by Harper James
“Not sex,” he says, though it seems to pain him to set this limit. “Just…something to satisfy me.”
“Like what?” I ask, my stomach churning with butterflies, my nipples tightening.
He breathes deeply, and his eyes get hungry at my question, at how open-ended it is. “Tell me what sort of panties you’re wearing under that little dress, Astrid.”
I inhale and feel my already-wet panties grow even more so. “They’re gray,” I say in a whisper. “Lacy. Thong.”
He makes a throaty sound, takes another long, deep breath. “Bra?”
“Blue. They don’t match. I don’t— I don’t really have matching sets like that,” I say, shrugging as my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
He lets his eyes linger on my breasts for a long while. My breath is quickening under his gaze, and I’m growing very, very wet. My eyes drift shut despite the fact that we’re right here in public, diners all around us, waitresses buzzing by…and yet all I can think of is how it felt on the phone, how it felt to have him give me orders, how it felt to obey him.
“You have quite the effect on me,” Carson says in a growling sort of voice. I smile nervously, and then he reaches over and takes my hand in his. He’s gentle, but it still shocks me, and now I know he can feel me shaking. His palm dwarfs mine, and he goes still for a moment, like he’s letting me get used to the feeling of our skin touching— even though I’m fairly certain I’ll never get used to this feeling, all electric and terrifying and perfect.
Carson locks eyes with me as he takes my hand off the table and draws it toward his lap. I realize what he’s doing to do a moment before it happens, and I must look scared, because he makes a gentle “shushing” sound just before he presses my hand against his pants— against his cock.
I’ve never touched a man before, and I know if Carson weren’t holding my hand against him, I’d yank my fingers away in fear, despite the fact that I like it.
I like touching him this way.
His cock is hard, and feels huge— long and thick and pulsing. Carson groans quietly, then cautiously moves his hand away. I keep my hand on him, and in a few moments, I dare to move my fingers along the edges of his cock, exploring it’s outline, working out just how long it is. Arianna was right— he’s massive, so much so that I can’t imagine what I’m feeling fitting into my pussy. Carson watches me stroke him, jumps when I press my thumb against the tip of his cock. I smile despite myself— I like watching him react to me.
“I don’t know if a woman has ever made me this hard,” he says in a low voice. He looks like he’s about to continue when suddenly our waitress reappears. My instinct is to withdraw my hand, but Carson is faster than me— he puts his hand back over mine, pressing my palm to his cock while he calmly asks the waitress for another glass of wine and a few appetizers. I’m unable to speak, shocked that he’d be so brazen. What if she saw? What if she figured out what was going on? When she disappears I laugh nervously, and Carson releases my hand, letting me pull it away from his cock. I instantly miss the heat of it.
“Astrid,” he says calmly. “Take your panties off.”
“Here?” I ask, eyes wide.
He nods. “Take them off, and I’ll owe you another answer for your story. See? It’s the perfect arrangement. We both get what we need.”
Right, right, the story. Of course. I totally hadn’t been about to take my panties off just because Carson told me to…
I meet his eyes, drumming up the courage to do as he asked. There’s a tablecloth, so no one should be able to see if I’m clever about it. I take a breath, then hike the edge of the dress up a few inches, tugging my panties down to my thighs. Carson watches without restraint, and I hear him growl when my panties are finally far enough down my thighs that he can see them. He licks his lips as I cautiously wiggle them down my legs, then lift my feet to slide them off my heels. I immediately grab for my purse to hide them away, when Carson clears his throat.
“Give them to me,” he says sternly.
My lips part. “I— um—“
“I’ll buy you another pair,” he says, almost a tease, but not quite. I nervously pass them to him beneath the table, and Carson’s eyes close when the fabric hits his hands. His nostrils flare. “These are wet, Astrid.”
I flush, hard— I hadn’t thought of that when I handed them over, or I’d have protested more. Carson looks down, then rubs his thumb against the lace that’s now dark gray and damp from my arousal. He then tucks them into the pocket of his pants, casually as if they were a wallet or car keys.
