STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers, Book Three)

by Harper James

  “I’m going to put my cock in your mouth, Anna,” he says carefully. “But we’ll go slow. Sit up on your elbows.”

  My eyes widen at his words, but I immediately open and prop myself on my elbows. He reaches for my face and strokes my hair lightly, running his thumb down my cheek, then sliding it into my mouth like he’s testing me. I suck on his thumb as best I can, rubbing my tongue against it, eager to explore any part of his body I can. He nods, then guides his cock forward. He pulls his thumb from my mouth, and the next thing I know I can feel the hot, thick head of his cock pressing against my lips.

  Chapter 10

  “Take it,” he orders, and my lips part. He slides into my mouth and over my tongue, forcing my lips wide and filling my throat. I groan, but it’s muffled. “Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking my hair again, then guiding my head a little farther forward, so I’m taking more of him. I’m not even halfway down his cock, but from the heave of his chest and the desire in his eyes, I’m clearly doing a serviceable job.

  Tyson begins to lightly, gently pump himself in and out of my mouth, the salty sweet taste of him dancing across my tongue. It isn’t long before I give in and relax my jaw, letting myself appreciate the taste and feel of him. He watches me as he enters my mouth over and over, and I can feel him getting even harder between my lips.

  “What if I came in your mouth, Anna?” he asks, the question whispered and dark. “Would you swallow my come?”

  I try to nod— even though swallowing a man’s come has never interested me before, I want it, because it’s Tyson— because he wants it. He grits his teeth and I feel him pulse in my mouth. He’s going to come soon, I think. He’s going to come for me soon— I made this happen. I let him have me, and he’s going to come in my mouth.

  “Not yet,” he groans, as much to himself as to me. He pulls his cock from my mouth, which feels tender and sore. I whine and lean forward, trying to capture it between my lips again, but he dodges me. “Not yet,” he pants again, and I can tell he desperately wants to watch me swallow his come— but is resisting.

  “Then what?” I ask, voice hoarse.

  “Relax,” he orders, then climbs on the desk beside me. It’s barely big enough for the both of us, and I’m about to say as much when he suddenly moves to his back and pulls me on top of him— but we’re not face-to-face. He mouth is positioned perfectly above my pussy, my thighs falling on either side of his face. I’m so preoccupied with panicking over the fact that I’m practically sitting on his mouth that it’s a moment before I realize my own face is directly over his thick cock. I’m too short to be over the base, but my lips are in the perfect position to suck on his head.

  “Put me back in your mouth, Anna,” he says, his breath lashing across my bare pussy. I moan, loud and shamelessly, and then kiss the head of his cock passionately, adoringly. He growls, and then spreads my ass cheeks with his hands before putting his mouth against my pussy. I can barely focus on the cock in my mouth as he thrusts his tongue into me, lapping at my wetness, his lips sliding across my smooth pussy.

  His pointer fingers threaten my asshole at the same time, and I finally give up on doing a quality job with his cock— I can’t do much of anything now that he’s pulling an orgasm from me, inching me there then holding me back, building it into something that feels like it may well destroy me. I try to tell him that I’m going to come, but the cock in my mouth prevents me from forming words.

  He sucks my clit, and I feel myself tipping over the edge of orgasm. I’m undone— I scream in delight, and the world goes black for a moment as the most powerful orgasm of my life takes me, bucks my hips against his mouth, rushes through me like lightening through water. I cry his name, I cry words that can’t be understood, I melt against him as my limbs shake and my body begs to both stop and continue all at once.

  It takes me a few moments to recover, and a few more to gather my wits; I blink, almost like I’m waking up, and realize I’m gently sucking on his cock. Tyson is rubbing my left ass cheek lightly, almost soothingly.

  I continue to suck at the head of his still hard cock for a moment. I finally push up, bringing my hips forward so I’m sitting on his chest, facing away from him.

  “What about you?” I ask hazily. “I want you to come too. It’s not fair.”

