Pump Fake

by Lila Price

  A woman like Lulu Preston.

  But they’re also smiling at me, as if they’re cheering me on, as if I’m a regular girl who won the lottery. Which in a way, I suppose I have.

  Natalie and I approach the section where the “football wives” are sitting, and my stomach twists up. I’ve already met a few of the women, and although they’re friendly, I can tell this is an exclusive club that’s hard to crack. Maybe they sense who I really am, and they’re only being polite to me.

  With a squeeze to my arm, Natalie drops me off on a front bleacher, right next to the quarterback’s wife and her two boys—one who is still in a stroller that she’s rocking back and forth. Her name is Courtney Dexter, and her dark skin is flawless, her eyes a deep doe-brown. She’s just as wholesome as most of the other wives.

  “Worn out from all the attention yet?” she asks.

  I smile at her two-year-old, Taggert, who’s trying to commandeer the stroller from her grip. “I have the feeling that the attention is just starting.”

  “You didn’t know what you were getting into with Eli, did you?”

  I sure did. But I innocently shrug, and she laughs.

  “Just wait until the first game. This is the last time life will seem normal before we jump into the regular season. Things are about to get intense, especially since everyone thinks we’ve got a good shot at the Super Bowl this year. Eli’s got a lot riding on his well-paid shoulders.”

  As a casual football fan who watches games whenever she can with her dad and sister, I’m not surprised by this. Last year—Eli’s rookie season—the team made the playoffs, only to be thwarted by some key injuries during the final stretch. Injuries aren’t a factor this year, at least not yet.

  As Taggert runs off to play with another little boy, Courtney adds, “I don’t know if anyone’s warned you yet about all the moodiness and superstitious nonsense that’s in store for you.” She leans over to me and lowers her voice. “Last year, Michael refused to have sex until we got to that last playoff game. He thought he should save up all his energy for quarterbacking on the field.”

  Maybe this is how Eli plans to get through the next three months without nookie—through sheer superstition. And maybe superstition is why he was so hot-and-cold toward me when he saw me in the nightie. I should be happy to hear that, but my belly tightens instead.

  Courtney waves a hand in dismissal. “Truthfully, the no-sex rule was a good break for me. I could use the rest.”

  As if hearing this, her baby starts wailing, and she scoops him out of the stroller to rock him.

  Other wives and girlfriends gradually filter over to us on the pretext of helping Courtney out with Baby Andre, but I’m pretty sure they’re looking me over at close range. Who is this girl? Why is she enough to make that scoundrel Eli settle down?

  There are fifty thousand good reasons why I can never divulge the truth.

  After the rally winds down, I go to Eli, parting the crowds as I move. He sees me, then sweeps me off the floor and lifts me above him. The tinny sound of clicking camera phones and bursts of flashes decorate the air.

  “There’s my girl,” he says, looking up into my eyes.

  I’ve worn my hair down today—he texted me first thing this morning asking me to do that—and my curls whisk against his face as he slowly lowers me toward him. My heart pops in a ragged rhythm, my lips tingling just before they meet his.

  I hear the crowd sigh as he kisses me, and I feel a million more sighs whisper through me, too. I melt against him, lost for an eternal moment.

  Then he whispers against my mouth. “They adore you, Jenna.”

  Yes, that’s me. A crowd pleaser…

  And I keep pleasing the masses for the next couple of days, shopping for the cameras with Natalie in high-end boutiques, attending a football field dedication ceremony where I mingle with the wives and girlfriends again, trying my best to fit in. With every innocent-looking kiss with my fiancé, it seems that I become a bigger social media sweetheart, the woman who’s saving Eli’s soul.

  But after every day, we end up going our own ways—Eli to his football business, me to my room to chat on my new computer with my family and friends, smiling for them, too.

  When the night before the first game arrives, the story is the same, except this time, Eli retires early with only a distant goodnight.