“Alright, you’ve earned it— ask me another question,” he says, turning back to me.
7
The rest of the night is unbelievably normal.
We talk about football, about the reaching the pro’s, about his high school team. He uses silverware to show me how plays work, and laughs when I tell him I have no idea what a punt is. It’s almost enough to make me forget that I had my hand on his cock earlier, or that my panties are currently in his pocket.
When it comes time to leave, I worry he’ll invite me back to his place, and that I’ll have to sort out whether or not to tell him that I’m a virgin…but instead, he just kisses me lightly on the cheek, affection that feels like the exact median of the evening: half romantic, half professional. I go home without my panties, sorting through the various quotes he gave me that I might be able to use in the story. I’m in the middle of typing them up when I get a text that I’m disappointed to see isn’t from Carson.
Devin: How’s it going? Heard you were at Highland with him.
I frown. Who the hell told Devin? I’m not exactly surprised, of course— Devin sort of has spies everywhere. Though I’m assuming his spies didn’t see any of my and Carson’s more scandalous activities at Highland, or my editor would definitely be calling, not texting.
Astrid: Went well. Lots of great info on his development as a player. He’s got a cool story— he’s sort of a reluctant quarterback, even though he’s amazing at it.
Devin: HIS FATHER, Astrid. You’re not a sports writer.
I sigh and set my phone back down. Thanks for the reminder, Devin— I really needed it.
If I’m going to get Carson to talk about his father, I probably need to start the conversation with a little more finesse— which means I probably need to know more about Dennis Slate. I search for his name, and as expected, a huge list of articles pop up. Most of them just repeat what I already know: Dennis Slate was having an affair, the woman threatened to tell his wife, then the woman turned up dead. Carson provided his father with an alibi— that they’d been eating dinner around the time the woman was killed. There were even traffic camera shots of Carson driving to and from the dinner, though his father isn’t in the car with him. Worse, Carson apparently couldn’t remember where they’d eaten, or any details about the evening.
I stare at the screen, at the traffic camera shot of Carson behind the wheel of the car I saw him drive up to Highland just a few hours ago. I’m no detective, but even I’ve watched enough Law & Order to get the feeling that Carson is covering for his father. The articles I read also paint a very different picture of Carson than the guy I’m familiar with— calling him a “party boy” and “morally ambiguous”, especially when compared to his brothers, Sebastian and Tyson. Naturally, those labels don’t make his alibi any more convincing.
I’ve long heard the story that Carson Slate was a very different person before this year, but since I didn’t know much about him beforehand, I never thought on it all too much. Now, I have to wonder— did he change because he didn’t like the way he was portrayed? Or because a lawyer advised him to? Or did the papers just never have him pegged correctly in the first place? I wish I could ask him, but I suspect that line of questioning is just as off limits as his father is, right now.
But then again, maybe it’s only a matter of time.
The regular sports reporter is back for the next game, and I text Carson to tell him a
s much— though mostly, it’s just to wish him luck. He doesn’t answer for a while, but then responds a few hours before the game.
Carson Slate: Meet Desi at the front gate. She has a ticket for you.
I grin, then hurry to throw on a Bowen navy dress that’s a little longer than Carson would probably like— but I’m just watching the game, so it can’t matter all that much this time around, can it?
Desi meets me at the gate with a ticket and a big hug. She chatters as we get in line to have our bags checked. “Look, you might be a reporter, but Carson clearly likes you. My boyfriend said that Carson seemed happier than he’s been in ages this morning, and then next thing you know, I’m getting a text asking me to meet you with a ticket…”
“That’s really nice to hear,” I say, blushing, trying to pretend that the idea of making Carson noticeable happier doesn’t elate me.
“I’ll say. And he plays better when he’s happy. Everyone on the team knows it. That’s why he’s been kinda meh this year,” she calls to me as a security guard probes her purse. “I bet this game will be totally different.”
