“Knox,” she whimpers urgently.
“I thought about taking you every fucking way I could imagine,” I growl, pulling out and slamming into her again. “Fucking you in every room in this house. Taking you from behind over the dining room table. Spreading your legs and fucking you with my tongue in the living room.” I reach behind her and fist my hands in her hair, tugging just hard enough to expose her soft, vulnerable neck. I lean down and nip at the skin, pulling back and thrusting deep inside her again. Her whimper turns to a sharp cry. “I jacked off every night thinking about your hot, sweet pussy, Ivy,” I rasp. “Tell me you thought about me, too.”
“God, Knox,” she mewls. “Yes, I thought about you. I thought about… this… oh!” I push deep inside her again, feeling her tighten around me. She’s close. Fuck, she’s close. I buck my hips, tugging again on her hair, and she digs her nails into my back cries out again.
Ivy rolls her hips to meet my thrusts, and our bodies find their rhythm as we drive each other toward the edge. I grind deeper, pinning her down against the mattress, and just as my balls tighten she cries out sharply and shatters around me. With a deep groan, I let go, emptying myself inside her, finally inside her. My heart feels like it’s going to explode in triumph as I claim her, each jet coating her with my hot seed. Her channel clenches my shaft tightly as she shudders through her release, and it feels like there’s no her or me anymore, just us, just one body spasming in an unbelievable, white-hot pleasure.
I roll over onto my side and draw her to me. We lie like that for a while, spent, with me still inside her. Our chests rise and fall together as we struggle to catch our breath. Eventually, our breathing slows, and I bring my face to Ivy’s and kiss her, our tongues dancing languorously. I never want to stop kissing her. The feeling of her soft lips against mine reignites my desire, and I feel myself getting hard again inside her.
Ivy pulls back and looks at me. Her pupils are huge and dark. “Seems like once wasn’t enough,” she murmurs with an impish half-grin. Her hips move against mine, making me groan.
“Come on,” I say, withdrawing gently from her and ignoring her moue of protest. “Come into the shower with me.”
I lead her to the bathroom and turn on the shower head, then pull her inside with me. As the water courses down her body, I wash her. I soap her breasts, rewarded by the gasps of pleasure as my thumbs graze her nipples. I reach between her legs and gently soap her pussy, teasing her still-swollen clit with my fingers. Then, I push her back onto the low bench and spread her legs. As she fists her hand in my hair, I plunge my tongue deep inside her pussy, tasting myself mingled with her juices as she tenses and spreads her thighs wider for me.
Ivy moans for me, moving her hips in rhythm with my tongue. Her clit is throbbing, engorged and needy, and I pull it between my lips to suck and tease it. She starts to tremble, her thighs quaking around my head, and I know she’s about to come. Her breathing is coming is short gasps, her body tense. She bucks her wide hips, sliding her slick pussy against my tongue, and I lap faster, grazing my tongue against her clit. She screams, coming hard, and her fist tightens in my hair until it’s almost painful. She guides my tongue as she continues to ride it, and I soften my licking, wanting it to last forever. Finally, she pushes her palm against my forehead, shuddering.
I’m fucking hard as hell right now. It’s like I didn’t just come half an hour ago. I’m considering pulling Ivy up and fucking her from behind here in the shower, but before I can make a move, she’s opened her eyes and has circled my throbbing cock with her fist.
I groan. “Holy shit, Ivy.”
“You’re so hard,” she breathes in amazement. “God. It’s… gorgeous.”
She really means it. She’s looking at my dick like it’s a Christmas present. Her swollen, pink lips part in anticipation and she looks up at me. “I thought about this,” she whispers. “While you were gone. I thought about… doing this… to you.”
