Beautiful Player

by Christina Lauren

  He blinked. “I, uh . . . I think there’s a clause in there to make an exception for any rule-breaking while wearing an outfit like that,” he said, managing to pull his eyes from my chest long enough to finish up in the kitchen. There was an unfamiliar sense of power in being able to fluster him, and I tried not to look too smug as he walked out, carrying two steaming mugs.

  “So why was this date so uneventful?” he asked.

  I sat on the floor in front of the fire, legs stretched out in front of me. “Just had other things on my mind.”

  “Like?”

  “Liiiiiike . . .” I said, dragging the word out long enough to decide if I really wanted to go there. I did. “Like the party?”

  A moment of long, heavy silence stretched between us. “I see.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said, glancing over at me, “I wasn’t exactly sound asleep here.”

  I nodded and turned back to the fire, not sure how to proceed. “I’ve always been able to control where my mind went, you know? If it’s time for school I think about school. If it’s work, I think about work. But lately,” I said, shaking my head, “my concentration is crap.”

  He laughed softly next to me. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  “I can’t focus.”

  “Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking up at me through dark lashes.

  “I’m not sleeping very well.”

  “Same.”

  “I’m so fucking wound up I can hardly sit still,” I admitted.

  I heard the sound of his exhale, a long, measured breath, and only then did I realize how close we’d gotten. I looked up to see him watching me.

  His eyes searched every inch of my face. “I don’t know . . . if I’ve ever been this distracted by someone,” he said.

  I was so close, close enough to see each of his eyelashes in the firelight, close enough to make out the tiny scattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose. Without thinking I leaned in, brushing my lips over his. His eyes widened and I felt him stiffen, frozen for only a moment before his shoulders relaxed.

  “I shouldn’t want this,” he said. “I have no idea what we’re doing.”

  We weren’t kissing, not really, just teasing, breathing the same air. I could smell his soap, a hint of toothpaste. Could see my own reflection in his pupil.

  He tilted his head and closed his eyes, moving in just enough to kiss me once, lips parted. “Tell me to stop, Hanna.”

  I couldn’t. Instead I reached up, cupping the back of his neck to bring him closer. And then it was he who pushed forward, harder, longer, and I had to grip his shirt to keep myself steady. He opened his mouth, sucking on my lower lip, my tongue. Heat pulsed low in my belly and I felt like was dissolving, melting until I was nothing more than a racing heart and limbs that twisted with his, pulling us both to our sides and down to the floor.

  “I don’t . . .” I started, breath tight. “Tell me what I should do.”

  I felt the shape of him hard against my hip and I wondered how long he’d been that way, if he’d been thinking about this as much as I had. I wanted to reach down and touch, watch him fall apart like he had at the party, the way he did in my mind every time I closed my eyes.

  His lips moved over my jaw, down my throat. “Just relax, I’ll make it good. Tell me what you want to do.”

  My hand moved under his shirt and I felt the solid strength of muscle in his back, his arms as he rolled us over to hover above me. I said his name, hating how weak and unfamiliar my voice sounded, but there was something new there, something raw and desperate, and I wanted more.

  “I used to imagine what it’d be like to have you on top of me,” I admitted, not sure where the words were coming from. He rested his body more fully on mine, his hips settling between my open legs. “When you were lounging in the living room with my brother. When you’d take your shirt off outside to wash the car.”

  He moaned, moving a hand to my hair, his thumb drawing a path along my face and pressing into the skin along my jaw. “Don’t tell me that.”

  But it was all I could think about: how I remembered him from those years, and the reality of him now. I couldn’t possibly count the number of times I wondered what he would look like without his clothes, the sounds he’d make when he was chasing his release. And here he was, heavy on me, hard between my legs, beneath his clothes. I wanted to catalog every tattoo, every line of muscle, every inch of his carved jaw.

  “I used to watch you from my window,” I said, gasping as he shifted so that the length of him pressed directly over my clit. “God, when I was sixteen you starred in every one of my dirty dreams.”

