Down Deep (Going Deep Book 1)

by Virna DePaul

  One evening, he drove all the way to her house to surprise her and make a special request since Emma was at her father’s.

  “I’ve been fantasizing about it ever since the night we talked in your gazebo,” he clarified, wagging his eyebrows. She blushed, obviously understanding his request immediately.

  At first she was nervous of being seen by a nosey neighbor, but he kept kissing her to keep her distracted. He tongued the side of her neck, taking in that unbearably sweet taste of her, before moving to her collarbone. How was she so pretty everywhere? He kissed and nipped and bit, leaving little marks all over her shoulders and neck. He didn’t care one whit that she’d probably have to wear turtlenecks in the Georgia heat for a few weeks. He wanted to mark her. Claim her. Tell the world she was his and he wasn’t going to share.

  She was just as busy, though, stroking his short hair. She wiggled and moaned and arched against him. She couldn’t be quiet, and he smirked. As long as she wasn’t talking about the future, he was fine if she made as much noise as she wanted. And thankfully, they were far enough away from any of the surrounding houses that she could moan without anything but the fireflies hearing her.

  “God, Heath,” she groaned when he sucked her breast through her t-shirt. She murmured nonsense as he sucked her right nipple into his mouth before moving to the left. She kept shimmying like a dancer, and he was so hard he was afraid he’d lose it in his jeans before long.

  Tipping her backwards onto the bench, Heath stripped her of her jeans, hooking his thumbs underneath the elastic of her panties and throwing those away too. He couldn’t see her in detail, but he could smell her: the heat of her sex, her arousal. Parting her folds, he found her soaking already. It was his turn to groan.

  “I can’t wait any longer.” Thank God he’d packed a condom in his wallet, otherwise he’d probably die if he couldn’t get inside of her. He ripped open the foil with more force than was probably necessary, rolling the latex down onto this cock. He stared at her parted legs, pale in the dim light from surrounding street lamps. He wished he could see her completely right now.

  But seeing her didn’t even matter when he hooked her legs over his arms and thrust inside of her. Her back arched off of the bench, and he caught her cry with a hard kiss. His pace was relentless, but Camille didn’t hold back, either. She moved with him, chasing her own release, and he didn’t think he could last one second longer. But he kept up the pace, his cock filling her over and over again. Stars filled his vision, and he reached down to rub her swollen clit. That did it: she arched against him and then she was coming, her sheath contracting around him, her entire body shaking with release. He kissed her—lips and teeth and tongue, sounds of groans and swearing and bodies slapping together filling the gazebo.

  And then he was coming too, so hard he was sure he would never survive it. He felt his balls contract and he was filling her, his orgasm going on and on and on. God, he’d never had sex as good as he’d had with Camille, and maybe later he’d wonder why that was. But not right now.

  When they came down from their high, he kissed her shoulder. He kissed her ear. He murmured things underneath his breath that she couldn’t hear. And then she kissed him and said his name in that low voice of hers, and he knew he’d never get free of his watergirl.

  * * *

  Camille had to marvel at the woman she’d become. Having sex in her gazebo, of all things! Afterward, Heath had left to head home and pack, then drove to the airport to catch a red-eye flight to Houston for a game. The next day, she was sitting at home missing him, wondering if he missed her, wanting him to think about her even when he was miles and miles away. She knew things were temporary between them, but she was determined to enjoy their time together, even when they couldn’t be together.

  Suddenly an idea flashed in her mind, and she picked up the phone to call Sheila. “Hey you. Do you have time to help me with something?”

  A couple of hours later, she led Sheila to her dining room table, where her camera and tripod lay. Holding them up, she said, “Let’s go and take some photos.”

  They went upstairs to Camille’s bedroom, where they turned on music and began rifling through her lingerie drawer to dress up Camille. Sheila went through her jewelry, finding strands of pearls and earrings, and even a feathered fan from Halloween from years ago. She also threw the pirate hat Camille had been wearing earlier into the mix.