Before I can say anything, she’s wrapped her soft mouth around the head of my cock. She starts to suck, gently at first, her tongue swirling against the skin. It’s… indescribable. I’m throbbing so hard I have to clench my thighs so I don’t come immediately. She continues to lick and suck, her eyes locking on mine as she moans against the hard shaft. My eyes half-close at the vibration. Then, slowly, she slides the length and girth of me deep into her mouth, until I feel my head hitting the back of her throat. I’m too big for her to get me all the way in, but even so, it’s so goddamn good. I grab her hair in my hand, wrapping it around my fist, and try as hard as I can not to thrust down her throat and gag her. She starts to take long, slow strokes, laving at me with her tongue as she sucks. I tense, knowing that any second I’m about to lose control. She must sense it, too, because she moans again, louder this time. Her eyes flutter shut as she takes me in even deeper. It’s too much, I can’t contain myself any longer. With a loud cry, I jerk forward and empty myself into her hot, waiting mouth. She keeps sucking as I shudder, her lips wrapped around my cock as she swallows every drop. I brace myself against the wall, my head pounding from the force of my orgasm as the water rains down over us, the only sound save for our gasps and moans.
When the fog starts to clear from my brain, I pull her up and kiss her deeply, marveling at the taste of me on her tongue. “That was fucking incredible,” I breathe. “You’re fucking incredible.”
Eventually, we turn off the water and step out of the shower. I take one of the towels hanging on a peg and dry her with it as I continue to kiss her.
“Do you want to stay the night?” Ivy asks me in a soft voice as she towels her hair dry.
“I should probably go back,” I frown. I don’t want to go. “I don’t want to be a shitty host to Cash. Not that he deserves it, the asshole.”
Luckily, Ivy seems to understand. She nods and kisses me softly. “Of course.”
Ivy walks me to the door, wrapped only in the towel. It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I’d give anything to spend the night with her. I almost tell her so, but it feels too needy.
“Call you tomorrow?” I say.
She smiles. “Okay.”
I kiss her again, paying attention to every little detail of how she looks and feels right now so I can take it all with me until tomorrow. “You are one hell of a woman, Ivy Kincaide,” I say as I slip out the door.
19
Ivy
I lie awake that night, with Knox’s manly scent still permeating the sheets. It’s lonely without him, but the bed was still warm from him when I got in, and I close my eyes and imagine him holding me.
“Ivy, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t have much of a history of being in relationships. I’m not so sure I’m all that good at it. But I haven’t been with anyone since I met you. And I don’t want to be. I’d like to see where this goes.”
I play his words over and over in my head, my heart leaping a little higher each time. I know I shouldn’t let myself get so wrapped up in Knox Harper. He’s everything I’m not: gorgeous, sexy, athletic. The kind of guy who thinks nothing of strapping a bungee cord onto his feet and launching himself into space. I don’t even know why he’s attracted to someone as mousy and bookish as me, to be honest. When we were just having sex, I was mostly able to push those kinds of thoughts to the back of my mind. But ironically, now that things are getting more serious between us, somehow I feel even less secure than I did before.
I’m not exactly a risk taker. Obviously Knox knows that. I mean, someone who spends most of her days in a lab or with her face in a book or a peer-reviewed journal isn’t the kind of person who could hold the interest of the famous Knox Harper. The more I toss and turn and think about a possible future with him, the more it feels like I’m flinging myself off a bridge all over again — with nothing to save me but a thin little cord of hope.
And no idea whether it will be enough.
The next morning, I’m making my normal half-pot of coffee when I get a text from Knox:
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Hey, cupcake. You down for going to dinner with Cash and me tonight? Wear something casual.
My face flames at the idea of having to look his brother in the face again. But I might as well get over it. After all, there’s no way I can avoid this permanently. Better to just suck it up and get it over with. Besides, as much as I don’t want to see Cash again, I can’t make myself pass up a chance to see Knox. With a sigh, I tell him yes and he tells me the time they’re planning to leave.
I spend the first part of the morning trying to concentrate at home, but hearing the muffled noises of Knox and his brother next door make it too difficult, so I pack up my bag and head over to the library. At this point in the summer, the place is practically deserted, which makes it a basically distraction-free zone. I slip into my carrel, open my laptop, and call up the research bibliography I’ve made for myself, scrolling down until I find the next article on my to-read list. It’s the case study of a former high school football player who injured his spinal cord three years ago, when he landed head first after a hard tackle.
