by Paige North
He raises my arms high over my head, buries his face in my neck. His thrusts become harder, and then, my body takes over, instinctively. I drag my nails down his back and urge him to go even rougher, even wilder. I start meeting his every thrust, pushing against him, feeling fire and power radiating through my body. The pleasure is building to a climax as I drive against him.
His limbs tense suddenly. “Fuck,” he says, not breaking pace. “No condom.”
“I’m on the pill,” I tell him, to which he relaxes a little. “Keep going. Come in me. I want it all. Everything.”
“Not until you come,” he growls.
“I’m close,” I tell him, as he continues his assault on my pussy, plunging deeper and deeper.
He’s taking me higher and higher, the sweet climax is near. It starts as small, barely-there shivers at the base of my spine, radiating out until I’m completely overcome. He senses it, too, because I feel his cock surge deep inside me, pumping deep into me. All I can do is pant and surrender myself fully to the ecstasy as waves and waves of pleasure crash over me. I come fully apart, screaming his name as he holds onto me for dear life.
He kisses me, and his eyes lock on mine, still holding me in place against the wall. “Savi,” he whispers, over and over again. “My fucking sweet Savi.”
Spent, I rest my head on his shoulder. My Savi. I like the idea of belonging to him. I like that very, very much.
Chapter 14
Things in the apartment definitely get warmer after that, and not just because of the heat. After taking things to my bed, we spend the rest of the night having sex. We barely sleep at all, but when I wake in the morning, it doesn’t matter. Turns out, I’d been so drained last night, but Flynn has completely energized me.
When I roll over in bed, he’s propped up on his elbow, studying at me, a thoughtful look on his face. “Shit, Freckles, you’re really going home in December?”
I nod. “I’ve been accepted at Case Western next semester to start my Psy-D degree.”
He stares at me like I have a second head. “What’s that?”
“My doctorate. In psychology.”
He doesn’t seem impressed. Sometimes I get the feeling everything that isn’t hockey-related doesn’t fully sink into his cranium. “Shit, that fucks everything up, doesn’t it? I’m going to be on the road half the time.”
“What?” I ask him, surprised. Cold, aloof Flynn Taylor is admitting he wants to spend more time with me? So far, it’s been all about sex. The closest he’s come to claiming we’re in a relationship was the My Savi comment he’d made last night. I climb onto the bed next to him. “What is it you’re hoping to achieve with me before the semester is over?”
He massages the top of my head. “It’s this fucking head-shrinking study I’m doing. I need to find out what makes the average college girl tick.”
“But we are so complicated that you will never be able to decipher our mysterious ways,” I say with a laugh. I never realized he had such a sense of humor. I let him take both of my wrists in one of his hands and pin them over my head, and now his mouth is kissing its way down to my breasts again. Amazingly, I could probably go for another round. “Well, even so, I am your willing subject.”
He shakes his head and loosens his grip.
“Gym,” he mutters, his voice cold. Annnd it’s right back to the Flynn Taylor that drives me insane. When I start to object, he says, “I told you, we can’t let this interfere with our jobs. Right?”
“Right.” I fight off the disappointment in my voice and collapse back on the bed. “Have fun.”
He pulls on his boxer briefs and snorts. “This ain’t fun for me, believe it.”
When he’s dressed, he jogs down the staircase and I hear the clatter of dishes breaking and someone shrieks. “Oh, my God! It’s the Beast!”
I pull on my robe and rush to the top of the stairs, where I see Jen standing there, in her robe and slippers, the remnants of her bagel breakfast and shards of white ceramic at her feet. She’s bright red and if her mouth was open any wider, I could hang her head outside and use it as a birdhouse.
Oh, lordy lord. So much for being inconspicuous.
Flynn scratches the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed. “Hey.”
I climb down the stairs to see her looking wildly around. “Can you sign something of mine?” She grabs her backpack and pulls out a Sharpie. “Like my . . . shirt?” she asks, shrugging off her bathrobe.
