Hard Knocks

by Ruby Lang

  She had planned on talking to him; she had planned on some more ground rules. She had planned a better moment altogether, with her in something more flattering than her white coat and with him wearing ... considerably less.

  Because they had been having phone sex over the last week—but it was more than that. They had been intimate in other ways. Helen had told him how bored she was sometimes, sitting with her father, and how guilty she got when she was bored. Adam talked about almost drinking up all his father’s beer and deciding that he probably shouldn’t and how old he felt compared to the other guys on the team now. They had given each other permission to be terrible, and it spilled over into uncontrollable guilty laughter, then whispered phone wanking. It was heady stuff, almost like being a teenager again, except this second adolescence was so much better than the first.

  But over the phone was one thing. When he was in front of her, her resolutions to be sensible fled. In person, they couldn’t afford to be hopped up on hormones. It wasn’t that she couldn’t control herself—of course she was in complete control of herself—she had just very deliberately decided that she was going to run her hands along the deeply muscled grooves of his abdomen and bury her mouth in his neck. She was going to let her fingers traverse his back. She was going to touch his elbows, his arms, the hard swells of his shoulders. She very deliberately stood on tiptoe and scraped her teeth on his chin. He seemed to enjoy it almost as much as she had.

  In his presence, she had come to a few solid decisions and she felt good about them. Very good.

  He smiled at her and pulled her up, his fingers delving into the woolly nap of her sensible black pants. And then he kissed her—they kissed each other—and she didn’t even have the sense to kick herself for forgetting how dangerous this was. He lipped her delicately and her mouth opened and their tongues slid luxuriantly against each other. The insistent ache of her body bloomed and rippled until she wanted to starfish her arms and legs and mouth and leave everything open to him.

  She might have said something like, Unnnnhhh.

  They pulled apart.

  “We shouldn’t do this at your office,” he said, in a rush.

  “Good thinking,” she mumbled. She stumbled back against the door, and he crushed her to it and started pulling off her white coat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking this off so we can put on your outdoor clothing.”

  He slid his hands over her chest and waist and butt and kissed her again quickly and desperately.

  She took another breath, a pause for consideration. They should talk, shouldn’t they? Shouldn’t they say something a little more substantial before they fell into bed? But it had been this way for them: Lead with the throbbing body parts, heavy as anchors, then accidentally throw the brain and heart into it. Because she could only delude herself so much; her heart was involved. How much, she couldn’t—didn’t want to—quite say.

  Was that the involvement she wanted?

  The decisions were coming faster and thicker. She wasn’t sure she was giving them enough thought.

  She had grabbed her jacket and was zipping it up, though. She stuffed her iPhone, her keys, and some papers into her bicycle bag. She looked around wildly to see if she’d missed anything. She would have to leave her bike at work. She would have to go to work the next morning in the same dirty clothing.

  Who cares?

  She pushed him out the door, flung a hasty good-bye at whatever body stood watching her, and only paused when she reached the sidewalk. If she seemed a little eager, it was because she was.

  To be fair, sexual desperation was a little easier to deal with than the other stuff that they possibly were going to talk about.

  They bumped their way down the street. It was the slowest walk in the world, partly because of perception, partly because they were both too turned on to walk very quickly.

  “If you didn’t want to finish in the office, you shouldn’t have started anything,” she grumbled.

  “You’re the one who leaned in.”

  “You’re the one who brushed my boob.”

  At least the bickering was helping to move things along.

  They pressed against each other in his elevator, his hands unzipping her jacket and pulling at her blouse, scrabbling underneath the cotton to find the soft skin at her waist and belly. She laughed a little bit, against his mouth. “Tickles,” she murmured, and he made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “We should get dinner,” he said, picking her up and pressing her against the wall of the elevator. “I should take you on some sort of date.” A kiss on her neck. “I should hold out your chair and pay a guy to play the violin near you.” A nip on her chin followed by a deep lick down her cleavage.

  “I don’t like violins,” she managed to say, wrapping her legs firmly around his middle. “I am firmly against violins.”

  The elevator doors pinged open. Thank God no one was in the hallway. He hauled her out. “How about candles?” he murmured. Her blouse was completely open, and he was talking to the bare skin. “And flowers, tables full of flowers.” He sucked her nipple through her bra, and she groaned. “So many huge flower arrangements that we can’t really even talk over them, and we have to brush the foliage off our plates in order to eat,” he said, the last part coming out in a gasp as she slid down his body and reached in his pants pocket.

  She took creative license with looking for his keys.

  “Theoretically, this is how you’d woo me? Like a sitcom character?” She reached around the front of his pants.

  He kissed her again and grabbed the keys. Their bodies almost fell against the door. As it was, Adam let the momentum propel them gently onto the hallway floor. He tried to kick the door shut, while pawing her pants off and tangling himself in his coat. Helen began giggling helplessly. He paused to glare at her.

  “A little help, please?”

