by Litte, Jane
I frown.
“Oh, hush. I know, you signed all those papers and you won’t even give your own mother a tiny hint because you’re such a good boy. I raised you too well.”
There’s an edge to her teasing, but affection as well, and I know she won’t push. Truth is, a patron of Mother’s stature would boost Tom’s chances, but it would also paint a target on his back. Worse, I’d have to recuse myself from contact with him for the rest of the season. It would be the smart choice. The safe one. But as they leap off the blocks, I spot him. He’s tearing recklessly across the open floor, straight toward the stairs to the upper levels.
I picture myself down on the sidelines during finals, part of his acute care team, waiting for the quarter to end. Even if he survives that long, it’s a slim chance at best that I’d get that assignment. Unless, of course, I pull some strings. And first, pull Mother off Tom’s scent. “Sure he’s handsome,” I tell her, “but did you see last week’s point leader? Now, you did not hear this from me, all right?”
Cameron Belle has been writing slightly twisted love stories since the turn of the century. After imprinting young on such romantic classics as Terminator, Fight Club, and Universal Soldier, she earned a journalism BA before realizing that what she really wanted to do was lie for a living. She currently lives in NYC, where she does her best to break hearts and put them back together again by the final chapter. Learn more at CameronBelle.com.
OVERTAKEN
SARA THORN
Liz had never seen John fight.
She watched him now, a silent shadow in the shouting crowd around the ring. The old gym was packed, everyone pressed tight against one another, except maybe in the back rows where they stood on wooden benches. The loudest were the kids in the front, the ones John trained. She could hear them clearly from where she hid in the middle of the fifth row, their voices on the cusp of changing.
“Get him, Coach!”
“Come on! Move those feet!”
Did he use to tell them the same? she wondered. She’d never seen him train them, either.
There were a lot of things she’d never seen of John Watts.
It was dark back here, the only light coming from the low windows at ground level, but glaring spotlights lit the ring where John fought, his bare chest gleaming with sweat, his gloved hands raised to protect his face. When he scored a hit, the sound could be heard even above the crowd.
Her pussy clenched at that sound.
She hadn’t expected that; it wasn’t why she’d come.
The gong rang and the two men withdrew to their corners. One of the kids handed him a towel, and he wiped off his face. Next came a transparent water bottle. She watched his Adam’s apple as he tilted his head to drink.
“Last round!” someone called.
John gave the bottle back, scanning the crowd. His eyes halted on her. Could he see her, from up there? She couldn’t tell, and as the gong rang again he turned to his opponent.
It had been three months since last they met, three months since she’d last touched the muscled back sweating up there under the light. He had ended it, but she didn’t know why. Not the truth of it anyway.
Her throat closed; she regretted it now, holding anything back from him. She’d thought she could just let the intimacy grow slowly between them, but . . . Well, no matter. Tonight, she was going to make sure there’d be nowhere to hide.
For either of them.
JOHN was alone under the row of showerheads, the cold water washing over him. The white tiles shone in the fluorescent light, his blue towel the only one on the metal hooks by the doorway. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Liz’s face out there in the crowd, watching him. Drinking him in.
He turned the heat down further, shivering as the freezing water slid over his scalp and down his back. He wasn’t ready to see her, not yet.
But she’d be waiting.
He turned off the shower and padded across the wet tiles into the dressing room, wiping off his hair. The wooden benches stretched out, empty. He opened his locker and pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, stepping into his tennis shoes. Dammit, why hadn’t she stayed away? He’d given her every fucking cliché in the book.
He stuffed his gloves into the bag with his wet towel and hefted it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open.
She stood in the corridor just outside, leaning against the brick wall, hands shoved into the pockets of her tight navy blue jeans. Her short hair curled over her ears, only the tips sticking out.
Liz.
“Good fight,” she said, smiling. “I should have come sooner.”
He didn’t reply; they both knew who hadn’t wanted her to come.
At the end of the corridor, the crowd roared; someone had scored a good hit. A couple strolled by, carrying sodas in red and white paper cups.
“Why are you here, Liz?”
“I came to see you.”
He couldn’t resist. “To see me fight you mean.”
She frowned; she didn’t understand his point.
“I saw you, out there,” he said. “Does it always turn you on to see men pummel each other?”
Faint color rose in her cheeks. “It’s not the violence,” she said, attempting a grin. “It’s the dress.”
He didn’t smile back. “No, it’s not.”
Another match had finished, and a stream of spectators came through, heading for the refreshments. They passed between him and Liz, a blur of colors. Her eyes didn’t leave his.
“In here,” he said at last, and turned down the corridor for the utility closet. The keys jangled as he fished them from his bag and unlocked the dented metal door. The dark green paint was peeling; they really ought to do something about it. He ducked inside and pulled the string hanging from the single lightbulb in the ceiling, inadvertently sending it swinging.
Liz followed more cautiously, eyeing the stained metal bucket in the corner, a mop haphazardly thrust inside. The back wall was covered with crude shelves, filled with paper boxes, sponges, plastic bags, and a couple of flashlights.