“We won the last game, though. He played great,” I argue as I retrieve my purse from security. We walk together through the stadium, Desi in the lead— she clearly knows exactly where she’s headed.
“Trust me, Astrid, you haven’t seen anything,” she tells me with a grin.
We’re sitting in the friends and family section, a patch of gold-painted seats right by the fifty-yard line. There aren’t many seats here— only a hundred or so— and it’s clear that we’re surrounded by other significant others, moms, grandmas, and high school buddies. Desi greets everyone like an old friend, and when I’m introduced as a guest of Carson Slate, eyebrows rise.
“I can’t wait to see how he plays,” someone murmurs loud enough for me to hear.
“I can’t wait either,” I whisper just to Desi. “Also, this is sort of a crazy amount of pressure, people thinking I’m responsible for the team’s quarterback doing well.”
“Imagine being the team’s quarterback,” Desi answers with a meaningful look.
She’s got a point.
The game begins to a flurry of cheers and confetti and face paint and blue and gold everywhere. It isn’t long before I realize that Desi was absolutely right— I hadn’t seen anything, based on that last game. Carson played great back then, but now, it’s like he’s come to life. He’s faster, smarter, leading the team like a general leads a battalion. He’s a curious blend of the Carson I saw at the last game and the Carson I saw at practice— controlled and fierce, but more communicative with the other players too.
“He’s relaxing,” Desi says, nodding. “That’s good. He’s been so tense at all the other games, it freaks the rest of the team out.”
“You go to a lot of games, don’t you?” I ask her.
She laughs, loud and cheerful. “Steven and I have been together since seventh grade— no, really— and I’ve never missed seeing him play. So, yes. I go to a lot of games. He’s a junior too, so I’ve been watching him and Carson play together for four years now. Steven once said that Carson is the second most important relationship in his life.”
“After you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, he said after his mother, but meant it as a joke. I still refused to sleep with him for a week, though. Don’t expect a biochem major to have a sense of humor three weeks before finals.”
We laugh together, and the game rolls on. Bowen wins by a landslide, but that doesn’t make it any less exciting to watch— and it doesn’t appear to make the Bowen team play any less intensely. When the game is over, there’s an explosion of confetti, and the stadium begins to empty into the city streets.
Desi loops her arm with mine to keep us from being separated. Rather than following everyone else out the gates, she leads me down an access hallway, then to a stairwell that goes to field level. There are security guards, but they clearly know her— they wave as she goes by, their eyes sliding right over me.
“Where are we going?” I whisper.
“The locker room— oh, right, you’d have gone to the press entrance last time. We’re going through the players’ entrance,” she explains.
“We’re allowed?”
Desi scoffs. “Of course. There are many, many perks to dating a football player, Astrid.”
I consider reminding her that Carson and I aren’t dating, but once again I find I wouldn’t know how to correct her— there’s not really any term for whatever is happening between me and Carson Slate, is there?
And besides, I have to admit that a large part of me wants to feel like Carson and I are dating.
Which is very, very bad news.
I need to get a hold of myself but I don’t seem to have the willpower to do so…
The player’s entrance to the locker room is alarmingly nondescript and unlabeled, I suppose intentionally, since it must keep prying eyes away from the door. Once we’ve pushed through it, however there’s a Bowen navy set of double doors nearly identical to the ones at the press entrance. I realize we’re on the opposite side of the locker room than I was last time.
Desi doesn’t slow, pushing into the locker room with total confidence and, to my dismay, letting my arm slide away so she can bound over to her boyfriend. I’m left standing at the entrance, looking around, unsure what exactly I’m supposed to do. It seems like most of the players are still in the showers— other than Steven, who is now holding Desi up against the lockers to kiss her— there are only a few younger players in sight, and all are still grimy from the field. I bite my lip, unsure where to go—
“I wondered if she’d bring you down here,” a voice— Carson’s voice— says from somewhere off to my left. I spin around to look at him. He’s still wearing his jersey, his pads, still sweating and smeared in grass and dirt. The pads exaggerate his breathing; each inhale lifts his already broad chest up. His arms look even more muscular slicked in sweat, and there’s an intensity to his eyes, like he hasn’t yet come down from the rush of the game. Like so many things about Carson Slate, it’s equal parts arousing and frightening.
