The Cad and the Co-Ed

by Penny Reid

  As an example, Ronan had a black eye, but he seemed pleased as punch about it.

  “Isn’t it painful?” I asked, handing over an icepack.

  “It’s not bad.” He shrugged, then winced as the pack made contact with his swollen brow. “I’m getting too old for this shite, but it’ll all be worth it when my Annie gets hold of me.”

  I grinned at this. “She’ll take good care of you?”

  “The best.” His grin turned playful, happy, and I laughed at him.

  The crowd thinned. Reporters, happy with their stories, departed. Some players hit the showers, others left without cleaning up. Eventually, near midnight, it was Bryan’s turn. He sat on the physio table in the locker room, a hungry, unsmiling glare trained on me. My skin buzzed at his nearness, at the raw intensity of his gaze. I felt a little intoxicated by both.

  “Hey,” I said quietly, my own gaze moving over him. His knuckles were split on one hand and a nasty bruise was forming on the right side of his jaw. Other than that, and being covered in dirt and sweat, he was perfect.

  I cleared my throat, my senses coming alive under his perusal. His silence, paired with the concentration of his stare, agitated me, made my hands shake.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered, using a cool disinfecting compress to remove the grime from the back of his fingers.

  “Meet me in the therapy room.”

  I lifted my eyes from his hand, frowning at him. “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Meet me when you’re finished.”

  Bryan gripped my wrist, turned it toward him, and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the skin. His tongue traced a light circle over my veins, and then he stood, forcing me to back up. His height dwarfed me, his powerful body and rugged features would have been intimidating if I didn’t know better.

  Actually, no.

  Tonight, he was intimidating.

  “Ten minutes,” he whispered darkly, stepping forward, crowding me, and brushing his chest against mine as he turned and left.

  I leaned heavily against the counter at my back, chasing my breath.

  “I think we’re done.” Coach Brian’s voice met my ears, pulling my attention back to the room and reminding me that Bryan and I were not the only two people in the world. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Great job tonight.”

  I nodded dumbly, giving my boss a small smile. “I’ll just—I’ll just grab my things.”

  Leaving the locker room, I glanced behind me, ensuring the hall was clear of spectators, then hurried to the physio room. Once there, I knocked gently, again looking over my shoulder. Before I could speak or try the knob, the door opened and a hand reached out, pulling me inside.

  And then my back was against the closed door, his hands were everywhere, and his mouth was moving over mine. His kiss was hungry, punishing, demanding, and my head swam with the feel of him. He smelled of clean earth and sweat, his skin still slick with it.

  Needing to breathe, I turned my head to the side, gasping, “Bryan . . .”

  Saying nothing, he picked me up, his hands on my arse, encouraging my legs to wrap around his torso, and his mouth bit and sucked my neck. I was so turned on, ready for him. How does he do this?

  He carried me to the physio table and dropped me in an inelegant, hurried movement. His fingers were in my pants, pulling them down my legs without my assistance, my knickers and tennis shoes, too. Then he bent, his mouth hungry, biting my breast.

  A sharp cry of pleasure and pain slipped past my lips and I arched, offering myself more fully.

  Before I could comprehend his intent, Bryan was kneeling on the mat between my legs, widening my thighs, tonguing my slit. I gasped, leaning back and catching myself on the edge of the table, movement behind him snagging my attention.

  The mirror.

  I saw the reflection, our reflection. Bryan kneeling before me, his head bent between my legs, his arms wrapped around me. He was still fully dressed in his uniform, the only items he’d removed were his shoes and socks. And I saw myself, naked, spread open, my mouth parted in surprise, a flush high on my cheeks.

  He lifted his hand, palming and squeezing my breast, pinching and twisting my nipple between his thumb and finger, forcing my attention to his eyes. He was studying me, my face, and I watched as he tongued my clit. He wanted my eyes on him, on what he was doing. I moaned. Trembled.

  Heat spread up my neck to the base of my skull, but I couldn’t help it. My attention was drawn back to our reflection. I witnessed him lift his head, turning over his shoulder, asking, “What are you looking . . .?”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. Understanding dawned. He smirked.