He uncaps the pen with his mouth. “Where?”
Wait. She’s seriously signing her nightgown? And he’s acting like he does stuff like this all the time? She lifts the hem of her shirt and points to somewhere near the belly. I lean over the banister and realize her shirt has the Argonauts’ red and there’s a picture of a hockey player on the chest. Over it, it says, THE BEAST.
Oh, my god, he has his own merchandise?
“Thank you so much,” she gushes, holding out her phone. “My boyfriend is in love with you. He’s not even going to believe you were my living room. Can I take a selfie?”
He glances up at me and clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Just don’t share it, okay?”
He poses for the picture with her and she gives him a hug. He’s humble and gracious to her and it makes me wonder if all that stuff on the ice really is just an act. No wonder the people of Boston love him. He lives for his fans. I feel a hollow pang in my heart . . . how can I already miss him, when he hasn’t even left?
He glances my way again and says, “Tonight I’m heading to Hartford for two days. But I’ll see you at practice.”
I nod. If you even remember to look my way, this time.
When he leaves, Jen squeals excitedly at me. “Oh my god, Savannah! Are you and The Beast a thing?”
I shush her. “I guess, but it’s a secret, because if people find out, we’ll both be screwed,” I tell her, which doesn’t seem to stop her from shaking with excitement. “And besides, I don’t really even know what kind of thing we are.”
Chapter 15
Turns out, he does remember to look my way a couple times at practice, but it isn’t anything more than that. It’s kind of a buzz kill, knowing what we’ve done and how it isn’t going to happen again for at least the next few days. He seems more focused on what’s happening on the ice, but still hasn’t lost on the signature Flynn Taylor attitude. He ends up getting in a scuffle with Ingersol this time, throwing his helmet, and storming off the ice. If it is all an act, it’s a really good one.
After he leaves for his road games, I watch him on television, playing Hartford. He has a phenomenal game, scoring a hat trick. I yell so loud for him, alone in my living room, that I’m sure the whole neighborhood hears. The camera constantly pans to his face, forehead covered with ropes of his sweat-soaked hair, and he has that same arrogant smirk on his face, like, Told you I was too good for this league.
After I turn off the television, I look around my empty living room, at the exact wall where he’d claimed me, the sofa where he’d licked me into utter ecstasy, and wonder if, as he was scoring those goals, he even thought of me.
Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. He has to think of his work, which includes thinking up new ways to act like a total egotistical jerk.
I remember with a pang of longing how he’d breathed, My Savi into my ear. That sweet Flynn that I’d glimpsed almost seems like a figment of my imagination. Maybe it never even happened.
As I’m trudging upstairs to my empty bed, my phone dings with a text. It’s him. Your roommate won’t tell, will she?
I sigh. No niceties, no, hi, how are you, I miss you. Of course not. Flynn doesn’t do that. I jab in, No. Secret safe.
Good, is all that comes back.
I hesitate for a while, wondering if I should type anything back in. Finally, I decide that congratulating him on a good game isn’t too personal or clingy. I type in, Great game. Congrats.
After that, I don’t get a single response. Not even a thank you. That’s becau
se the only thing we have in common is the sex, a voice inside me says.
And what’s so wrong with that? It’s great sex, even if, with a man like Flynn, it means nothing and won’t lead anywhere. I should be happy and let it be what it is. I sigh and go into the bathroom, brush my teeth and wash my face, then change into a t-shirt to sleep in. As I’m setting my phone on my bedside, a text pops up:
I wish you were in my bed tonight.
I grin. If only. Likely, he was busy after the game. Now, he’s heading to the hotel and the long, lonely night is stretching ahead of him, just as it’s stretching ahead of me. Maybe it is all about sex, but he’s thinking of me. The hot, amazing hockey player for the Boston Argonauts is thinking of me. So that’s something, at least, right?