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t even get up. At the very least, she should shut the door, so that none of Adam’s neighbors would see her lying on the floor with her jacket, blouse, and trousers open, her flesh spilling from the splits. Adam, back on his knees flailing wildly with his coat and shirt knotted around his arms, presented an equally undignified sight.

  She writhed away from him on the floor and sprawled on her back, her arms wide open, laughter making her convulse helplessly. In the hilarity, she could feel the battle for her body. The zing of sexual frustration down her center tangled with pulses of almost hysterical giggles. He was almost helpless with it, too, which made it even harder for him to get out of his coat, and his bright laughing face looked so incredibly carefree that she wanted to get up and touch him, grab him, take handfuls of him, sink her teeth into his chest until she could taste the juices of his life. But instead, she launched herself on top of him, pushed him down, and put her knee on his chest, which only made him gasp harder. She clasped her hands and shook them in mock victory.

  Then somehow, quite gracefully, he managed to release himself from his clothing and flip her onto her back again. By this time, one of them had managed to close the door, thank goodness. Because, judging by the gleam in his eye, what was likely to happen next shouldn’t be shared with the neighbors.

  The giggles were coming less rapidly now, just little sputters and quakes here and there, as he traced his finger over the bare stomach. His touch was so light, it should have tickled, but instead, she breathed shallowly and smoothed her hands down his chest. She had forgotten how golden and springy his hair was, how the light caught its glints so that his body gave off almost festive sparks.

  “Happy New Year to me,” she murmured.

  “Happy New Year to us both,” he said. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m really glad you’re here, too,” she whispered.

  She couldn’t say it while looking at him, with her voice strong. She meant it; she was so happy, and it was awful that one person could do that. It frightened her how much she
meant it, how much he meant it. If she faced him, she would see it all—the lust, the sincerity, the pleasure, the happiness, the acceptance—in those pale, pale eyes.

  So instead, she sat up and shrugged out of her blouse and jacket. He gazed at her bra, and she took advantage of his studiousness to pull his head down and run her fingers through his short, slippery hair. She kissed him as hard and deeply as she could. She could kiss him with earnestness and desire, she could pour everything she meant into her lips and frantic tongue, and he wouldn’t see how vulnerable she was.

  He pulled back with a gasp. “Helen, do you really want to do this on the floor? Because my knee ...”

  “No,” she said.

  She stood up and kicked off her shoes, pulling off her pants and underwear as she strode to the living room.

  She bent herself over the back on the couch, her bare ass in the air, and gave him one hard glance.

  His warm body pressed against her almost immediately, the hair of his legs rubbing against her calves, his erection heavy against the crease of her bottom. And suddenly everything was very serious.

  “Fuck me,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  She was wet, the cool air making her even wetter, and the pressure of the solid couch against her would feel good once he started sliding into her. She braced her legs farther apart and grabbed one of the cushions on his couch, ready to bite into it. She tried not to squirm.

  But instead of following orders, he bent over her and traced one curled finger down the back of her neck, down her spine, and palmed both of her cheeks with his warm hands.

  He was murmuring something, but she couldn’t quite hear him. So it was a surprise when he licked her, a thin firm line from the base of her neck, between her shoulder blades, down every nerve and bump in her spine. He crouched down between her legs to nose at her pussy, and she took the velveteen nap of the cushion in her teeth to gnash out a groan.

  But his hands were parting her ass cheeks wider, pushing her up so she was nearly falling over onto the other side. His tongue was trying to reach her clit, his fingers pressed so hard into her bottom that they were bound to leave bruises. She gasped as he found her nub and began to suck, his hands kneading her bottom in rhythm, pulling everything taut as she bobbed her head up and down gasping and whimpering.

  He pulled one hand down and used his fingers to twitch and tweak her clit. She curled her knees and tried to raise herself on her arms enough to look at him. He gave one taunting look to her and put his face down into her.

  The sight of him there and the force of his tongue should have made her orgasm rush out. It should have spiked her body with sharp pangs of pleasure. She was breathless and aroused, but the tide of her happiness had carried her so high that she was suspended for a moment at the top, and it was as if she could see everything as it was about to crash. She could give it all up for him. He made her forget everything about herself, about the things that she needed to accomplish. He made her feel worthy, and that was frightening.

  Of course, he’d always had that effect on her, but now she couldn’t hang up the phone, she couldn’t sneak out and walk away. Now there were feelings involved, and she had nowhere to put them. She felt him enter her in a heavy slide, and she cried out. It was startling, the jolt of impact rattling her teeth, as he took her. He had pulled her up again, his hands grasping her breasts, her hard nipples sliding between his fingers as he drove in again and again.

  She was gasping with each impact, fighting herself not to get carried under. It wasn’t bliss or pain, but something else equally powerful, completely illogical making her ride each of his thrusts, making her push back almost angrily, her legs braced wide and hard, feet flat on the floor as he thrust into her.

  Some of the fury must have come through, because he stopped moving abruptly. “Helen,” he said, his lips close to her ear, “am I hurting you?”

  “No,” she said, her voice cracking.

  He pulled out of her, and she really did sob. Her strict stance deflated, and she let herself sag against the back of the couch.

