah, we’ve been fucking any and every chance we get for the past week. That would end his career, maybe damage my prospects, but does he have to look so sure about it?

  That goddamn eyebrow of Carla’s cocks again. “And what about romantically? Have you ever had inappropriate feelings for any of your players? Feelings that were a long way from professional?”

  Ash’s jaw flexes, and I want to reach my fingers through the screen, stroke it, soothe him, and poke frigging Carla in the eye. What the hell? He already said no, can she not leave it at that?

  Most of the time, Ash is pleasant looking. Not in a bland way, but in a regular - guy - walking - down - the - street kind of way. But every once in a while, he gets very stern. Depending on the context, I can find this stomach-clenching in a guilty, squirmy way, or in a holy - fucking - turn - on kind of way. It’s the former right now, and my throat gets tight as I wait for his answer.

  “The only feelings I have ever had for any of my players have been of concern and pride. My job is to foster their talents, help them work as a team, bring their attention to bigger-picture issues they may not be able to see when they’re in the middle of a game, and to keep them happy, healthy, and primed to win. I’ll say it one more time and one more time only. I have never had inappropriate feelings for any of my players. Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the team, because that’s what professionals do. Speaking of, we’ve got a big game coming up tomorrow and I won’t do the women on my team or this country the disservice of being unprepared or exhausted for it.”

  The camera pans out and Carla talks out the last minute or so of the segment while Ash sits there, kind of stiff but looking none the worse for wear. Which is good. That’s good. Right? But on the other hand, my heart’s not beating its normal rhythm, nor is it racing like it was when this ridiculous line of questioning first started. No, it’s kind of tripping along, a thuddy, uneven beat that’s making it hard to breathe.

  Rational me knows there was nothing else he could possibly say, nothing else he could possibly do. At least not without putting himself at risk, and I wouldn’t want that, at all. But watching him say that so confidently and so very frankly? It makes me feel like nothing. Like all along, I’ve just been a chore he has to do, a responsibility he has, like wha
t we’ve been doing was an obligation he had to the team, and it hurts. Worse than anything Brody’s ever said or done. Worse than a hard check into the boards.

  Not only did he say it, but he looked as though he meant it. Would he have done this for anyone on the team? Does he truly have no feelings for me whatsoever beyond a professional interest in me not crashing and burning? Because I have to say, it doesn’t feel good. I thought it was more than that. I thought he might . . . love me?

  But apparently that was stupid. I’m a job he has to do, and all of this has just been another duty he had to fulfill for the good of the team. And I’m the stupid, stupid girl who thought she could matter to a man more than just her skills on the rink. Idiot. Idiot.

  Sitting on Ash’s bed, wearing his jersey, holding his mug suddenly all seem embarrassing. Immature and like playing dress-up. What is he thinking, as he walks off the set, removes the sound equipment, and heads back here? Is he rolling his eyes and dreading seeing me? More work to do. Better make sure Bronwyn gets her orgasms in, otherwise she’s going to be a hot mess for the game tomorrow. Checking his watch while we’re making love because Oh my god, can this be over yet?

  The idea makes my eyes water, but I try to be reasonable, rational. Not let that tendency to make small things into federal disasters take me over. I’ll wait. I’m overreacting, and surely, surely when Ash gets back, he’ll be able to make this panic go away. Be able to soothe me and hold me and tell me how he really feels and I’ll be able to believe him because he’s a good man.

  Ash

  That was ugly. Carla’s always been kind to me, and that . . . that was unexpected. She totally fucking blindsided me with those ugly accusations. The weird thing is, she seemed surprised, too. Like maybe she got word from her producer in the middle of the interview to poke me about having inappropriate relationships with my players, and where the fuck did her producer get that from?

  I shiver, even though I’m plenty warm in my down coat on my way back to my room at the village. The only thing I want is Bronwyn. To have her in my arms, her skin against mine, her eager body pressed to me, and her bossy insistence about how exactly we’re going to have sex so I’m not in pain. That’ll reassure me that there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. Yes, perhaps the circumstances aren’t ideal, but if the circumstances were different, would we have ended up together?