  “I want to do something sexy, but not raunchy,” Camille was saying, inspiration running through her. “Kind of like Moulin Rouge, you know?”

  “Sure. You know I’m always down for sexy photoshoots.” Pulling out a black corset with white lace, Sheila raised her eyebrows. “Where did this come from, Miss-I-Only-Ever-Wear-Button-Up-Sweaters?”

  Camille laughed. “I got that as a gag gift a few years ago, but I’ve never worn it.” She bit her lip. “Is it too much?”

  “Nooooo, this is perfect! Try it on, try it on! And leave your hair down. Oh, where’s your red lipstick?”

  Camille donned the corset with barely there panties, her hair down and curled about her shoulders with the pirate hat tipped over her brow. She put on red lipstick but left the rest of her makeup subdued, except for a little mascara. After she’d put on the pearl necklace, Sheila began telling her to pose, snapping photo after photo. Camille usually hated being in front of the camera—and doing a sexy photoshoot like this?—but something inside of her had loosened and been set free by Heath.

  She wanted to have some fun and not think too hard about what she was doing.

  She and Sheila laughed like teenage girls as Camille flounced about her room, doing sexy and silly poses. She lay on the bed, she leaned against the headboard, and she even peeked out from the lacy curtains hanging from her window. She didn’t even care if all of the photos ended up looking ridiculous: she was having fun and she felt sexier than she had in a long time.

  And it was all because of Heath and the feelings he inspired in her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a brutally hot day in Houston, and Heath wanted to blame the heat on why he was so distracted during their game against the Jaguars, but he knew he was lying to himself. It wasn’t the heat, or the sweat streaming down his face, and it sure as hell wasn’t because this was an away game. It was because he couldn’t get enough of Camille; yet at the same time, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that someday soon he was going to have to watch her walk away from him.

  She was like a drug, like booze: one hit hadn’t been enough. He wanted more and more and more until he drowned in her. It was embarrassing, he thought, how much he wanted her.

  Last night in the gazebo, she’d looked at him like he was the greatest man on the planet. She’d moaned and whispered his name, her body undulating against him. She’d been wet for him before he’d even touched her. God, she was amazing. Her creamy skin. Her curves. Camille was the perfect handful for him. All natural, that’s what she was, and he loved it. No fake breasts or a fake butt for Camille: it was all her.

  And he had to admit that he loved talking with Emma, too. She was a great kid—smart and sassy like her mom—and he found himself wanting to hang out with her more. Heath had never cared one way or the other about kids, but Emma was different. Probably because she was Camille’s, he thought. Anything of Camille’s instantly intrigued him.

  Standing on the sidelines as the coaches argued with the ref about some call, Heath barely registered what was happening around him. He knew the Bootleggers were down by 10 points, but for some reason, he didn’t have it in him to care.

  By the third quarter, the Bootleggers were down by 17, and the team was agitated. Heath winced when Kyle received the brunt of Coach’s temper.

  “How about you do your job out there, Young, and stop fumbling the ball like some virgin in the backseat of his mom’s car?”

  Heath could see Kyle’s jaw clench.

  “Sorry, Coach,” Kyle finally ground out. “I’ll do better this next quarter
.”

  “You better fucking do better! I pay you enough to ‘do better,’ don’t I? Now get out there and play like a damn professional.”

  But it wasn’t Kyle who fucked up this next quarter: it was Heath himself. He was running his route when the ball was intercepted by a Jaguar cornerback. Realizing he’d mistakenly run the wrong pattern, he scrambled and went after the defender. Too late, he missed the Jaguar player’s sudden cut to the left and ended up crashing into one of his own teammates, bringing him down into a heap of tangled limbs.

  The shrill whistle of the ref sounded, and Heath scrambled off of Alec who lay on the grass, his face contorted in pain. Leaning down, Heath took off his helmet.

  “Hey, buddy, you okay? What hurts?”