  I guess this is how it’s going to be for the next few months. Not that it’s a surprise since I agreed to the terms, but I thought…Well, I thought the flirting meant something. I thought I saw something in Eli that showed he wanted me, and I guess I was stupid for assuming wrong. But why does it matter anyway when we come from such different worlds? After this is all over, I’ll finally go to school and he’ll resume his insane lifestyle, and we’ll never see or speak to one another again.

  And that’s that.

  It’s been a long day of prepping for my first interview for the local newspaper’s society section, and I’m restless. I can’t sleep. I haven’t felt comfortable enough to wander around the big house at night until now. Things are just so quiet with the crickets outside and the view of the Strip like a wavering light show in the desert. I haven’t even worn any of my adorable, sexy nighties since that first night when Eli saw me, and I’ve got on my long-sleeved white button down and boxers instead. This is more me. The part that I’m still comfortable with.

  On my way to the kitchen to grab lemonade, I hear sounds from one of the leisure rooms, and I take a detour to peer inside.

  Eli is sprawled on an oversized sectional leather sofa watching the huge TV screen. Explosions rock the sound system during a car chase. I catch the expression on his face before he realizes I’m standing there. He looks so…lost. I identify the quality easily because I feel that hollow strangeness myself, and something inside of me reaches out to him.

  It’s as if he can feel it, like fingers of sympathy brushing his shoulder, and he glances back at me. For a naked moment, I clearly see the lost boy—the one with a shitty, controlling father, the one who screwed up so badly with the black book, the one who probably feels as if it’s him against the world most days.

  But then Eli banishes all emotion, grinning wolfishly at me in my baggy button down and boxers. I don’t have to be in a baby-doll nightie to see that he still appreciates the sight of my tanned legs.

  “You’re up late,” he says.

  “You, too.”

  “My mind won’t rest.”

  I’ve already found out that football players go to more meetings than I would’ve ever guessed. His head is probably full of plays and pass routes.

  “Do you have the first-game jitters?” I ask.

  “Never.” I see the cool, calm player who’s paid the big bucks to pull out wins—at least on the field. It’s as if nothing gets to him, although I know that’s not true.

  He jerks his chin to the spot next to him, inviting me to sit down, and I hesitate. This seems off-script, not my business—our business—but there’s something about the look that I saw on his face that pulls me in. Reluctantly, I walk around the sofa and ease down onto the soft cushions. I leave plenty of space between us.

  “Jesus,” he says. “I don’t bite.”

  I don’t mention that he sure looked like he wanted a bite of me the other night when I was wearing that nightie. But I’m pretty covered up now, and he never mentioned our encounter, so I guess I’m safe.

  With a soft laugh that I hope doesn’t sound too unsettled, I scoot closer to him.

  “Lethal Weapon,” he says, gesturing toward the screen. “I’ve seen it so many times that I’ve got it memorized. I don’t know why, but just knowing what’s going to happen puts me to sleep. It’s a habit of mine that you’ll get used to.”

  “So explosions are your lullaby.”

  “I never thought of it that way, but yeah. You’re right.”

  He sinks down into the cushions, one of his thick arms resting on the back of the sofa behind my head. It’s as if there
’re vibrations emanating from his skin, straight into mine, giving me a buzz. But while the movie plays on, he seems oblivious to me, totally on board with our business arrangement now that football has become his number one priority.

  I start to get into the movie, the blue of Mel Gibson’s eyes making me think of Eli’s piercing gaze, and it’s only when I feel Eli’s fingers playing with one of my curls that I become distracted.

  The same buzz is swirling in my belly, trickling lower until I feel it between my legs. I can smell the soap on his skin, a heady, clean and manly combination that puts a hitch in my breathing.

  I shift in my seat, and even though I don’t mean to, I get even closer to him. He moves his arm so that his fingers touch my shoulder. He toys with the fabric of my shirt, almost as if he isn’t thinking about what he’s doing. Maybe he’s not. I don’t know. But, gradually, I find myself shifting closer, as if I’m finding a more comfortable position. All I really want is a touch from him, something to tide me over.

  Before I know it we’re side-by-side, and he’s still playing with the top of my sleeve.