  He hesitates, a rare show of uncertainty flashing across his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m not trying to be fair. I’m trying to make you mine, Anna. I’m trying to make you feel like you’ve never felt before.”

  I gaze at him, then bite my lip. “Do you not want to?” I ask, worried for the answer.

  “Believe me, Anna, I want to. But I might scare you more than you already are.”

  I pout, then sit up on my elbow. “I’m scared, but I like it. I want this. I want you to…I want you to do everything to me,” I say, and to my surprise, I don’t turn red when the words leave my mouth.

  Tyson looks impressed. “I come hard. I’ll have to fuck you hard in order to come hard. You had me close, earlier, in your mouth, but for me to come I’d need to go harder. Trust me, Anna— you aren’t ready. Not yet. I want to have you, not hurt you.”

  I frown, and Tyson raps me on the bottom lightly. I love it, and when I sigh with pleasure, Tyson groans. “God, you’re everything I hoped you’d be.” He kicks his legs off the desk and swings down, sinking into the leather chair. I immediately join him, sitting in his lap, biting my lip at the feeling of his cock— still hard— beneath me. He shifts his hips as I whimper in desire.

  “Everything you hoped I’d be?” I ask curiously. “Because I’m a virgin?”

  “I do like that. I like knowing my cock will be the first one you ever have,” he murmurs against my shoulder. “But that’s not the whole of it. You’re real— you didn’t know who I was in the gym that day. You didn’t even know who I was when you made that crack about my father, did you?”

  “Not a clue,” I admit.

  He nods. “You’re strong, Anna— you stood up to senior football players for your friend. When someone that’s strong lets you be in control…that’s so much better than when someone who’s just eager to fuck a football star does.”

  “And that happens a lot?” I ask.

  “I’m not sleeping with anyone else but you right now,” Tyson says cautiously, answering a question I hadn’t had the guts to ask.

  I find myself smiling as he traces his fingers over my skin.

  “What are these scars are from?” he asks suddenly.

  I startle and instinctively reach to cover the scars on my waist. They’re so much a part of my body that I hadn’t even considered them before he brought them up— especially since there’d never been another man to see me naked and note them. Tyson shakes his head though, and moves my hands away.

  “It was a question,” he says, “Not a judgment. I told you, Anna: You’re perfect.”

  “I just forget they’re there, I guess. I’ve always had them. I’ve never worn clothes that shown them, and no one has ever seen them—“

  “I like them. I like every part of you,” he says in a deep, almost hungry voice. His hands slide up my waist, across my breasts. He tips my head to one side and kisses my neck— I can tell he’s leaving a mark. “We’ve been up here for almost an hour and a half though. Someone is going to notice we’re gone.”

  I reluctantly agree, and we get dressed, my body aching from the pleasure. There’s a small tray with a reflective back that I use to fix my hair; there’s no fixing my makeup, so I wipe what’s left of my eyeliner away entirely.

  Tyson leaves first; fifteen minutes later, I slip down. I’m starved, so I make my way over to the bar and try not to gorge myself on the chips and nuts set out.

  “There you are, Anna!” a voice calls— I spin around. It’s Trishelle. Her mouth drops open when she sees my face. “You need to get to the bathroom and touch up your lipstick.”

  “I’ll just head out soon,” I say.

 
“Where’ve you been? I was worried,” she says, sliding into the seat beside me. I’m touched, until she adds, “I thought you might be sitting outside alone again.”

  “I was around,” I say with a shrug, pulling my hair over Tyson’s bruise on my neck.

  “Well, have you seen Tyson Slate anywhere? I think he crept out without saying anything. I was hoping I could get him alone for a while,” she says, pouting.

  I shake my head. “No. I guess he got away from you again.”

  “Guess so,” she says, and sighs heavily.

  Chapter 11

  I watch the football game the following Saturday on television, and this time, I don’t even kid myself about the reason— it’s because I want to see Tyson play. I watched a few YouTube videos on football, trying to figure out how exactly the game works, and I have to admit that it makes the whole thing way more exciting. Tyson is playing better than last time, I think, and I feel vindicated when the commentators say the same thing.