The door slammed closed behind them, shutting out the noise.
She turned to him, hands shoved back into her pockets. He watched her T-shirt rise and fall with her breathing, the shape of her breasts clearly visible beneath. She was close enough that he could smell her flowery perfume. His groin tightened, remembering the scent of it on her skin.
“Is that why you left me?” she said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Because you thought . . . Because watching you up there . . . Because it turns me on.”
He blanched. “No.”
“But it is because of the sex,” she pressed.
God. “There’s no point in talking about this, Liz. It’s over.”
She ignored him. “Why did you run away? Every time you touched me, afterward . . . What were you afraid of?”
“I wasn’t.”
“What, big men like you can’t be afraid?”
He had been afraid, of blowing it.
And he had.
But that wasn’t why he’d left.
She was looking at him with her fierce amber eyes.
He couldn’t lie to her; he couldn’t answer her. “What do you want?” he said harshly.
“I’ve missed you.” She hesitated, visibly bracing herself, pulling her hands from her pockets and squaring her shoulders. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes, chest constricting. “What do you want?” he repeated, his voice low this time.
“I want another chance. I want to fix what went wrong.” She faltered, glanced at him, then looked away.
He raised his hand to touch her cheek and let his thumb stroke across her lips until they softened, quivered.
Finally, she said, “Have you ever been . . . rough with a woman?”
He froze. “Rough?”
Her blush deepened and she stiffened, preparing to jerk free.
&nbs
p; His grip tightened on her chin. “Do you want me to be rough with you?” he said.
She didn’t move, eyes stubbornly averted.
“To hurt you, perhaps?”
He saw her waver, shifting from foot to foot, poised between fleeing and truth.
Her eyelashes rose, her determined eyes fixing on him. “I never told you what I hungered for. I never asked for it. But . . . I’m asking now. I’d like you to do whatever you want. To me.”
He searched her eyes for a moment, then he dropped his hand. “No, you don’t.”
His voice sounded flat; she flinched, but persisted. “I do.”
“No,” he repeated. “You want me to do whatever it is you desire.”
She was chewing her lower lip now, the color darkening under her teeth. “Try me.”
But he shook his head, took a step back. “I’m not a fucking mind reader.”
“What do you want then?” she challenged, halting him in his tracks. “You never told me, either.”
His cock hardened; he couldn’t have what he longed for.
She came after him, placing a hand on his chest. His heartbeat thundered in his ears—did she feel it? She looked so earnest, asking him for truths he wished he could burn from his bones.
“I’m not going to take a whip to you,” he said at last, the half-admission making his voice hoarse. “I couldn’t.”
She put a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly, as if trying to soothe him. “You don’t have to.”
He shot her a sardonic smile, turning his face toward her, breathing in her scent.
She leaned in, her soft hair brushing his cheek, the smell of her rose-scented shampoo enveloping him. “You don’t have to tell me what you want,” she said against his ear, a mere whisper. “Just do it. Here, now.”
His hand went to her back, trailing up the arch of her spine. He should say no, but instead he found himself cradling her neck as she rested her face against his shoulder. His cock throbbed painfully. He let his hand climb further, into the mass of her hair. Gently, he fisted his hand and pulled her head back, searching her face. Her lips were parted now, moist.
Outside, the sounds of the crowd could still be heard, chanting. Footsteps passed their closed door continuously, and occasional words drifted through.
“. . . a match like this . . .”
“ . . . you think . . . ?”
“Kneel,” he whispered.
Her eyes didn’t leave his as she complied, legs folding beneath her. Her hands rose to his thighs as she settled onto her knees, steadying herself. He felt the warmth of her fingers through his jeans, the slight press of her fingertips.
His free hand drifted to his fly; each button gave way with a distinct little zing. He unbuckled his belt.
Her eyes left him, fastening on the white cotton of his boxers, following his every move as his hand closed on his cock, drawing it out. Her hot breath wafted against the exposed head, a drop of pre-come glistening on top.
“Open your mouth,” he said, his voice gravelly, sounding like someone else’s.
Her eyes lifted to his face and for a moment she strained forward, her hair pulling against the hand in her hair. She parted her lips, wider.
He shifted his stance, kept her still as he rubbed the tip of his cock against her tongue. It fluttered against the underside of his glans, then went still.
“How far can you take a man?” he said, but he knew the answer. Not very far.
Her tongue throbbed against him. She couldn’t answer without letting go of him; she gazed up at him, silent.
“What if I wanted to go deeper?” He eased his hips forward, and her mouth closed around his shaft. “What if I wanted to go all the way?”
He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on her face. She was watching him, eyes shining in the light from the single exposed lightbulb overhead.
“You’d gag,” he clarified, pressing slightly on the back of her head. He didn’t hold her hard enough that she couldn’t pull away if she wanted to. But she hadn’t moved. Not yet. She was waiting, waiting for him to tighten his grip, to tilt his hips, to follow through on his threat and bury himself in her throat.
He didn’t; he couldn’t.