  “Right,” he said, standing, taking my mouth with a searing kiss before separating long enough to whip off his shirt and shorts.

  Again, my betraying eyes flickered to the mirror where his stunning backside was on full display. His back was muscled, his shoulders wide, his waist tapered to his hips ending at two perfectly formed orbs of grade-A man-arse.

  A shallow breath escaped me as I consumed him with my eyes. I wanted to touch him, but he had different plans.

  Kissing me, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the table, carrying me toward the mirror. Gently—but firmly—he lowered me to my knees, facing my reflection.

  “Bend over,” he demand-whispered in my ear from behind and pressed me forward until I was on all fours. The friction of his chest hair against my back, his hot breath falling on my neck, and the growly quality in his voice sent shivers racing over my skin. He spread my knees apart with one of his.

  “What are you doing?” I asked breathlessly, moving as instructed and watching him in the mirror with wide eyes.

  “Let’s give ourselves a show.” I stared at his reflection as he rose behind me, his dark hand on my waist, his eyes on my arse, dirt under his fingernails, blood on his knuckles.

  I was so clean and smooth. He was not. He was bloodied and bruised, sweaty and stained. He hadn’t shaved.

  Leaning forward over my back, he bit my neck where it met my spine then worked his way down, biting and kissing until he reached my arse. Then he took a bite of that, too. Sending spikes of sensation along my nerve endings, his eyes on my skin, his fingers digging into my hips as he nudged my entrance with the head of his dick. I gasped, watching him, watching us.

  With one swift movement he filled me, and I instinctively pressed back, wanting more. He groaned, his eyes finding mine in the mirror.

  “Fuck,” he gasped, his gaze blazing, lowering to my lips then breasts, greedily devouring the sight of me on all fours. His stare was hazy, dark and determined, wild and raw.

  I tilted my hips, rolling them as he entered me, his thighs slap, slap, slapping against my arse. He held my hips firmly in place, even so, my body jolted with his movements, which were just shy of painful. Sighs of pleasure escaped my lips. I moaned, I begged, my breath hitching. God, it was too much seeing us together, watching him watch me.

  Abruptly, he wrapped his arm around my waist and straightened me, sitting on his heels as I sat back, straddled his lap, closing my eyes as my head fell to his shoulder.

  “Open your eyes,” he commanded.

  Doing as instructed, I forced my head up and our gazes tangled in the mirror. His was fierce, dark, and insatiably wild.

  “Do you like watching?” the question asked through gritted teeth. “Do you like watching me fuck you?”

  I could only nod, my throat dry, too overwhelmed by the sights, sensations, and sounds of our mating.

  My gaze drifted lower, his dirty hands possessively kneading my breasts and leaving smudges, the scuff of his beard sandpaper against my shoulder. I rolled my pelvis, entranced by the sight of his cock sliding in and out of my pussy.

  “Touch yourself,” he growled, biting my ear, holding me upright. “And bounce for me.”

  So I did. I spread my folds and rubbed my middle finger around my clit, finding myself wet and swollen, and so incred
ibly sensitive to my touch. I bounced on his lap, increasing our tempo as a shudder wracked his perfect, strong body. I moaned, my other hand covering his where he rolled my nipple between his fingers.

  “You’re a goddess,” he exhaled, his legs flexing beneath my thighs as he thrust upward to meet me.

  “Bryan, I can’t—I’m so close.”

  “Pinch your clit.” His voice was a dominating growl, as though he were barely controlling some base instinct. “Hard.”

  I did and I threw my head back, seeing stars as my climax overtook me, paralyzed me, wound its threads of ecstasy through my veins and nerves and bones. His hands slid to my hips, lifting me up and down over his cock, using my body, and I let him, too lost to my pleasure to help. As he surged upward a low, guttural groan erupted from him as he came.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, breathed. His jaw was clenched, his fingers dug into my flesh.