Good night, I type in.
Good night, my sweet Savi.
I stare at the text forever, feeling a fluttering in my chest. His. When he says that, it feels like something more. And as much as I know it can’t happen, I still find myself wanting it. I go to bed with a smile on my face, and find myself grinning all night long.
Two days after that, as I’m speaking to Professor Morgan about the study, I watch them filter out to onto the ice for practice. The first thing Flynn does is tilt his chin up and look right at me. He gives me a little smirk which makes everything inside me shiver with pure, white hot desire. I guess he can afford to take some chances, now, after the killer streak he’s been on. He’s scored five goals in two games.
But I can’t.
Professor Morgan snaps at me. “Did you hear me?”
I blink. “Oh. Yes,” I say, thanking God I was sort of paying attention, even though the main thing on my mind is when I’ll be able to see Flynn again, which was why I probably had a goofy, dreamy grin on my face. I repeat the last thing the professor said to me, almost word for word: “Even though we tell them there are no right or wrong answers, the players are more likely to choose the answer that paints them in a better light.”
“Right,” he says. “So that’s why we need to ask the same questions over and over again, but in different ways.”
I look at him, finally getting his meaning. “I’m sorry. What does that mean?”
“It means that this week’s phase will be the blind portion of the survey. Therefore, the men will give you their answers anonymously.”
“Oh. Okay.” I think for a moment. “And how are we doing that?”
“You will be facing the wall as you read the questions. They will respond to your questions by pressing a button on a dashboard, which is hooked up to a laptop that will record their answers.”
“Oh. All right,” I mumble, watching Flynn loop around the ice, wind up his stick, and effortlessly shoot a perfect drive into the net.
I’m hardly able to sit still for the rest of the practice. Ever since that text, all I’ve been able to think about—to practically taste—is him, of being in bed with him and drinking him into my every pore.
When the surveys begin, I sit with my back to the door, my computer on my lap. As each player comes in, I read the same questions over again. Before a game, how nervous are you, on a scale from one to ten? And How competitive are you, on a scale from one to ten? And on and on, pausing each time as the player enters his answer on the dashboard. It’s boring, yes, because I’ve asked the same men the same questions a dozen times before. But even though I’m yawning, I keep thinking, every time the door opens, that one of these anonymous men could be Flynn.
After I’ve interviewed about a dozen men, I check my phone for the time as the door opens and closes. I open my mouth to launch into the same opening sentence I’ve said a dozen times before: Thank you for being here. Please, stay in your seat, no speaking. Your survey will consist of ten questions. Please allow me to finish reading the entire question before recording your response on the dashboard. I barely get out the “Thank” before someone swoops down, lifting the computer off of my lap.
And then his hands are on me, roaming under my hoodie and t-shirt, molding to my breasts. He urges me to stand and as I’m about to gasp out his name, he breathes in my ear, “Don’t turn around.”
I do as I’m told, knowing that the professor or coach could come in at any moment. They’re in the locker room, right across the hall, and the next player I have to interview is probably standing right outside the door. “But—“
“No talking.” His hands find the drawstring on my sweatpants, and as he pulls, he loosens them and I feel them falling down over my hips. He tears at my thong, his hands cupping my backside. “Do you want me to make you come?”
As much as I know we shouldn’t, it only makes me want it more. I nod vigorously as he touches me, his fingers slinking their way between me folds and stroking my clit with authority. I gasp his name, feeling my nipples harden against the wall. Unable to take it a second longer, I lean back against him as he picks up rhythm, feeling his erection hard on my ass. I want him inside me like I’ve never wanted anything. At that moment, he slips a curled finger into me, making me moan.
“Don’t stop,” I manage to beg, closing my eyes and moving with his body. If he asked, I’d let him strip me naked and take me right here, consequences be damned.