  He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes; he was clearly surprised.

  I swallowed. “Should I not have told you that?”

  “I . . .” he began and licked his lips. “I don’t know?” He looked dazed and conflicted. I couldn’t look away from his mouth. “I know I shouldn’t think that’s hot but Christ, Hanna. If I come in my pants you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  I could do that? His words lit a fuse in my chest and I wanted to tell him everything. “I would touch myself, under the covers,” I admitted in a whisper. “Sometimes I could hear you talking . . . and I would pretend . . . wonder what it would be like if you were there. I used to make myself come and pretend it was you.”

  He swore, dipping back down to kiss me again, deeper and wetter, his teeth dragging along my bottom lip. “What would I say?”

  “How good I felt and how much you wanted me,” I said into his kiss. “I wasn’t very creative at the time, and I’m pretty sure your mouth is way filthier in reality.”

  He laughed, the sound so low and rough it was a physical pressure on my neck where he breathed. “So let’s pretend you’re sixteen, and I just snuck into your room,” he said, moving his mouth just over mine, his voice coming out the slightest bit unsure. “We don’t have to take our clothes off if you aren’t ready.”

  And I wasn’t sure what to say because yes, I wanted to be completely bare under him, to imagine what it would feel like to have him naked and over and inside me. But actual sex with Will tonight felt too fast, too soon. Too dangerous.

  “Show me?” I asked, “I don’t know how to with clothes on.” I paused, adding in a whisper, “Or even off, I guess. I mean obviously.”

  He laughed, kissing over to my ear and growling quietly as he nipped at my earlobe. The way his hands moved over me, the way his lips slid across my skin . . . touching like this seemed as second-nature to Will as breathing.

  He exhaled into my neck, groaning quietly. “Move under me. Find what feels good for you, okay?”

  I nodded, shifting beneath him and feeling the hard press of his cock between my legs.

  “Can you feel that?” he asked, pressing meaningfully against my clit. “Is that where it feels good?”

  “Yeah.” I moved my hands to his hair and pulled hard, hearing him hiss in a breath as he rocked against me, faster and faster.

  “Fuck, Hanna.” He pushed my tank top up over my ribs, bunching it above my chest. And then he bent, gripped my breast, plumping it, and sucked a nipple deep into his mouth. The air left my lungs, my hips pressed up from the floor, searching. I scratched at his skin, and was rewarded each time with a mumbled curse or groan.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Don’t stop.” His mouth followed his hands everywhere and I closed my eyes, feeling the heat of his tongue as it moved over me. He kissed my lips, my throat. The ache between my legs grew and I could feel how wet I was, how empty, how much I wanted his mouth against me, his fingers inside. His cock. We slid along the floor and I felt something wedge beneath my back, but didn’t care. All I wanted was to chase down this feeling.

  “So close,” I gasped, surprised to find him looking down at me, lips parted and hair falling across his forehead.

  His eyes widened, blazing with thrill. “Yeah?”

  I
nodded, the rest of the world blurring as the feeling between my legs grew, becoming hotter and more urgent. I wanted to claw at my skin and beg him to take off my clothes, to fuck me, to make me beg.

  “Fuck. Don’t stop what you’re doing,” he said, rocking his hips forward against me, the perfect drag of heat and pressure exactly where I needed. “I’m almost there.”

  “Oh,” I said, my fingers twisting in the thin fabric of his shirt as I felt myself start to fall, closing my eyes as my orgasm moved down my spine to explode between my legs. I cried out, calling his name and feeling him speed up as he moved against me. His fingers pressed tightly into my hips as he pushed once, twice, grunting into my neck as he came.

  Feeling seeped back into my body one limb at a time. I felt heavy and limp, suddenly so exhausted I could hardly keep my eyes open. Will collapsed against me, his breath hot on my neck, his skin damp with sweat and warmed by the fire.

  He pushed up onto his elbows and looked down at me, his expression drowsy and sweet and a little timid. “Hi,” he said, a crooked smile sliding into place. “Sorry for sneaking into your bedroom, teenage-Hanna.”