  I couldn’t catch my breath, my lungs strained, my body limp, useless. His chest rose and fell against my back as he held me, his rough exhales hot along my skin.

  “God, Eilish. That was incredible. You’re incredible.” He gripped my chin, turning my head over my shoulder to capture my mouth with a deep, savoring kiss. He sipped me, sucked on my lips, caught my tongue with his teeth. “I love you.”

  I stared at him, slowly sobering, feeling him everywhere: his arms around me, his body behind and beneath me, and he was still inside me.

  It wasn’t enough. I wanted—

  I want . . .

  I didn’t even know. We’d just had crazy, dirty, voyeuristic sex, and I loved it. My body felt used and sore and spent in the best way.

  But still, it wasn’t enough.

  Bryan’s brow furrowed as he stared at me. His eyes grew searching. Turning me in his arms so he could hold me against him, he tugged on my hair to keep me from hiding my face.

  “Hey. Are you okay? Did I cross a line?”

  “No, God no. That was wonderful. You’re wonderful. I’m just—”

  I didn’t know how to finish, how to answer. I wanted him forever. I never wanted to let him go. But I doubted myself, my feelings, the desperation of my want.

  Was this love? Or was this lust?

  “What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing.”

  I shook my head, thoughts and words spilling from my lips. “It’s too soon, Bryan. This is too soon. I feel like we’re m-m-moving too f-f-fast and I d-d-don’t—I want us t-t-to—”

  “Shh.” He pressed me to his chest, squeezing me tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rush you into something you’re not ready for.”

  “You didn’t.” I shook my head vehemently, my nails digging into his back. “Not at all. I wanted it. I want you. But I feel like I don’t recognize myself. For Christ’s sake, Bryan, we’re at work. This is where we work. It’s completely irresponsible.”

  “And hot?”

  I exhaled a short laugh, squeezing my eyes shut. “Yes. And hot.”

  He petted my hair, his other hand rubbing my lower back in a soothing motion. We sat like that, him on the floor, me on his lap, and he cradled me, giving me soft kisses and tender touches.

  I felt cherished, sated. I felt amazing.

  But how long will it last?

  He’s only known you for a few months. How can he possibly love you?

  He didn’t know what I was passionate about. He didn’t know the true extent of my family’s abhorrence toward my choice to keep Patrick, and how that had burnt layers off my thick skin of self-preservation. He didn’t know of my need to sit quietly at the end of each day to regroup, my love for both art and open-source coding projects. He didn’t know that I was a data nerd, that I spent my free time reading peer-reviewed medical journals for best practices and new techniques.

  He doesn’t know me.

  Whereas I’d known of him for years. I knew all about the carelessness in which he threw people away—when he wasn’t sober. I knew of his darkness, his playboy ways.

  He’s not that person anymore. Trust him!

  At length, I felt his chest rise and fall, and then he said, “You want to take things slow.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He swallowed, and I heard an edge of anxiety in his voice as he asked, “What does that mean, exactly?”

  23

  @THEBryanLeech: Just spent five hours organizing my non-perishables in alphabetical order by country of origin #killinit

  @ECassChoosesPikachu to @THEBryanLeech: Oooh! Tell me more.

  @WillthebrickhouseMoore to @THEBryanLeech @ECassChoosesPikachu: When you guys want some alone time with the kitchen cabinets give me a heads up and I’ll make myself scarce…

  *Bryan*

  No sex.

  No oral play.

  No fingering.

  No making out.

  Fuck my life, but don’t fuck my gorgeous girlfriend.

  It was worth it.

  She was worth it.

  One, two, three weeks passed, and Eilish and I stuck to our agreement to take things slow. Over the course of those weeks I had unfettered access to my boy.

  My boy.

  With each passing day, Patrick felt more and more like mine, claimed more and more of my heart. Not only that, but Eilish felt more like mine, too. I had to hold myself back, the need to touch or claim her in some way was overwhelming. But I was determined to go at her pace.

  Even if her pace felt like cruel and unusual punishment. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the orgasms I wasn’t giving her. But more than that, I couldn’t stop missing the moments of intensity when I could look into her eyes while I held her.