I’m so wet, he has no trouble getting a second and third finger into me. He presses me hard against the wall, and then he’s pumping his fingers into me from behind, hard, his thumb rubbing against my clit with every stroke. I wriggle against him, meeting his thrusts, wanting more and more of him inside me. He’s shooting straight to my core, and every nerve in my body is alight with electricity.
I only know I’m moaning loud when he clamps his hand over my mouth. “Shh, baby,” he says. “You’ll let them all know.”
The thought of that, of how wrong this is, sends me over the edge. I come hard, bucking back against him, shuddering violently as every pore in my body breaks apart under his touch.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers in my ear as I pull my pants up and my shirt down. My knees are buckling, and I have to grasp the edge of the wall to steady myself. I don’t know how I will ever look at this room the same, knowing what has happened here. I take a few cleansing breaths, trying to get back into business-mode, but it’s like that part of me has shattered irreparably.
I turn to look at him, but he scolds me with at tut-tut-tut noise, like I’m a rowdy preschooler.
“Thought these were supposed to be anonymous,” he drawls, very easy. He has already gained his composure, the bastard. “Now, about that survey.”
I sit down in the chair, my entire body trembling, and he returns the laptop to my knees. I start, “Thank you for being here. Please, stay in your . . .” I start, but then the words escape me completely. I press my feet flat on the ground to stop them from shaking. “Oh, screw it. You know the drill. Just answer the questions as I read them, on the dashboard thingy, one to ten, okay?”
“Yes, Miss Shaw,” he answers dutifully, and I can’t take it. How can he be so composed, after what happened?
Oh, right. He didn’t come. And he’s always treated these surveys like a joke. These surveys, however important they are to me, don’t matter to him. And why? If he cares about me, shouldn’t he at least try to take them the least bit seriously?
I bite my lip to stop it from trembling and take a few more breaths.
“Why, Miss Shaw,” he says in a teasing way. “Is everything all right? You seem agitated.”
Suddenly, an idea pops into my mind. Something complete irresponsible, and not in any way good for Morgan’s study. I silently weigh the consequences, and out of all the surveys we’ll be doing, the data from one response isn’t going to make much of a difference.
I can’t help it. In this moment, the only thing I want to do is mess with Flynn Taylor, the way he’s messing with me.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I announce. I read the first question from the paper. “How nervous are you before a game? One being not at all, and ten being extremely, please answer on your
keyboard.”
I wait for the answer to display on my laptop screen. When it dings, I see that he’s selected a three.
I fold the paper up in front of me and take a deep breath. “How hard are you for me right now?” I ask, in my most professional voice. “One being not very, and ten being extremely.”
He lets out a laughing breath. The laptop dings with his answer. A ten.
“How would you like it if I came over there, unzipped your jeans, took out your cock, and put it in my mouth?” I ask. “One being not at all, and ten being very much.”
The laptop dings immediately. A ten.
“Would you like me to lick my way up and down your cock?”
Again, another ten.
“What about if I took you in my mouth and sucked you gently until you came in my mouth?” I say, trying to keep my voice as even and professional as possible. “How would you like that?”
He lets out a slow breath. “Damn, you’re killing me girl,” he murmurs, before answering with another ten.
I know right then that he’s hanging on my next words. I hear the chair creak, him leaning forward uncomfortably, wanting more. I smile at the thought. “Thank you for your answers. The survey is done. Please collect your belongings and have a nice day,” I say cordially and impersonally.
He inhales. I wait for him to make the next move. But the next thing I know, the door opens and closes. I venture a look over my shoulder, and I’m alone in the room.
Crud. He just left me.
My spirits deflate. All I can think is that I compromised the survey, and for what? It’s clear Flynn loves playing with women, but doesn’t like being the one who is played with. And now my work, everything I’m trying to do this semester, has been tainted. I’m sure Professor Morgan won’t even notice, but that’s not the point. The point is that Flynn Taylor drives me to do bad, bad things, even sacrifice things that have been important to me forever.