  I blew the bangs from my forehead and smiled back. “You’re welcome there anytime.”

  “I . . . uh,” he started, and laughed. “I don’t mean to rush off but I sort of . . . need to clean up.”

  The absurdity of the entire situation seemed to bubble up out of nowhere and I started to laugh. We were on his floor, I think I had a shoe or something lodged under my back, and he’d just come in his pants.

  “Hey,” he said. “Don’t laugh. I said it’d be your fault.”

  I was suddenly so thirsty and licked my lips. “Go,” I said, patting his back.

  He kissed me softly, twice on the lips before pushing himself to stand and walking into the bathroom. I stayed there for a moment, sweat drying on my skin and heart rate slowly returning to normal. I felt both better and worse. Better because I was actually tired, but worse because the new echo of Will’s cock moving between my legs was infinitely more distracting than the memory of his fingers.

  I called a taxi, then walked into the kitchen to splash some cool water on my face and get a drink.

  He came back into the room wearing different pajamas, and smelling of soap, and toothpaste.

  “I called a cab,” I assured him, giving him the don’t-worry look. His face fell—or it seemed to—but it happened so fast that I wasn’t sure I believed my eyes.

  “Good,” he murmured, walking over to me and handing me my sweatshirt. “I actually think I’ll be able to sleep now.”

  “Just needed the orgasm,” I said, grinning.

  “Actually,” he said, voice deep, “I’d tried that a few times already tonight. It hadn’t worked so far. . . .”

  Holy shitballs. Any drowsiness I’d felt immediately evaporated. I was going to imagine what it would be like to watch Will get himself off for the rest of the night. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to sleep again.

  He walked me downstairs, kissed my forehead at the door, and stood watching as I walked to the curb, climbed into the cab, and drove off.

  My phone lit up with a text from him: Tell me when you get home.

  I lived only seven blocks from him; I was home in minutes. I climbed into bed, curling into my pillow before answering, Home safe.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The promise of crowds was always a reality, living near the Columbia campus, but, mysteriously, the Dunkin’ Donuts nearest my building always seemed busiest on Thursdays. Even during a slow stretch, though, I probably wouldn’t have recognized Dylan in line, just ahead of me.

  So, when he turned, eyes widening in recognition, and let out a friendly “Hey! Will, right?” I startled.

  I blinked, feeling caught off guard. I’d just been daydreaming about taking things with Hanna in a different direction than I had two nights ago, when she’d come to my apartment in the middle of the night and ended up beneath me, both of us coming with our clothes on. The memory of that night was a current favorite, one I’d pulled out in almost every quiet moment since, to play with, take down a different path, warm my blood. It had been years since I’d dry-humped a girl, but fuck, I’d forgotten how dirty and forbidden it felt.

  But the sight of this kid in front of me—the guy Hanna was dating—felt like an ice bucket dumped over my head.

  Dylan looked like every other Columbia student in the place: dressed down to the point he was toeing the line between pajama-clad and hobo.

  “Yeah,” I said, extending my hand to shake his. “Hi, Dylan. Good to see you again.”

  We stepped forward as the line moved ahead, and the awkwardness hit me slowly. I hadn’t realized at the party how young he looked: he had that silently vibrating, feet-bouncy thing going on, where he seemed constantly excited about something. He nodded a lot, looked at me as if I was someone to be treated as a superior.

  Looking between us, I registered how much more formal I looked in my suit. Since when was I the guy in a suit? Since when did I have little patience for stupid, twenty-something grad students? Probably the same day Hanna jacked me off in the back room of a grad student party and it was the best sex I’d ever had, I reminded myself.

  “Did you have fun at Denny’s?”

  I stared at him for a long moment, trying to remember when I had last been to Denny’s. “I . . .”

  “The party, not the restaurant,” he prompted, laughing. “The apartment belonged to a guy named Denny.”

