"I think so."
He walks over, pushes one of the chairs out of the way, and settles on his knees in front of me. He places his strong hands on my thighs and slowly pulls them apart. Almost rolling his eyes towards the back of his head when he does.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're already soaking wet."
His hands stay on my thighs as he waits for me to lean back and support myself on the table. Once I do he lets go, stands up, and steps back.
"I've never seen anything or anyone more magnificent than you, Miss White."
I crack a small smile, because I believe him. I believe Saint when he tells that I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Do you masturbate, Sabrina?"
"Um, yes."
"With your hands or a vibrator?"
"A vibrator."
"I'd like for you to try with your hands today. I want to make you feel good, but I promised not to touch you. So you're going to have to do all the work today, okay?"
"Okay."
"I'm going to talk to you a little to help you get started."
I don't say anything else. My nerves starting to get the best of me.
"The key to bringing yourself to climax by your own hand is to imagine that it's my hand doing the work, because essentially it is. I'd start by stroking you softly back and forth across your clit. Lightly. Not a lot of pressure. Just enough so you know that I'm there. That's it. Keep a rhythm going."
I follow Saint's instructions, but I can't get out of my own head. I'm just going through the motions. I stop for a second in frustration. I want to be this carefree, sexual person with him. I can only imagine what types of women he's used to, but maybe that's half of the problem. I'm overthinking everything when it comes to him.
He notices me struggling.
"I'm going to come a little closer to you. Back where I was. On my knees in front of you. All right?"
"All right."
"Put your hand back on my pussy."
Oh my God.
"That's it. Back and forth over your clit, Sabrina."
He starts blowing softly between my legs.
"Good. Now move a little faster. That's it, baby. It's getting so juicy now, I can't wait to fucking taste my pussy."
His possessive words set my skin on fire. There's nothing more that I would like than Saint between my legs, eating me until I scream his name for the whole block to hear.
"I think you'd like that wouldn't you?"
My skin is hot and my breathing rapid.
I'm starting to feel a deep pressure winding inside of me.
The more he talks, the faster I move my fingers, the higher I go.
"You'd love it if I spread your cunt apart and licked you from front to back right on this fucking table wouldn't you?"
His filthy words have sent me to the precipice.
I just need one little push.
"Saint–" I beg.
"If you want me to give you what you need you're going to have use your words, Sabrina."
"What words!?" I pant in desperation.
"Ask me nicely. Say Saint can you please eat my pussy."
"Ughhh–" I groan. He's doing this on purpose.
"Ughhh?" He laughs mimicking me. "Those aren't the words that are going to get you to come all over my face. Now ask me correctly."
At this point all modesty has gone out the window. I'm sweating. My hips are bucking up to meet my hand. I'm basically finger fucking myself while Saint watches.
He starts kissing the insides of my thighs.
"Tell me what I need to hear."
"Can you please–" I exhale roughly.
"Yes?"
"Eat–"
"Keep going."
"My pussy."
Saint almost snarls as he pulls me forward to the edge of the table, spreads my legs wide, and starts devouring me.
I've never felt so out of control.
My hips are thrashing.
I hold onto his hair desperately.
And then I scream.
My whole body contracts.
And then releases.
Contracts again.
And then releases.
I almost think it must be someone else's pleas for mercy, because I don't even recognize my own voice.
Tears are welling in my eyes from the release of endorphins in my bloodstream, and I almost panic. I can't let him see me cry for God's sake. He'll think I'm a nut job.
"Sabrina." His bass heavy voice calls out to me.
I open my eyes and look down at this magnificent beast, still on his knees, licking his glistening lips, and watching me closely.
"In front of me you can do anything. Say anything. Don't hide from me. Ever."
"I don't know why–"
"I know why. I know exactly why."
Saint stands up and pulls his long sleeved tee over his head while he watches me intensely.
"You need to understand while rules are in place for a reason, often there are going to be times when you have to break a few."
He unbuckles his leather belt and lets it clunk to the floor.
"I said I wasn't going to touch you. That all I was going to do was look at you. And watch. But I'm going to break that rule. I still want to watch, but this time it's going to be watching you bounce up and down on my dick until you come just like that again. That shit was fucking epic."
"Saint–"
"And that's another thing." His pants drop to the floor. "You talk too much."
Saint seems to take delight in the fact that my eyes widen when I see the enormous bulge bursting through his pair of black fitted boxers.
"I thought you knew why they call me the Gunslinger." He taunts while he slides his boxers down to the floor.
"No," I say with a dry swallow.
"You thought it was actually about football?"
"Yes," I manage to eek out.
"No baby, it's because I'm packing a weapon down here, and I never miss my mark. I will fuck you long, and I will fuck you deep, and I guarantee to make you come hard every single time. Great thing about that is we both win the game."