  “It’s clear he’s playing with some real soul this time around. I feel like for the last few weeks, we’ve been watching him almost play at being a football player. Doing all the right things, hitting all the marks, but never really getting into it. Now, though…well, look at him! The kid’s playing like he’s in the Super Bowl,” one says.

  “Absolutely. Let’s hope this lasts— and if it does, maybe he’ll actually be playing in the Super Bowl next year,” the other adds. “We’ve got a time out for Charlotte, looks like they’re doing a little shuffling.” The camera pans across the marching band. I look down at my computer, where I’ve been reading up on Dennis Slate’s case.

  Dennis Slate is good looking, and has Tyson’s stature; he was a pro football player in the nineties, according to Wikipedia. There are dozens and dozens of family photos available on the internet, most of them shots of him coaching his sons’ little league teams. There are also dozens and dozens of quotes that seem innocuous at first glance, things about his intensity, his willingness to do whatever it took to win, his unforgiving nature…all qualities that, when you pair them with a murder investigation, are eerie.

  I hear Tyson’s name from the television, and I look up to see the camera is now panning across the cheerleaders, lingering a little too long on their chests. “Oh, hey— we’ve heard some rumors that the pretty cheerleader on your screen has captured Tyson Slate’s heart— maybe we’ve found the reason for his increased spirit right there!” one of the commentators jokes in that elbow-nudge sort of way. I audibly gasp when I realize that the camera has stopped roaming and zoomed in tight on Trishelle’s face.

  “Seriously?” I mutter, even though there’s no one there to hear it. I know, technically, that it doesn’t matter— that whatever Tyson and I may or may not be, Trishelle definitely isn’t his girlfriend. But still, it hurts to see someone else get the title, even when I don’t want it. I mean, the last thing I need is cameras zooming in on me, labeling me. I’ve never wanted to be on stage, much less on national television. They prattle about Trishelle for a moment, then about Tyson for a while.

  By the time Trishelle arrives home it’s the back side of dusk, and I’ve fielded a few flirty messages from Tyson. He and I can’t meet up tonight— he has a meeting with the coaches, and I have a paper to work on (which admittedly, I’d have blown off for the evening, but staying home is probably for the best). Trishelle has a party to get to, of course, and I darkly wonder if she’s relieved to see that I’m wearing pajama pants and clearly don’t plan to go with her.

  “Did you watch the game?” she asks eagerly as she chucks her purse on the kitchen counter and begins to strip off her cheer top. The uniforms, which always seemed glamorous in high school, look heavy and cardboard-like up close.

  “I did,” I say. “It was a good game.”

  “And did you see me? And hear what they said about me?” she asks, her voice echoing out from the bathroom. Even without seeing her face, I can tell she’s practically glowing.

  “I did. They said something about you and Tyson Slate, right?”

  “Exactly!” she says, popping her head out the bathroom door. She’s re-curling her hair using that wand thing that I always burn the crap out of myself on. “One of the football team managers is notoriously bad for letting stuff slip to the press, so I mentioned to her that Tyson and I were sort of an item.”

  “But…you aren’t,” I answer, wondering if I sound half as annoyed as I feel.

  “Well, we kind of are. I mean, he got me on auction night and came back here with me. I don’t know—I thought that maybe if something like this leaked, it’ll kind of break the seal, you know? Like, it’s out there, so what’s the harm in making it reality?” She ducks back into the bathroom for the last few words, and I hear the hiss of a can of styling spray.

  “That makes complete and total sense,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Are you being sarcastic? I can’t tell when I can’t see your face,” she calls.

  “No,” I answer. “It’s a fantastic plan, Trish.”

  “Now you’re definitely being sarcastic,” she says, and leans around the door to stick her tongue out at me. It’s charming— it’s old Trishelle, and there’s a pang in my heart.

