Hard to Hold

by K. Bromberg

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I tease as he moves to where his pants are half hanging on the wine rack and fishes his wallet out. Within a few moments, he’s jacketed, those sexy forearms of his on perfect display as he rolls the condom over his dick.

  But it’s when he looks up at me that I lose my breath. Rush stands there with shadows playing over his body and face, chest heaving, and eyes roaming over all the places his hands have been until they land between my parted thighs.

  His hand slides up and back over the length of his cock as he takes a step forward and stares at me sitting here—legs spread, body begging, arousal glistening on my inner thighs. If I ever needed to paint a picture of everything that is desire, it would be Rush McKenzie in this moment.

  The muscles in his neck are taut. His body an incredible work of art, but it’s his eyes that own every part of me. The look in them and the way they look at me.

  “I think you’re going to hurt me, Lennox, and yet, I’m a glutton for punishment.” He murmurs the words through a knowing smile before rubbing the crest of his cock ever so slightly up and down my slit.

  I tense in pleasure, in anticipation, in everything that’s anything, when he pushes the first inch of that glorious cock in. My moan is simultaneous. The arching of my back is too as I lay back on the counter so I can give him access to devastate me completely.

  “Look at you. Feisty.” He takes his free hand and places it right between my breasts. “Gorgeous.” He runs it over and cups each breast. “Willing.” He drags it slowly over my abdomen. “Wanting.”

  And on the last word, he pushes his way into me. My mewl meets his guttural groan as he sheaths himself root to tip within me. The burn of the stretch is pleasurable. The sight of him with his head thrown back and fingers digging into my inner thighs is one to behold.

  “Rush. Please,” I murmur as I tighten my grip around him, desperate for him to move and pleasure me.

  And as if on cue, Rush does just that. He gives me a few strokes to prepare me and then with one thumb rubbing my clit and the other hand gripping the curve where my hip meets my thigh, Rush dives right into a punishing pace fed on lust and greed.

  Our bodies connect again and again. The only sounds in the kitchen come from our skin slapping, our breaths gasping, and satisfaction as we moan and groan and beg and plead with each other. Faster. Harder. Right there. Oh my God. Yes.

  In the moment, I know I’d think less of him if he were gentle or timid. It would take away from what this is. Hunger. A need. A desire to take and sate and use sex to feel whole, when you’re never supposed to use it to do that.

  Gentle is for romance. This is pure lust in its truest form. No niceties are needed. No small talk. Just hands gripping flesh and hips thrusting against mine so I can feel and concentrate on how his cock scrapes over every single available nerve inside me. It’s pleasure and pain. It’s salvation and revelation. It’s so right while being so very goddamn wrong.

  But Jesus, who would ever say no to this? To him?

  With each thrust in, he pulls my body so I slide atop the counter and slam into him with the same force he’s using. My nerves sing. My body soars. My eyes roll back and my legs go tight. And then it’s his name on my lips, Rush, over and over and over as my orgasm hits me.

  It’s a lightning strike of bliss. One that rolls in waves through some parts of me and jolts against nerves in others. I try to still so I can absorb its strength, while needing to move because it’s so powerful.

  He lets me own it, take it, revel in it for a few moments so my climax isn’t overshadowed or ruined by his.

  It’s the smallest of gestures that crosses my mind ever so faintly in my post-orgasmic haze, but it’s there.

  And then just as quickly, when his restraint snaps and his groan rumbles through the kitchen, it’s forgotten as he takes what he needs from me to reach his high.

  “Lennox. God. Fuck.” Each word is accented by a jerk of his hips and a tightening of his fingers into my flesh.

  He falls on top of me—sort of. His face is resting against my abdomen, lips pressed to my skin, and his fingers find and lace with mine at my sides.

  We’re both panting, both taking in the moment.

  “I don’t think that was part of the contract,” I murmur, as I free my hand from one of his and run it through his hair.

  He chuckles. “I’ll make sure Cannon writes an addendum to your contract to sanction this because, woman, you can’t expect to give a man something like that and then tell him it’s not part of an ongoing contract.”

  LENNOX

  “YOU’VE BEEN AVOIDING ME,” MY dad accuses as I stop, mid-stride on my jog (if you can call it that) up the long winding hill that leads to Johnny’s house.

  “I’ve done no such thing.” Yes, I have.

  “You’re in Los Angeles?” He already knows the answer.

  “Yes.” I hate that I feel like a little girl about to get scolded, when I know that’s not how my dad operates. Rather, he lets the disappointment or concern in his voice lead the way.

  “And you took the deal with Cannon?”

  “I did.” I walk toward the edge of the road, the guardrail at my knees, and put a hand on my hip as I wait for his response.

  “Did you ever think to call and talk to me about the reasons I thought the job wasn’t a good idea?” There’s a click over the connection and I can picture my dad perfectly. He’s just risen from his desk to shut his office door so he can have some privacy.

  That’s one admirable thing about him. As a single dad of four girls, he always made sure we had his undivided attention when needed . . . and obviously, he realizes that I need that right now.