  Alec grimaced. “My ankle. Can you tell, is it broken?”

  Before Heath could reply, the medic came down and took over. Heath, though, stayed by Alec’s side, hoping against hope that his ankle wasn’t broken. God, he was an asshole. He’d been so preoccupied by thoughts of Camille that he’d run the wrong pattern and injured his friend.

  The medic probed Alec’s ankle, and then shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like it’s broken, but let’s see if we can get you up, okay?”

  Heath instantly went to Alec’s other side, and he and the medic helped him walk to the sidelines. The medic declared that the ankle was just twisted, and Alec had gotten the wind knocked out of him. He was out for the next three games, though, and Heath felt guilt swamp him. If he’d been paying attention, this wouldn’t have happened. Why hadn’t he been the one injured for being a dumbass? He should’ve had a twisted ankle, but instead it was Alec, who didn’t deserve to be on the sidelines.

  The Bootleggers lost spectacularly and everyone could feel Coach’s anger radiating from the side of the field. The older man looked fit to be tied, his face purpled and his nostrils wide, like a pit bull waiting to attack. It was one thing to lose, but it was another to lose like this: it was as if they hadn’t even put up a fight. And after Alec got sidelined, the team seemed to have lost any bit of steam they may have had left.

  “So what happened out there?” a reporter asked, shoving his microphone in Heath’s face. “That was quite a tackle, with you and LeBrun.”

  Heath gritted his teeth, but forced out, “Just a stupid accident. I’m glad LeBrun’s ankle isn’t broken, and he’ll get back into the game in no time.”

  “It seemed like you were distracted, though. Do you think you could’ve prevented LeBrun’s injury?”

  Of course I could’ve! Heath wanted to shout. Anger filled him and he had to restrain himself from saying something he’d regret. So instead, he muttered a “no comment” and stalked away.

  In the locker room afterward, he showered and tried to calm himself. Just as he was feeling slightly better, Coach found him and took him aside. Still pissed, the veins in his forehead stood out.

  “The fuck was that out there, Dawson?” he demanded. “You have some kind of stroke, or are you just a moron?”

  Heath knew Coach could be brutal when he was angry, but he hadn’t seen him this bad in a while. And unfortunately for both, Coach’s anger only stoked his further.

  “I messed up. I know I did. Not sure what you want me to say.”

  “What I want you to say? What the fuck! I want you to say that you’ll get your fucking head out of your ass and do what you’re supposed to do. You realize we lost by over 20 points out there? We’re a laughingstock. And now our best tight end is out of the game because of you.”

  Heath didn’t even know what to say. What could he do? Apologize? Plead for mercy? But something stubborn—and maybe even stupid—refused to beg. And there was nothing he could do anyway right now, besides let Coach calm down.

  “I fucked up,” he finally replied. “It won’t happen again.”

  Coach scoffed, stepping aside for a second. He took a deep breath. He then wiped a hand down his face, and Heath could see some of the anger leave him.

  “I don't know what’s been going on with you lately, Dawson, but I can take a pretty good guess. And if you don’t get it together, you’re gonna get your ass transferred like Perkins if you’re not careful. And for what? A woman?” Coach’s voice was almost…kind now, if he could ever manage to sound kind.

  But how the hell could he possibly know that Heath had been distracted by Camille today? “A woman, sir?”

  That’s when Coach lifted his hand and Heath saw the newspaper that he hadn’t spotted before. “I don’t care who you decide to make your next booty call, but you can’t throw away everything for a chick,” Coach said in no uncertain terms. “I feel like this is déjà vu all over again. I told Perkins the same damn thing, and look what happened to him. Does nobody listen to me anymore?”

  He handed the newspaper to Heath. Heath took one look at the photo on the page and scowled. It was of him and Camille, his arm around her, her hair mussed, both of them still smiling due to their naughty dressing room activities.