  I can’t believe she stooped so low as to start a rumor about her and Tyson being an item. Part of me wants to tell her the truth right now, tell her that he and I have been hooking up.

  But I don’t know if it would damage our friendship, and I don’t even know how Tyson would feel about me letting the cat out of the bag. He likes that we’re a secret, and I kind of do too.

  I don’t want to be under a microscope…

  “Hey,” she shouts when I’ve assumed the conversation is over, “when is your audition again?”

  “Whoa. I thought you’d forgotten,” I say.

  She steps out of the bathroom, a shinier, glossier version of how she looked a few moments before. “Of course not! I’m excited for you. Becoming a cheerleader has changed my life, and I think getting into the theater program will change yours.”

  I nod, swallowing the urge to tell her that I hope it doesn’t change me quite as much as it’s changed her, then say, “They released the scenes we can choose from today. You only have to read one. There’s a funny scene where the character is shopping— sort of a disaster, comedy of errors type thing, a dinner party scene where the character is a hostess, and then a dramatic snot-crying sort of love scene.”

  “Which one are you doing? Hostess?”

  “Yep. It’s the easiest one. I’m not trying to get cast, just get into the department,” I say.

  “Maybe I can help you run lines or something,” she says. “Not now. But another time?”

  “Sure,” I say, but I refuse to get my hopes up. This glimmer of old Trishelle is nice, but it’s hard to get excited over a glimmer. She grins, toothpaste-commercial teeth flashing, and then breezes through the door, off to her party. I stare at the door for a moment, lost in my own head, and then head to the computer to start memorizing the audition scene.

  Chapter 12

  “You’re supposed to memorize it?” Tyson says over the phone. I can hear the hum of the treadmill in the background, and his words are slightly strained from exertion. This isn’t even part of his training regimen, apparently— he just does this for fun. Runs on a treadmill at a nice, steady pace. For fun.

  “Not supposed to— I have to,” I answer, lounging back on my bed, legs propped up against the wall. “It’s in four weeks. I’m pretty much terrified. I don’t want to be the center of attention. I’ve never even really been on stage before, except for moving furniture on and off it, that sort of thing, for the community theater.”

  “So what happens if you don’t get in after the audition?” Tyson asks.

  “Then I can’t declare theater as my major until next year. Unless I don’t get in then either. What’s your major?” I ask, suddenly curious. Despite the fact that we’re in college, it seems like Tyson more or le
ss is majoring in being a football badass.

  He laughs lightly, and I hear his feet slowing and the pitch of the treadmill changing— he’s done with his run. “Sports business.”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” I admit.

  “Management. Moneyball. That sort of thing. Most of the team majors in something like it— they make it easy on us to get to the classes by building them around practice.”

  “So that’s the only reason you chose it?” I ask, sitting up.

  He pauses to gulp down some water from the gallon jug I know he takes to work out. “No, actually. I’d love to do that. Sometimes I think I’d rather do that than play pro, to be honest. But don’t tell my father.”

  I know he means it as a joke, but there’s a long, uneasy pause afterward. For a second there, he forgot that his father wasn’t just a guy eager to see his sons in pro football. I bite my lip, unsure if I should be the one to break the silence. When he doesn’t, I dare to wade forward.

  “Why is that? I thought you love football?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Yeah but there’s injury. Concussions. I’d rather be the one in control of the team, not just in control of the field.”

  “You and control,” I say, smiling, a sweep of delight rushing through me at the word “control”.

  “And speaking of,” he says, lowering his voice a touch, “I want to see you tonight. I’ll text you an address.”

  “Okay,” I say, wondering if he can hear the thrill in my response. “What time?”

  “When I tell you,” he answers coolly, and I roll my eyes, but grin all the same.

  Tyson sends me an address to a place just off campus, and then a few hours later tells me to be outside the door at eight o’clock.

  I shave— everything— and take the time to do my hair neatly. Tyson and I have seen each other a small handful of times in the last week, but they’re been stolen moments between practices and class, when Trishelle is out of the house or when I can get into the varsity sports house undetected.