  His voice was strained, but he touched her back gently. “Helen, turn around.”

  She slumped over the couch, and she stayed limp as he pulled her up gently and turned her over.

  He scanned her face. His breathing was labored.

  She turned her face away and closed her eyes. After a moment, she felt him come near.

  “I went too fast. Let’s start all over,” he said, and she felt his arms come under her as he picked her up.

  He dropped her gently on the bed, and she felt him settle down beside her. “I’m all right. I just ...” She buried her face in a pillow. “It would just be so easy to fall in love with you.”

  Oh no. She did not say that.

  He took a moment before he spoke, and it was both reassuring and not. “It’s scary for me, too.”

  Her hands still gripped the pillow. She couldn’t look at him. So she kissed him again, letting some of the panic come through.

  He gentled her with his hands and lips. Under the warmth of his mouth, she felt the tension come out of her. Almost reluctantly, she let go, her fingers uncurling, her body limp. He pulled away and kissed the soft skin inside her elbow, the top of her shoulder, her neck.

  His eyes searched her face, a pair of lighthouse beams cutting through her fog. It would be so easy, she thought helplessly, as his body touched down gently over her skin. It would be too easy. Her hands came up, and she smoothed them over his shoulder blades, her thumbs digging deep into the grooves of muscle and bone. He was lipping her clavicles, her neck, and rubbing his cheek against hers. His eyes caught hers again, asking.

  Or maybe it’s easy because it’s too late, she thought, as another tide of wanting engulfed her.

  She nodded, and he slowly entered again. She clutched his shoulder and buried her face in his neck, but still, he continued to move inside her slowly. A wave rushed over her. She was drowning, drowning in him. She was just on the verge, so close, when he began to move faster as her body rolled again, twisting her like a damp cloth, and she felt herself fall.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Are you really asleep?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “Then I’m going to pick you up so I can pull the covers back.”

  She rolled over, and he lifted her and pulled back the sheets, inviting her in. Her hair fell around her face, and he stroked it back, tracing the line of her chin. They got under together, and she burrowed against him, her nose pressed against his chest. She still hadn’t looked at him, so he lifted the sheet to stare at her quiet body.

  He had left red marks on her hips and ass. Her shoulders and neck had abrasions, too. When they’d had phone sex, somehow he had forgotten about this, the scratch on the delicate skin of her upper arm, the red spot at the tip of her chin. There was something so specific and wonderful and terrible about the way he’d marked her up. On the phone, they would talk fucking and pussy and cunt and cock. She would tell him about using her teeth. But the reality of the tiny marks dotting her skin, the purpled bruises, the bites—this was what happened, what they had done. She was in his apartment, in his bed, and her eyes were still shut as if she were afraid to look at him after she’d completely given herself over. To him. She’d let him strip away the delicate membrane that protected her fears, and as much as he was fiercely glad to have done it, he now felt like he needed to stand watch. He was the one who had made her vulnerable, and now he had to keep her safe.

  He felt an arrow of sympathy for her. It was hard for her to be this open, to tell him how she felt, to just let herself go and feel everything between them. Helen did not like to depend on anyone except herself. But her intensity, her need for him, that had been impossible to disguise. And his heart swelled to think of how much she cared. “Helen,” he said gently.

  Her chin bobbed. He smoothed her hair and he felt a dot of relief when she snuggled into his neck. He could feel his
chest grow tight.

  She laughed shakily against him and finally looked up. “I said ... too much. It’s not like I can be in a relationship right now, Adam. Not with you.”

  “It’s not like I can either.”

  “Oh.” She stopped and seemed to gather herself up. “Why, because you’re always on the road, docking into new vaginas?”

  “No, because I’m old fashioned and I won’t have a job much longer and I need some sort of self-respect.”

  She frowned now. Any minute she would be alert. “But I ... were you fired? I thought you guys won some games.” She sat up. “Haven’t you made millions as a sports star?”

  “I wasn’t fired, Helen. I’m glad you watched the games. And no, I haven’t saved up millions because I’ve been helping out my family and I haven’t been much of a star. I’m retiring at the end of the season, and I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t have my life together enough to be in a relationship. Even though, I guess we’re in one.”

  Had he ever just put it all out there like that? Now he was the one who wanted to close his eyes and burrow under the sheets. He stopped speaking, pained at the admission of his failures, at always disappointing people, failing to make shots, failing to stay in the majors, failing to live up to his potential—pained, especially, at admitting this to her.

  She sprang out of bed and groped around on the floor and pulled on a shirt, and he felt even sadder. “You’re telling me about having your life together? You are plenty together enough for a relationship. Not that I want one. Except, why am I even having this conversation with you? Do you have no idea how amazing it is that you’ll—you’ll remember that I like Pop-Tarts and that you’ll listen to me talk about my dad. That you keep your cool and answer me back. You’re huge and strong, but you’re so gentle. I don’t know anyone like you.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that it’s over for me.”

  “Your job is over—well, not yet, but you aren’t your job. You are more than that—a lot more.”