  Who had leaked a photo of him and Camille to the press? Not that it should matter. So what if he wanted to hang out with her? How was that a crime? She was an independent contractor, not even an employee of the NFL.

  Not yet anyway.

  But it was clear from the photo that he and Camille weren’t just friends, and that’s what apparently made it press-worthy.

  “Dawson, get it together. That’s all there is to it. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, I’m listening,” he replied in low tones. That’s when he heard his phone sound that there was a call coming in, and looking at his phone’s screen, he saw it was Camille. He let the call go to voicemail.

  Heath understood what Coach was saying: Camille had distracted him. It wasn’t her fault, but his. He’d let not only Coach down, but also the entire team itself. Part of him wanted to believe he could play and have Camille—why was that such a stretch? But he’d already proven that that wasn’t possible. Glancing at Alec, who was leaning on his crutches, he gritted his teeth and let Coach finish his tirade. He deserved it.

  Finally, Coach seemed to run out of steam. With one last, “I’m warning you, Dawson,” he stalked away.

  Heath swore underneath his breath, a headache pounding in his temples. When had everything gone to shit? Now his entire career was on the line. You have football and that’s it, he heard his dad’s voice in his head. Give that up? You’re nothing and nobody.

  He didn’t want to throw everything away, even for a girl like Camille. Because if he wasn’t playing football, what was he?

  Alec slapped him on the shoulder. “Don't let Coach get to you. You know how he is. He yells and swears until he gets it all out, and then you’ll be knocking back shots with him the next day. He has a short memory.”

  His phone vibrated and he picked it up. Camille had texted him again. Swiping his phone, he stepped away from his friends when he realized she’d sent him photos. Sexy photos, at that. His eyebrows rose to his hairline, seeing that she’d sent him photos of her wearing a black and white corset and her pirate hat. There’s more where these came from, she’d written.

  God, she was sexy, and it wasn’t just the corset. She looked like she’d had fun taking these photos, and with her hair down and her eyes full of laughter? He wished he’d been there. He would’ve stripped that corset right off and made love to her until she couldn’t stop moaning his name. He would’ve left the hat on, though: nothing better than sleeping with a sexy pirate wench, he thought with a smile.

  He almost groaned aloud, imagining losing himself in her soft curves. But then he heard Coach’s voice in his ear, telling him to get his head out of his ass. He heard him warning him, telling him if he fucked up again he’d be totally screwed. And he heard his dad’s voice, too, reminding him he was nothing without football or the NFL.

  Hesitating, he texted back, We need to talk.

  * * *

  The day after receiving his mysterious text, Camille raised her hand to knock on Hea
th’s door, but hesitated. He was expecting her, but she suddenly wanted to turn around and flee.

  We need to talk, was all his text had said.

  Everyone knew those four words never meant anything good.

  Any reasonably smart person would know what’s coming.

  They’d only just agreed to keep things casual, but already he was going to break things off. It had been inevitable; she just hadn’t expected it to come so soon. And to be honest, she’d thought she’d be the one to break things off—when she was offered a job with the NFL.

  The offer hadn’t come. It might never come.

  And now she was going to lose Heath, too.

  A wave of sadness crashed over her, but she pushed it back. She was going to be a big girl about this. No drama. No tears. She’d wish him well like a strong, independent woman.

  And when she started dating again, she’d look for a normal guy. A stable, reliable man who would be a good father-figure to Emma. That meant no more professional athletes.

  Certainly no sexy football players who teased her and called her Watergirl and made her feel beautiful with a single look.

  After taking a deep breath, she knocked. Within moments, Heath opened the door, as if he’d been waiting right there for her to arrive. They stared at each other.

  “Thanks for coming.” He held the door open, and she noticed that he made sure his body didn’t brush hers as she entered.

  “You want a drink?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  He led her to his living room, which said all she needed to know. He didn’t take her to his bedroom or even to the kitchen to make her a sandwich like before, but instead to a part of the house he’d take a business associate. She took a seat on the couch.