The case is a sad one, even sadder than a lot of the ones I’ve read: the boy, whose name is given as Caleb, was only sixteen years old at the time of the injury. A week after the accident, he underwent surgery to fuse damaged vertebrae. The operation was a success, but it also confirmed the catastrophic damage to his spine. Since the accident, apparently he’s regained a certain amount of movement in his right shoulder and upper arm. But apart from that, it’s almost certain he will never walk again, and it’s highly unlikely that he’ll ever regain any function in his arms from the elbows down.
By the time I’ve finished reading, tears are streaming down my face. I don’t even realize it until a big, fat tear drips onto the text of the bound volume in front of me. As I reach absently for a tissue, I have to resist the urge to start sobbing loudly, afraid I’ll attract the attention of the few other people scattered at the tables. Why am I reacting like this? I wonder. I dab at my eyes and try to take deep breaths, staring ahead at nothing. I’ve never had such a strong response before when reading studies, not even when the case is this sad.
Shutting my laptop with a shaking hand, I decide to take a break. I go downstairs and outside, taking in deep gulps of fresh air for ten minutes or so. When I’m feeling calmer, I go back up and scan my reading list until I find something more optimistic: an article on an experimental procedure in stem cell research that helped a young quadriplegic patient recover two spinal cord levels. Thanks to the treatment, he’s regained a significant amount of use of his arms.
After finishing the more optimistic article, though, I’m still feeling shaky. My mind keeps flashing to Knox. To how easily he threw himself into bungee jumping without even a second’s worth of fear. And to how, as a football player at the professional level, he’s exposed to even more dangerous levels of possible injury than Caleb, the boy in the case study.
Even though my mind is screaming at me not to, I pull my laptop toward me and type Knox’s name into the search engine. I look at the results until I see the Wiki article about him. Clicking on the link, I scan down the paragraphs until I find the name of his high school friend: Chris Payne. I highlight his name and copy it, then paste it into the search engine again. There are a lot of hits, partly because the name is a fairly common one. But it doesn’t take me long to find some that look like they’re about him.
Most of the links lead me to stories in the Atlanta paper, where Knox grew up. The earliest ones date from the week of the accident, which happened when Chris was in college. The early stories are mostly factual pieces that give only the details: when and where it happened, how Chris was hit, who his team was playing against at the time. One picture shows Chris as a senior in high school — a smiling, all-American boy with an easy, carefree grin. Another shows him on the field playing for his college team in Memphis, gracefully catching a football.
The stories from the months that follow are more emotional, more human interest. There are articles that quote doctors about Chris’s prognosis, detailing the extent of his injuries and the likelihood that he’ll ever regain any functionality of his legs again. Interviews with his parents and Chris himself paint a picture of a strong but devastated family determined to make the best of the situation. The pictures that accompany these articles show a more gaunt, fragile Chris. His smile is the same, but it looks strained, forced, as he sits upright in a hospital bed, or awkwardly in a wheelchair. His mother, pictured behind him, looks tremulous, as she tries to exude strength and optimism for her son.
About a year after the accident, there are no more articles. I never find out if Chris graduated from college. What he’s doing now. I wonder if Knox knows. I wonder if he stays in touch with his friend.
And I know, even as I wonder this, that I can’t bear to ask him.
By the end of all my reading, I’m sick to my stomach and unable to concentrate. I decide to give up, and leave the library in defeat. For the first time since I started my graduate studies in neuroscience, I’m doubting my chosen profession. It’s not that I’m any less interested in the research. Far from it, in fact. But before now, it was just that: research. Something that I was fascinated with, and passionate about, that I hoped would mean my work would eventually help change people’s lives.
But now, all I can think about it Knox. And how he risks an injury like this out on the field every single day.