  I can hear him breathing. I’m much too aware of it, and I’m trying my damnedest not to breathe too loudly myself. I don’t want him to hear how the oxygen gets hooked in my lungs, don’t want him to know that I’m yearning for much more than I ever bargained for.

  As another explosion from the sound system rocks the room, I close my eyes, feeling the tremors inside of me. I experimentally press my hip against his, and I hear his breathing clip to a stop.

  Then there’s no breathing at all, not from him, not from me.

  Not until he suddenly pulls me onto his lap in one breathtaking move.

  Chapter 11

  What’s his plan? Because he doesn’t say anything else as he holds me.

  Okay, I think. Maybe he only wants this—peace and quiet and the comfort of someone close to him.

  One minute passes, then two, and I can’t keep sitting here facing the TV like this, all tense and anxious, so I cautiously lean my head back against one of his wide shoulders. His rests a hand on my bare thigh, his other arm encircling my waist, and it’s almost as if neither of us is about to admit that something is going on as we continue to watch the movie, totally absorbed in it, but not really. My mind is racing, my adrenaline flooding me with icy heat, my clit alive with that sensual buzz.

  Slowly, wordlessly, Eli strokes my thigh with his fingertips, and I fight to keep my pulse from tearing me apart. My sex is pounding, echoing my heartbeat. I’m getting moist for him, and it only gets worse as the movie continues in front of us.

  But we stay that way, cuddling, and I begin to think that maybe nothing else will happen, that he really is content to have someone here with him, making him feel less lost. I’m strangely content, too, so once again I relax against him, the throbbing between my legs easing to a muted beat that still aches for him. It won’t stop, and all I can do is hope the movie ends soon so I can go back to my room to stroke myself, imagining his fingers on me…

  Then he starts to rub my stomach, gently, carelessly.

  I hold back a moan, because, dammit, he’s getting me worked up again. My sex feels swollen with heat, and I move ever so slightly on his lap, inflamed.

  He only keeps lightly caressing me, and I let him. We both keep watching the screen.

  Car chases. Explosions. Heat, fire, and crashes…

  When I feel the pop of a button on my shirt being undone, I stop myself from sucking in a breath. Then another button. Then…

  I bite the inside of my lip as Eli slips his fingers into my shirt, easing over my skin to right below one of my breasts. I stay quiet as he strokes the underside of it, back and forth, lazily, arrogantly.

  My heart is tapping, and I feel each sharp pulse repeating through my body—in my belly, in my clit. I’m one connected wire of need vibrating with a single thought: have me, have me…

  He moves his large hand up, cupping my breast, making me press back against him. His strokes are bolder as he clearly waits for me to put a stop to his advances, but I don’t. And I have absolutely no idea how far I’m going to let this go. Does he think I’ll say yes to him, giving him permission to claim more than I’ve already bargained away?

  Of course he does. He’s Eli Brennan, and no one says no to him.

  As he kneads my breast, his chest rises and falls, his breathing uneven near my ear. His other hand is still on my thigh, and he uses it to urge my leg to the side a little more. I know what’s coming, but I’m powerless to do anything because I want it, want him. And he makes the most of my seeming surrender, whisking his fingertips up the inside of my thigh. I’m about to explode in the eternal second that it takes for him to get to the waistband of my boxers and…

  When he eases inside the elastic, I whimper. When he slips his fingers over my belly then between the slick folds of my sex, I push back a moan. But neither of us says anything as the movie keeps going, a mish-mash of dizzying images as he takes his time stroking me, so casually, up then down, up…down. I’m so wet for him that I can hear my juices, slippery and sinful. He has to hear how excited I am, and a flush takes me over—half embarrassment that I’m so easily won over by him, half heat swallowing my body whole.

  He takes his other hand out of my shirt and coaxes that one over my belly, rubbing circles over my sensitive skin there, making the tiny muscles jump and tremble. Every time his fingertips brush against the top of my pussy, I let out a short gasp. Then with maddening deliberation, he walks those fingers downward, lower, lower, and finally slides them over my clit.