  “Oh, right. The party.” My mind immediately went to the image of Hanna’s face as I slid my fingers beneath her underwear and across her bare skin. I could remember with perfect clarity her expression just before she came, like I’d done something fucking magical. She looked like she was discovering sensation for the first time. “Yeah, the party was pretty great.”

  He fidgeted with his phone, looking up at me, and seemed to be working up to something.

  “You know,” he said, leaning in a little, “this is the first time I’ve run into someone who’s sort of dating the same girl I’m sort of dating. Is this really weird?”

  I bit back a laugh. Well, he certainly had blunt-force honesty in common with Hanna. “What makes you think I’m dating her?”

  Dylan immediately looked mortified. “I just assumed . . . because of how it seemed at the party. . . .”

  Giving him a sly smile, I chided him, “And yet you asked her out anyway?”

  He laughed as if he, too, couldn’t believe his own audacity. “I was so drunk! I guess I just went for it.”

  I wanted to punch him. And I registered that I was the world’s biggest hypocrite. I had absolutely no right to feel so indignant about any of this.

  “It’s fine,” I said, calming down. I’d never been on this side of a conversation before, and for a beat wondered if any of my lovers had ever run into each other in places like this. How awkward. I tried to imagine what Kitty or Lara—all sparkles and sunshine—and Natalia or Kristy—who would barely crack a smile even in the best of moods—would do if they were put in this kind of situation.

  Shrugging, I told him, “Hanna and I go way back. That’s all.”

  He laughed, nodding as if this answered all of his unasked questions. “She said she’s just dating right now. I get that. She’s a really fun girl, I’ve been wanting to ask her out for ages, so I’ll take whatever I can get, you know?”

  I stared at the cashier, silently begging her to ring up customers just a little faster. Unfortunately, I knew exactly what he meant. “Yeah.”

  He nodded again and I was tempted to tell him the rule of silence: sometimes an awkward silence is actually far less awkward than forced conversation.

  Dylan stepped up to order his coffee and I could return to the safety of distraction via smartphone. I didn’t meet his eye again as he paid and walked away, but I felt like my gut was made of lead.

  What the fuck was I doing?

  With every step to my office, I felt more
and more uncomfortable. In the past near-decade, the lines were drawn with each of my sexual partners before the sex even happened. Sometimes the conversation occurred as we left an event together, other times it came up organically when they asked if I had a girlfriend and I could simply say, “I’m dating, but not seeing one person exclusively right now.” In the few cases when the sex turned into something more, I’d always made a point to be clear about where I stood, find out where they stood, and discuss—openly—what we both wanted.

  I hadn’t registered how blindsided I’d been by the appearance of Dylan—in my world, and, more importantly, in Hanna’s. For the first time ever, I’d made the assumption that when she pulled me to that back bedroom, she would want to explore sex with me . . . and only me.

  Karma was clearly a bitch.

  * * *

  That morning, I dove into work, burning through three prospectuses and a stack of bullshit paperwork I’d been putting off for the past week. I followed up on calls, arranged for a business trip to the Bay Area to check out a few new biotechs. I barely stopped to breathe.

  But when the afternoon rolled around, and I hadn’t eaten anything for hours and my caffeine rush had long since tapered, Hanna pushed her way back into my thoughts.

  My office door opened and Max walked over, tossing an enormous sandwich on my desk before sinking into the chair across from me. “What’s going on, William? You look like you just found out DNA is a right-handed helix.”

  “It is a right-handed helix,” I corrected him. “It just turns to the left.”

  “Like your dick?”

  “Exactly.” I pulled my sandwich toward me, unwrapping it. I hadn’t realized until it was in front of me, smelling delicious, just how hungry I was. “Just thinking too much.”

  “Why do you look mental, then? Thinking too much is your fucking superpower, mate.”

  “Not about this it isn’t.” I rubbed my face, opting for honesty over jokes. “I’m kind of confused over something.”

  He took a bite, studied me. After several long moments, he asked, “This is about Tits, isn’t it?”