“Your turn,” he said softly.
She stiffened, her fingertips digging into his thighs for a moment. Her gaze lowered; she pushed forward. One inch, another. The tip of his cock nudged the back of her throat. One more inch; her throat convulsed around him and he shuddered at the exquisite feeling. She pulled back, leaving a string of saliva on his skin. Her eyes sought his—pleading?
His hand tightened in her hair; he stopped himself from forcing her head down. “You asked what I wanted,” he said hoarsely. “I want to fuck your mouth. Like it was your pussy.”
She shuddered.
“Does that turn you on?”
In answer, her eyes closed, the breath from her nose sounding loud in the small room. She moved forward again. This time she didn’t stop, pressing on when her throat convulsed around him, until her nose brushed against his pubic hair. His nostrils flared, watching her, her slight form kneeling between his legs, his cock buried in her mouth.
He held her head still as he slid back out, until only the head was sheltered in her mouth. Her tongue flickered up, teasing the hole at the tip. This time, he flexed his hips forward. “Look at me,” he said, sliding inexorably deeper.
Her eyes fluttered open, glazed. Her breathing was ragged now, beating against his skin in time with his pulse.
He pushed himself down to the hilt. She made a strangled sound and one hand left his thigh. He held still as she yanked open her jeans and shoved her hand inside.
He widened his stance, slid out, in again. Her cheeks were bright red now, and she made little moaning noises that vibrated through his cock. Her throat convulsed around him, squeezed him, and he thrust instinctively deeper. Her eyes were shining, drinking him in. She blinked; a tear trailed down her cheek.
He let go of her so fast, she pitched forward, landing on her hands. His cock throbbed mercilessly and he squeezed it, hard. “Fuck.”
SHE blinked at the green linoleum, her right hand slick against the dirty floor. John had one hand over his eyes, his lips taut with some emotion. He was squeezing his cock so hard his knuckles whitened, inches from her face.
“Why did you stop?” she said. She’d been so close . . .
He lowered the hand from his eyes. His face was shuttered now, unreadable. Slowly, he let go of his cock and began to button up his jeans. There was a slight trembling to his fingers as he forced each metal button through its hole.
He was going to leave her here, like this.
She felt her cheeks flame and wiped her hand on her jeans, scrambling to her feet, her legs clumsy from kneeling and aborted pleasure.
He was watching her, hazel eyes flat. “Are you all right?”
How could he ask her that, when he’d just rejected her in the most primal way a man could reject a woman?
She lifted her chin, felt her erect nipples brush against her T-shirt. “You should’ve done what you promised.” Her voice quavered, but only a little. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.
His eyes darkened. “And what did I promise?” His voice was silky now, dangerous.
For the first time, she regretted coming here. “You didn’t do what you wanted.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.”
He tilted his head, his face still hard. As if he were angry with her. As if it were her fault.
“No,” he agreed at last. “I didn’t do what I wanted.”
She frowned. Three times, she’d been in his bed. Every time, afterward, he’d been withdrawn. That last time, he’d sat silently at the edge of her bed, his elbows on his knees, staring out the dark window with only the moon to light his features. He was so beautiful, it had made her ache to look at him. She knew she shouldn’t have touched him, but she couldn’t resist. Her hand had drifted through the darkness, settling lightly on
his shoulder. He hadn’t leaped up and stormed out, but he might as well have. It had amounted to the same thing, even if his touch had been soft as he removed her hand. Even if he’d bent to kiss her before pulling on his clothes and leaving her. She hadn’t known it would be for good; or maybe she had.
She didn’t want to watch him walk out of her life again.
His eyes hadn’t left her, even if she’d been silent too long. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “It’s not you, I—”
“Stop!” She couldn’t bear to hear his excuses. “Why didn’t you do what you really wanted?” she said instead, needing an answer. “Are you so sure I wouldn’t have liked it?”
He looked away, as if the plastic brush and old shovel in the corner held a sudden interest. “No,” he said softly. “I’m not sure.”
“And this . . .” Her trembling hand encompassed the closet. “What you did . . . Is that what you thought I wanted?”
For a moment, she hoped he would say no, so she wouldn’t have to face him knowing, and still rejecting her.
His eyes returned to her face. “I didn’t dislike it.”
She felt the color rise again to her face and discovered it was she who couldn’t look at him. “Then why did you stop? You made me feel . . .” Uncertain, inadequate, rejected.
“You cried.”
Had she? “I didn’t mean to.”
He accepted this news in silence, but his expression was not quite so stony now. Tension coiled through his body; she could see it in his stiff back, in the muscles cording on his neck. This time she recognized the feeling stark on his face—she had seen it in her own.
He didn’t want to be alone.
The thought gave her courage. “Have you never asked for what you really need?”
“No.” He hesitated, then his lips curved. “I’ve taken it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Liz, don’t ask any more, okay? Leave it.”
But she couldn’t back down now. “Have you taken . . . by force?”
“Is there another way?”
She took a step closer. His nostrils flared. “What are you telling me?”