  When she’d stood by the sink doing dishes, I’d wanted to grab her from behind, lift her skirt, kiss her neck, touch her, and feel her sex pulse around my fingers. Or when she’d bend over to get something from the bottom of the fridge, I couldn’t take my eyes off her backside, dirty thoughts invading my mind and pumping through my veins.

  And don’t even get me started on the times she treated me at the sports complex. Eilish touching any part of my body was a lesson in patience and endurance. My attraction to her was becoming a problem. A distracting problem.

  I had two crystal-clear, very recent memories of being with her, worshipping her body, and I almost wished I couldn’t remember. Now I knew what we were missing.

  So, you could see my predicament.

  Though saying that, having a kid around was a good method of prevention. Even if I’d wanted to come up behind Eilish, bend her over the kitchen table and have my wicked way with her, I couldn’t when there was a four-year-old hanging about. A four-year-old who was far smarter than he had any right being.

  “What were you two doing in there?” Patrick asked one evening after dinner when I was over for a visit. I’d taken advantage of a moment of opportunity and pulled Eilish behind the kitchen door for a quick kiss. About three seconds later, Patrick had peeked his curious little head into the room.

  “Nothing,” said Eilish as she reached down to ruffle his hair. “Come on. You can play Pokémon on my phone for a while.”

  “Fine,” said Patrick. “But I know you two were kissing.”

  See? Clever little bugger. Half of me grumbled irritably, the other half was proud as punch.

  Fast forward a couple weeks, and I arrived outside Eilish’s for another of my scheduled visits. I was parking the car when my phone rang. Sarah’s name flashed on the screen. This woman. It was like she had a sixth sense or something.

  I knew she was only calling to check up on me, but a feeling of guilt hit me all the same. After all this time, I hadn’t made a single move toward getting a paternity test, and she was going to give me hell for it. I sighed and hit “accept.” Might as well face the music.

  “Hey, Sar-bear, how’s it going?” I answered, hoping my playful tone might distract her from tearing me a new one.

  “Hi Bryan, I’m good. Been busy with work. Don’t call me th
at again.”

  I chuckled. “Fine. I’ll just call you Sarah the Magnificent then, how does that sound? Though technically, the point of a nickname is to abbreviate rather than to lengthen.”

  I heard her exhale on a sigh. “Quit trying to butter me up. It won’t work.”

  I mustered my most innocent tone. “What won’t work?”

  “Lavishing me with charm. I still want to know how things have been with you. Have you made any progress with that thing we discussed before?”

  “Some,” I hedged.

  “None, then.”

  “No, not none. If thinking about it constitutes progress, then I’ve made lots.”

  “Oh Christ, you’re fucking her, aren’t you?”

  How the hell did she—?

  “I know you, Bryan,” Sarah went on before I could even ask the question. “And I’ve never quite heard that happy-go-lucky tone you’re currently sporting. You’re getting some. It’s obvious.”

  “Well, if you must know, I’m not getting any, actually. We decided to slow things down. We’re not having sex. Not anymore.”

  “But you were?” Sarah sounded appalled. “Bloody hell, Bryan. Please tell me you at least took her out on a date first.”

  Well . . . technically . . .

  “Of course I did. What do you take me for?”

  “I take you for a rugby-playing horndog; that’s what I take you for.”

  “Hey! That’s not fair. I was celibate for two whole years. Cut a fella some slack.”

  “Yes, and there was a reason for that. The majority of women you used to sleep with were users. They encouraged your addiction because keeping you shitfaced meant they could run around spending your money. Remember Jennifer? Remember Kylie?”

  I grit my teeth. “Yes, I remember them, and you seem to love reminding me, but Eilish is nothing like those two. She’s a good person, Sarah. She . . .”

  I was about to say she loves me.

  But I didn’t.

  Because she hadn’t said the words.

  I’d been battling doubt for weeks, ever since I’d admitted the truth and she’d stared at me blankly in return.