  “Did you ever think to consult me on the Chicago offer before turning it down?” I counter.

  His sigh is long and telling. He sounds tired, and yet I struggle with the notion that he’s getting older, and that the things that used to excite might just be the same things that now plain wear him out.

  “I have my reasons, Lennox.” And the way he makes the comment leaves no room for discussion, and I’m once again the scolded child. Silence weighs across the line. “You want to tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  He chuckles and the sound brings tears to my eyes. I hate it. Why is it that no matter how old you get, you still need your parent’s assurance and approval? “Okay. You can lie to me. You’re an adult, so it’s your prerogative. But I have four daughters so I know the words I’m fine mean exactly the opposite. Just know when you want to talk, I’m here.”

  “How come you haven’t given me any new clients to chase, Dad? How come we had this big talk a few months back about needing to go after Finn’s clients to strengthen the business and you haven’t trusted me enough to go after one?”

  “This has nothing to do with trust, honey, and everything to do with timing.”

  “And yet Dekk, Chase, and Brex are being sent all over the place as you’re turning down invites for me to speak at conferences. I’m suspect to your timing excuse.”

  “I have my reasons for the conference as well. Chase told me you were hot under the collar about that.”

  “What is the reason?” I ask.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  That’s not an answer. It’s a deflection in perfect Kenyon Kincade fashion. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “As you always have, but that doesn’t take away my need as a parent to tell you I’m worried about you.”

  I wage an internal war over being mad at him for not giving me straight answers but still caring about me. It’s a stupid war, but one I wage nonetheless.

  “Why?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I pulled you into this business and you agreed out of obligation, not because it’s what you love to do,” he says. I feel like I just took a dagger to the chest. His words perfectly explain how I’ve been feeling lately, and yet, I do love my job. “Where you used to b
e gung-ho and dot every “i”, now you cut corners and take unnecessary risks. You’re the kid in school cutting class while your sisters are turning in their assignments on time.”

  He gives me a moment for the words to sink in, to pause rather than go on the defensive about being compared to my sisters. I hate that while every part of me wants to buck at what he’s saying, he’s actually right.

  I have been cutting corners and thinking more about me than my job. I have been dreading my days at work, and the thrill has virtually died.

  And yet, I still love what I do.

  “You’ve never forced me to do anything I don’t want to, Dad. I just . . . I’m getting restless, I guess. Maybe I need a challenge or a change of pace, but that doesn’t mean I want to quit.”

  “Your mother used to get like that.” His chuckle is soft, reminiscent, and it fills me with equal parts sadness and joy. How much I crave to be like her or to have some connection with the woman who I feel fades from my memory more and more each day. “Sometimes I forget how much alike you two are. She’d look at me every once in a while, with that soft, beautiful smile of hers and say, ‘I need a change, Kenyon.’ I never could say no to her. Before you guys were born, that change meant a secluded beach house or crowded tourist attraction for a few weeks. After we had you guys, it meant I’d come home to furniture being rearranged or a room being painted a completely different color. Her restlessness drove me crazy at times, but it’s part of the reason I loved her so much.”

  “I had no idea,” I whisper.

  “In the early days, I worried she’d feel that way about me. That I’d be the thing she needed a change from. I asked her about it one time, and she just threw her head back and laughed before pulling me in for a kiss and saying, ‘You are who quiets the restlessness, Ken. That’s how I knew you were the one.’”

  I’m standing on the side of the road in the Hollywood Hills with tears streaming down my face, hating that this precious piece of the past was all I needed to feel connected to my family again.

  Sure, I’m upset about Chicago and everything that has made me feel insecure over the past week, but it’s my family. They’re all I have.

  “You okay?” he asks as I sniff again.

  “I’m here recruiting a client, Dad.”

  “Oh.” There’s surprise in his voice, and I can picture him sitting up straighter in his mammoth office chair, the silver of his hair glinting against the fluorescent lights.

  “I wasn’t at first. It was more of an, I need a change, Kenyon, type of moment,” I say and smile. “But an opportunity has presented itself and if I can land this client, it’ll make up for all the mistakes I’ve been making lately.”

  “Lennox. You know I don’t expect—”

  “It’s Rush McKenzie.” I know if I hadn’t cut him off, that name alone would have right there.

  “Your partner in the MLS assignment?”

  “Partner is a loose term,” I say and then go on to explain Cannon’s expectations by bringing me on board. When I finish, silence weighs on the line as a car zips past me. “Dad?”

  “Do you think you’re up for the task? I mean, he’s a huge name in the middle of an even larger scandal. Often times, those types of clients come with as big of rewards as the consequences.”

  He doesn’t even know the half of it.

  I shift my feet and feel the delicious soreness from last night when I do, and then internally cringe at the details I’m omitting from my father.

  “I understand.”

  “There’s no room for error with him. He’s sitting center stage with the sports world watching. He broke the one code athletes live by—don’t screw with a teammate.”

  “But I don’t think he did,” I say out loud for the first time.

  “You’ve known him a few days and have come to that conclusion, huh?”