I don’t understand how he can live with that possibility. My insane bungee jumping experiment notwithstanding, I like my world safe, predictable, and most of all, in my control.
Knox, I know, will never be in my control. This is who he is. Even if I asked him to stop playing football — which I never could — he’ll always be someone who lives for the thrill of testing his limits. Knox Harper will never be the kind of man to sit behind a desk in an office. It would kill his soul.
Me, on the other hand? My idea of a thrill is when the results of an experiment turn up something new and unexpected.
We’re too different, he and I. My brain keeps whispering it, even as I try to shut the unwelcome thought out.
And even if we managed to overcome all the ways we don’t match up, being with a man who flirts with danger and every day means I’m not in control of the most important thing of all: my heart.
When Knox comes over a few hours later, I’m still fighting my emotions, to the point that I’m almost dreading spending the evening with him and his brother. I’ve dressed in a simple sundress and a pair of flat gladiator sandals, leaving my hair down and in its naturally wavy state. I’ve left the doors to the balcony open, and when it’s time he taps on the door frame and walks into the living room, Zeus’s tail echoing the rhythm of his footsteps.
I hear the knock and come down the hallway to meet him. Knox looks me up and down and whistles. “You look good enough to eat, cupcake,” he tells me, moving closer and wrapping an arm tight around my waist. “In fact,” he murmurs against my ear, “I think that’s exactly what I’ll do when we get back.”
“Knox, stop!” I protest, blushing. The last thing I need is to be thinking about Knox’s face between my legs while I’m trying to concentrate on making a good impression on his brother.
“Hey, you’re not wearing any underwear!” he exclaims as his hand roams over my butt.
“I am so!” I cry, pushing him away. “It’s a thong. See?” I snap the waistband through my dress.
“Disappointing,” he frowns, shaking his head, but his eyes are twinkling.
“You’d rather I be wearing granny panties?” I tease him.
“Oh, hell no,” he drawls. “I’ll take the thong. Or to be more specific, I’ll take the thong… off you. With my teeth. Later.”
So much for me trying to maintain my composure this evening. By the time Knox and I get out to his SUV, I’m flushed with heat. Cash is already in the backseat, waiting for us.
“Hey, there, Ivy. Long time no see.” He grins and winks at me, in a near
carbon copy imitation of Knox.
“Wow, you two really are brothers,” I say mildly, and settle into the passenger side. I ignore his reference to last night and try to keep myself from blushing. Thankfully, as soon as Knox gets in, he starts talking about where we’re going, and the conversation turns elsewhere.
Knox takes us to the Kon-Tiki, a local tiki bar that’s a Springville institution. I’ve never been to it before, and of course, when Knox finds out he teases me about never getting out to experience everything the city has to offer. I feel strange with the two of them at first: a short, slightly geeky-looking girl with frizzy red hair sandwiched in a booth between two large, hyper-attractive men. But thanks to Knox’s famous presence, the waitress is extremely attentive and keeps the drinks coming, and by the second Bora Bora Volcano I’m laughing uproariously at some crazy story Cash is telling me about winning in a poker game against Leonardo DiCaprio.
“And right when the dealer gives me my chips,” he’s saying, “I do that thing like the guy in the Tom Hanks pirate movie, and I say to him, “Look at me. Look at me! I’m table captain now!”
I’m practically choking, I’m laughing so hard. “Oh, my God. Did that seriously happen?” I gasp as tears stream down my face.
“Swear on my mama’s grave,” he says seriously, holding up his hand.
“It’s true,” Knox smirks. “I’ve heard him tell that story at least a hundred times, so if he made it up, at least he’s consistent. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, getting up, “I need to divest myself of some of this Rum Runner.”
I watch as Knox heads off toward the bathroom, still giggling from Cash’s story. “It must be a pretty exciting life, being a professional poker player,” I say, turning back to him.
“It has its moments,” he agrees. “It’s always a rush. When you win, at least. Fortunately for me,” he says, his eyes twinkling, “That’s most of the time.”
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 28