I don't know how to explain this; things are moving fast between us in slow motion. Saint reaches around me, and sends everything that was on my dining table to the floor with a crash. He slides me over, lays his back on the center of the table, and then straddles me across his thighs.
I watch in obvious wonder at his cock.
It's thick and wide and looks as powerful as the rest of him. It's brick hard and is bobbing up and down almost angrily. My mouth waters just imagining what it must taste like.
"You like what you see?" he asks with his usual bravado.
"Yes."
"If you want it, you need to claim it. Mount up and take it."
I've had sex maybe twice in my life on top. Both times it was a dismal failure. One guy's penis kept slipping out. I'm sure it was my fault, something about the motion of my ocean, but I never cared enough to keep trying. So I certainly have no idea how to climb up on top of this weapon of mass destruction and make it feel good for either of us.
"Get out of your head, Sabrina."
"I can't."
I start motioning to get off of him and the table, but I'm trying to figure out the best way without breaking my neck.
"Wait–" He grabs my ass. "If you're not ready, then you can watch me. There's no way I can go to the Wolf meeting like this right?"
"I guess not," I say suspiciously.
Saint keeps his left hand on my ass and hip, and uses the right to start stroking his cock. Just watching him pleasure himself like this is turning me on all over again. I lean over and kiss the scar on his lip while whispering his name.
"Saint."
He strokes himself a little faster.
"Fuck, Sabrina. I love it when you say my name. Hell, when you say anything like that."
I sit back up and use my hands to trace the ink on the arms that's holding me still.
He li
kes that too and starts stroking himself even harder.
I grab his hand and lift it off my hip and slide my body down where I can watch him stroke himself even more closely.
He likes that as well.
Feeling more confident and bolder, I bend my head down and lower my mouth onto his cock. This I have some experience with. It takes me a second to get used to the girth of his penis, but I just start slowly and use my tongue to swirl and lick some of the pre-cum that was already leaking. It turns me on to give head, and I moan in appreciation of the taste.
He especially likes that.
I motion to replace his hard working hand with mine, and I continue the rhythm of his strokes without missing a beat.
His dick still enveloped in my mouth.
His hands now tightly gripping my hair.
Holding on as I bob my head up and down.
I get little warning when he blows.
"Goddamn it, Sabrina!"
He softens slightly in my mouth as I swallow every drop, and then sit up with a wide grin on my face.
"Did you like that?" I ask already knowing that he loved every minute of it.
"Fuck Wolf Athletics," Saint growls.
"We can't do that," I argue.
"Quiet, Freshman. I rescheduled that meeting long before I even rang your doorbell."
This man's arrogance continues to shock me.
"So spread 'em. I'm going back in. We'll start with my fingers and then we'll work our way up to the big gun."
Chapter Twenty
SAINT
The roar of the stadium seems louder today.
The stakes are higher.
We're in Texas.
The Nighthawk's longtime division rival.
Everyone is playing pretty badly in our entire conference so far, including us, but that's a good thing. That means that everything is still up for grabs including the division title and a playoff spot.
Sabrina doesn't think I listen to her, but I actually believe she's one of the smartest women that I know, and her questions about my leadership of the team made me pause.
Do I celebrate too much?
Was I disconnected from my teammates?
Do they struggle to see me as their leader?
So the last two games I've been in my teammates faces. Getting them laughing. Getting them angry. Getting them to feel something. Anything but complacency. Anything to start earning back their trust and motivate them to play for something bigger than their paychecks.
It's about twenty minutes before kick off, and I plan on turning things up even hotter for this game in particular for several reasons.
If we win it will send a message to the teams on the rest of our play schedule that we're focused, serious, and a legitimate threat. Second, this game represents a long standing rivalry that gets high television ratings every time we play, and I would hate for half of the nation to see us lose. And last and more importantly because Sabrina will be watching in person, and I want to be a winner in front of my girl.
I check in with the team assistant, Brad to find out her estimated time of arrival. I treated her and a few close friends to some seats in one of the box suites. She should have landed by now.
"Hey Brad, you did what I asked right?"
"Absolutely, Saint. The driver should have picked up her group, and they should be on their way to the stadium. They'll be in the East box suite. That was cool of you to invite the people she works with."
"People she works with?"
"At least I think they're her coworkers," he says reluctant to say any more.
I text Sabrina quickly before the Nighthawks are called onto the field.
Me: Are you here yet?
Freshman: In the van on the way there.
Me: Who did you bring?
Freshman: People from work.
That wasn't our agreement.
Me: Don't you have any other friends?
Freshman: Don't you have a game to get ready for?
Me: Who exactly did you bring, Sabrina.
Freshman: Marisol, Kate, Samuel and Jason. You happy?
Me: You've really got some balls.
Freshman: They make up the sports division. I had to invite them.
Me: No you didn't, but we'll talk about it later.