  “Yes,” I assert. “I think he’s all persona. He may be a rebel, but something tells me he’s smart enough not to fuck with a winning team dynamic.”

  “You know that’s not a popular opinion, right?”

  “Since when do I care about popular opinion?”

  “It’s a touchy situation for an agent. One more wrong move from him, and while he might survive the fallout, everything and everyone around him will be blamed for it.”

  “By the way you’re trying to talk me out of it, I’m beginning to feel like you don’t think I can handle it.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “But he’s Finn’s. Isn’t that the goal here?”

  “The goal is to build upon what we already have at KSM. To take the pieces he’s chipped away at with his dirty tactics and restore.”

  “In other words, steal.” I laugh.

  “I know you can’t see it, but I’m shaking my head right now.”

  “I figured.”

  “There’s something else, isn’t there? Did something happen at the conference?”

  Tears fill my eyes, and I hate every shred of degradation I feel, and how it surfaces from the undisguised compassion in his voice.

  “No.” Yes. I’m silent for a moment, grateful he doesn’t press. But if he did, what would I tell him? That I need to do this for me? That I need to know my skill sets include more strength of character and resilience than short-lived beauty? Contrary to what pageants ever sold to the contender. To me.

  And don’t start me on the other accusations, especially after I slept with Rush.

  “No, Lenn? That’s it? Because that no sounded an awful lot like there’s more to the story.”

  “I need to do this, okay? The change of scenery. The challenge. Who knows what I’ll find?”

  I can almost see his nod as he takes in my argument. “Who knows?”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “Next time don’t avoid me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say through a laugh. “Bye, Daddy.”

  “Hey Lennox?”

  “What?”

  “If you had told me you ended up in Los Angeles because you needed a break without any mention of recruiting a client, I would have been completely fine with it.”

  A lump forms in my throat as I struggle to hold the tears back. Because this man, this incredible yet flawed man, just gave me the words I desperately needed. Our family is far from perfect. Often, we bicker more than we laugh. But right here, right now, my dad showed me why I am who I am.

  His love for me and his confidence in me is unconditional.

  But I want more. I want his confidence in me to be unshakable.

  “Love you, Daddy.”

  And when I hang up, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I can’t and won’t screw this up.

  LENNOX

  I’M OUT OF BREATH, AND decide when I finish my run and enter the house, that I need to do better, be better. I crossed that line—scratched that itch last night.

  And what a glorious scratch it was.

  But the problem with scratching itches is when you do it too much or for too long, it begins to swell and hurt more than feel like relief. It becomes a sore you try to ignore.

  It becomes a permanent scar you can’t get rid of, and I already have enough scars to begin with.

  That’s how I look at men, relationships, and sex. It’s okay to start with, but then I need to distance myself soon thereafter.

  And after talking to my dad today, I know I need to do just that—take a huge step back. Not only for myself but for the promises I need to fulfill for my family and for myself.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself as I go in search of Rush. The problem is I find him right away.

  He’s sitting at the nook table, gym shorts on, shirt nonexistent, hair all over the place, with a whole feast of takeout food spread over the kitchen counter. A ridiculous plate of pancakes and syrup is sitting in front of him with about a quarter of it gone, and the look of absolute bliss blankets every line etched in his expression.

  Last night comes back to me in snapshots. The sex o
n the kitchen counter. His broken voice calling my name as he climaxed. The silence afterward, as we tried to figure what happens next. The eating of Johnny’s ice cream straight from the container as we sat and watched crappy reruns on the television. Falling asleep on the couch, because I was afraid of saying I was going up to bed and wondering if that meant I was going alone or with him.

  Then, waking up alone.

  But when I enter the kitchen and see him sitting there, I’m hit with a straight punch of lust. The kind that makes you stagger and stop, questioning the things you’re about to say.

  But I know I need to say them.

  “This is . . . this is absolute heaven, the dog’s bollocks,” he murmurs when he sees me, glancing up at me from over a forkful. “Pancakes are a culinary wonder.”

  “Says the man who probably eats beans on his toast most days.” I grimace.

  “That’s beans on toast to you, and nah, too many carbs,” he says around a mouthful, before offering me a wink as I point to his plate laden with carbs with a perplexed expression on my face. “Do you want some? I had a ton of breakfast delivered for us.”

  “So I noticed.” I glance at the heaps of food and wonder if he’s expecting an army of people to show up, because there’s no way that the three of us can eat all that.

  “On second thought, don’t eat. Save the pancakes for me.” He chuckles as he leans back in his chair, letting his eyes roam up and down the length of my body when I stop short before him, hands on my hips, and resolve deep in my bones.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I thought we were talking.”

  “We can’t do that again.” There, it’s out there. I said what I needed to say but hell if my body is revolting against me saying it.

  “That? As in incredible sex, type of that? Because if that’s the nonsense you’re talking, you can just head back out that door and forget you came in here.” He waves with his fork, his smile wide, but then it begins to fade when he meets my eyes and sees that I’m serious. “You’re not kidding, are you?”