“Should I not have come?” I ask hesitantly.
Carson tosses the bag he’d been carrying down on a bench, and while he keeps his eyes hard on me, he doesn’t move forward. “I’m glad you did.”
“Oh,” I say.
Carson takes a few more long, steadying breaths, then casts his eyes off to the side as he considers something. He finally looks back to me, and there’s a strict determination in his eyes, not entirely unlike the look I saw when the cameras zoomed in on him during the game. “Come over here,” he says, tilting his chin back.
I lick my lips and walk toward him, unable to keep my eyes on him as I do— he looks too intimidating, and I know I’ll lose my nerve. When I’m a few feet from him, he speaks again. “Spin around for me, Astrid.”
“What?”
“Turn around, in a circle. I want to look at you.”
It’s not a request— it’s a command, and I obey so immediately that I almost laugh at myself. I turn, spinning on the ball of my foot, moving as slowly as I can manage. Carson inhales deeply, appraisingly, and his eyes are on the hem of my dress when I complete the turn and am facing him again. He steps toward me, and my nerves leap to attention. Then he reaches out and, with ease, takes the hem of my dress between his fingers.
“Longer than the others,” he says.
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you. Up close, I mean,” I stammer.
Carson’s mouth curves into a smirk. “You’d have worn something shorter for me?”
I bite my lip, then nod quickly, because it’s true. Carson still has hold of my hem, and the nearness of his hand to my pussy is making me tremble, as is the fact that at any moment, the locker room could fill up with his teammates. He tugs lightly on the hem of my dress, then steps even closer to me. When he does, the fact that I’m so much shorter them him becomes almost comical; I barely
reach his chest, and this close, I have to tilt my head up just to find his eyes.
“I’ll owe you a question,” he says under his breath. “Deal?”
“Okay,” I say shakily, and Carson then uses his free hand to take one of mine, and guides me to standing on the bench beside him. With the bench, we can make straight on eye contact; I’m marveling over this when I realize that the hand Carson had on my dress hem is now on my thigh.
My lips part; I gasp as it begins to climb, his palmed pressed against the front of my leg, his thumb sliding along the inside and fingers pressed tight to the back. I grab hold of his shoulders without thinking— but I need something to hold on to, or I might collapse. I can’t look away from his eyes, but a worried whimper escapes my lips as Carson’s hand stops millimeters before his thumb would brush up against my panties.
“I make you so nervous, Astrid,” Carson says in a way that tells me this isn’t really a problem. “Trust me.”
I struggle for breath, for words. “I do,” I pant as my core clenches and releases over and over, desperate for him to close the difference, to feel his hands on me— to feel hands on me, period, for the first time. I open my mouth again— do I need to tell him I’m a virgin? Surely I should say something now; it’ll only be more difficult later. I close my eyes, trying to muster up the courage to say the words out loud—
But then Carson Slate’s mouth is on mine. He kisses me like he’s been waiting to do it, like he’s been planning it, and when he slips his tongue into my mouth and runs it across my lips I’m hopeless; my knees actually go weak, and I have to hold on tighter to him to keep from tumbling down. He’s just tasted at my tongue again when suddenly he moves the hand that’s beneath my dress.
I moan into his mouth, unable to stop the sound, unable to control the volume. His thumb is pressing against my pussy through my panties, and wetness floods from me, hungry for more of him. I hold onto him tightly as he rubs his thumb back up and down massaging my clit and playing at the edges of my entrance through the soaked fabric, and I find myself longing for him to push my panties aside and touch me directly.