Freshman: Have a good game, Gunslinger:)
She's learning fast that it drives me crazy when she calls me that. It makes me hard and horny, because between she and I it has absolutely nothing to do with football.
Me: P.S. What are you wearing?
Today's game is probably going to go down as one of the most exciting of the season. It was a good old-fashioned shoot out between me and Anderson, the other team's veteran quarterback. First time he's been back on the field since a major back injury, and he looked twenty-one years old again if you ask me. I'm pretty sure he went to that back surgeon in Germany that everyone says is a miracle worker.
It was a three-point game up until the very last minute in the fourth quarter. Texans were up. I knew I needed to make something happen, but it was going to be hard, because the Texan defense had been blitzing me all fucking day.
We'd been running a play Coach B designed for the offense for an entire week at practice just for this very situation, but once I got to the line and saw how the defense was moving around, I decided to trust my gut and more importantly my teammates and change the play.
The new play would mean I'd have to specifically trust my tight end Cooper. A player that my brother of all people asked for me to give a chance a while back.
"Hey little brother."
"Hey, Mike."
"Thanks for taking Jake to the mountains, man. He couldn't stop talking about his awesome Uncle Saint."
"I knew the little stinker loved me."
"Listen I'm calling to put a bug in your ear."
"About what?"
"The man Cooper on your offense."
"New tight end? What about him?"
"He's the son of one of my old coaches at Georgia."
Mike and I went to different universities. Both of us on full athletic scholarships.
"So?"
"So I need you to look out for him. He's a good kid, and for some odd reason he's a fan of your arrogant ass. I'm not asking for much, just give him a chance."
"Mikey."
"Haven't I always looked out for you?"
"Yes but–"
"Don't you want to win your fucking division?"
"Obviously but–"
"So do your job. Trust your veterans and teach your rookies. Starting with Coop."
Remembering that conversation, I knew I had a split second to make a decision. So I decided to go with the play action pass. A play where I would get the ball, fake it to the running back, and then hand it over to my tight end, Cooper. The play would call for him to pretend to be blocking for me, then he'd suddenly break open, and I'd throw him the ball so that he could run it in for a touchdown. It's a call that can be practiced until you get the timing down a million times, but it's a play that really works best when there's chemistry between a quarterback and his tight end.
When I called the play, I could see the excitement and determination in Cooper's eyes. The Texans had been fucking with him a lot today. That's what's crazy about football. All the shit that's said on the field that the fans never hear. When analysts say that it's as close to war as you can come to, without actually being in a war, they are right.
Testosterone was flowing through our veins. Guys were talking about people's mothers. People's wives. Players were threatening to break each other in half. Anything to get into their opponents heads.
But I blocked all that out.
I had a game to win.
A girl to get to.
When I passed the ball to Cooper, it was a cathartic moment. A total release. Everything was happening without sound around me. All I could do was watch Coop.
Finding a hole in the defense.
Holding onto the ba
ll like his life depended on it.
Running his fast rookie ass off.
And not stopping until he made it into the end zone.
The sound finally returned when I heard the stunned silence of the crowd and the roar of my teammates and coaching staff on the sidelines. They were running towards me at record speed. Cheering wildly.
We'd won the game.
We'd won the fucking game.
And it wasn't because of me or in spite of me. It was a team effort. It was chemistry. It was trust. It was passion. It was a belief that we actually could do it. And while I know that may not be enough to carry us all the way to the big dance this year. It's enough to make me rethink free agency and staying with the New York Nighthawks.
Leadership, trust and chemistry are grown and cultivated. I can't just pick up and go to another team every time I hit a wall. No matter how good the players are on another team. It still would be like starting all over. And I realize that even though I've been with the Nighthawks for almost four years, I'm really just beginning.
"Saint over here! Amazing win today. Tell us how it feels to finally be getting your rhythm back."
"Oh I've always had my rhythm, we just all danced a little better together today."
My teammates laugh.
I've decided that I'm not going to do any more solo press conferences unless it's league required. That's why I've brought some of my teammates to the table with me. Today that's Cooper and Kimball.
Next.
"Saint, right here. What do you think you need to do to keep up this momentum?"
"Thanks for the question, Jim, but the answer still is the same as usual. Score and win."
Next.
"Saint–"
Brad walks over and whispers in my ear. I've got to wrap this whole thing up. My girl is waiting.
"Last question," I announce.
"Saint, word has it that you have you been strategizing where you might want to land next year since you'll be a free agent. Care to divulge where you might take your talents to next year?"
Debbie downer, Myra Kitch, strikes again. We play an amazing game, pull out a win, and she always has to put a damper on things with her negativity. Never mind that she says the word talents as if it's synonymous with herpes.
"All I'm thinking about is next week's game in D.C. Nothing more, Myra."
Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1) Page 13