  I blow out the oxygen I’ve been holding, hardly caring if I lose my cool now and reaching up behind me to grab the back of his neck. As he massages my clit with sure strokes, he uses his other hand to push two fingers up and into me. I arch off his lap, pressing my face against his jaw.

  “Ooo,” I breathe.

  “Fuck, Jenna.”

  He takes his fingers out of me, and when he pumps back inside, it’s only with his middle one. Does he think I’m too tight for double digits? Who cares, because I want more—more of him, more of this.

  As he finger bangs me while working my clit, I move my hips with his every motion. It’s as if something is circling inside of me, expanding, riding around faster and faster, harder and harder…

  He nips at my neck, and I make another agitated sound. He gnaws at the tender spot below my ear, and I rock my hips up even higher.

  “Fuck,” he says again.

  Everything speeds up as he takes his fingers out of me and spins me around so that I’m facing him, my thighs straddling his hips. When I see his eyes, my heart nearly suspends its frantic beating—he looks as if he’s gone over an edge, fevered. I barely have time to exhale before he grips my shirt and pulls it apart, sending the rest of the buttons flying. Then he lifts me up, latching his mouth to my breast, sucking and laving and kissing my nipple, bringing it to a peak.

  Nearly crying out, I bury my fingers in his thick hair, grasping it while urging him closer to me. He scoops his hand into the front of my boxers again, plunging his finger up and into me, then out, finishing what he started. That familiar circling pressure intensifies inside my core, pulsing, pounding.

  He murmurs against my breast. “You’re so fucking hot. So fucking wet. So fucking tight.”

  He swirls his finger inside of me, then nudges it back toward him so that he hits something that I never knew I had. Electricity surges, blowing a circuit that makes everything in my head and body burst. I cry out as my sight goes black, then lights up again with a white boom that hisses and tears through me. But in the next moment, colors seer back into my vision, and I see Eli above me as he lays me down on the sofa cushions, his finger still inside of me. It’s hard to breathe, but with every breath I do take, I come alive that much more.

  “So fucking tight,” he says again.

  I don’t want him to ask me why that is.

  “It’s almost like you’ve never
…” he starts to say.

  Don’t go there.

  “Orgasmed?” I say, blocking his question. I laugh a little, and it sounds slightly insane.

  This isn’t the time for a conversation about my virginity. I don’t want to see that fire in his eyes cool off when he realizes that I’m way more innocent than he believed. He’ll think I’m a loser. He’ll think there’s something wrong with me because I’ve never been with a guy before.

  When he pulls his finger out of me, I immediately feel emptier. Is he ending this?

  “It’s just been a long time,” I say quickly, lying through my teeth again. “I don’t sleep around.” Well, that part’s true.

  He pauses, but in the next instant, the heat flames up in his gaze. The challenge-loving player is back. He obviously likes that he’s part of an exclusive, limited-membership club. More exclusive than he realizes.

  As he takes in the sight of me lying on my back, my shirt gaping to expose my breasts, he smiles in that predatory way that makes me go hot again. He reaches down to my boxers and tugs at them until the waistband rides just above my mound. Then he looks at me, daring me to tell him to stop.

  No way. I only breathe, praying for him to go on before my common sense returns.

  He pulls at the boxers some more, guiding them down my hips. He gazes at my most private parts, and I wonder if the women he’s usually with get waxed. All I can afford to do is shave, and there’s stubble there which has grown out a bit since I wasn’t planning for this.

  He’s visually devouring me, and my sex pumps, my clit hurting in such a good damned way. All it would take is a touch from him…

  His smile disappears as he brings my boxers over my calves then my feet, then throws them away. This is it. I’m giving in to him, and my body’s happy about it, throbbing, getting pummeled by desire.

  “Show me, Jenna,” he says.

  “Show you…what?”

  I think I know this one, but I’m not used to men talking to me like this—bluntly, with every dirty sexual intention lit up in his eyes.