You’d think the fact that they’re only staying for one night would mean my companions would have all packed just one outfit, but no. I’m definitely guilty of traveling with twice the amount I actually need, but I lose patience after the fourth outfit Natalie parades around in, especially since it’s the same short-skirt-lacy-tank-top combo as the last three.
Emma calls halfway through the fashion show.
“Hello?” I answer grumpily.
“Lovely to talk to you too, dear,” she replies, laughing. “Did I wake you up or something? I thought it was only—”
“You didn’t wake me up. You interrupted Natalie’s fourth outfit option.”
“Oh, I forgot Natalie was coming this weekend! Are you guys going out?” The sounds of seagulls and surf echo in the background. Emma’s from New York City but spends every summer in the Hamptons.
“That was the plan,” I respond. “We’ll see if we ever leave the hotel.”
Emma giggles. “Not everyone can throw on a dress and look like a runway model, Saylor.” I don’t answer. “So, how is it?” she asks eagerly.
Filling her in on an Adler Beck-less version of Scholenberg so far takes up the rest of the time the girls need to get ready. By the time we’re hanging up, everyone’s ready to go.
We traipse down to the lobby and out onto the street.
“So, where are we going?” London asks.
I prepare for everyone to turn to me. I’ll have to text Ellie again. But Natalie’s the one who answers. “I know the perfect place.”
I don’t have a suggestion and she sounds confident, so I climb in one cab already waiting outside the hotel with everyone else. It’s a sedan, definitely not designed to seat seven, but the driver doesn’t seem to mind. He deposits us in a neighborhood I wouldn’t expect to contain a trendy club and cheerfully collects his fare.
“How did you hear about this place?” I ask Natalie when we’ve all tumbled out of the cab, critically studying the bland concrete exterior in front of us.
“Extensive research,” she replies, grinning. “It was the most consistent hit for a Kluvberg player hangout. According to TravelAdvisor, there’s always this long of a line for just that reason.” She nods to the line curving around the exterior of the building. To her credit, they’re all trendily dressed people about our age.
“You’re joking,” I say flatly. The last thing I want to do is to spend the night fending off a bunch of Adler Beck-wannabes.
“Nope, totally serious.”
“Sounds like a rumor they might have started themselves,” I mutter.
“Come on,” London declares, striding toward the front of the line. Everyone else follows, me included. “Hi, we’d like to go in,” she tells the beefy man clad in all black. Protests sound behind us, but a raised hand from the bouncer quiets them.
“Name?” he asks gruffly.
“Wh-what do you need a name for?” Natalie asks, losing a bit of her bravado. Guess this requirement wasn’t included in her homework.
“This is a private club, miss. No entry unless you’re on the list,” the man responds. None of the other girls speak. Natalie looks crestfallen. I may not want to be at this particular club, but I’m not great about being told I can’t do something.
I step forward. “My name is on the list.” Natalie gapes at me.
“What is it?” the bouncer asks, tapping a pen against the clipboard impatiently.
“Well, here’s the funny part,” I start, giggling slightly. The guy glances up and falters a bit when he catches a glimpse of my face. I crank up the ditzy blonde act, twirling a stray strand of hair around my pointer finger. “See, there was this guy I met earlier at a restaurant, Lecker—I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?” I toss out the name of the ritzy eatery Ellie told me she was meeting her family at hoping to add some credence to my story.
First rule of lying: add random details. It seems to work, because the bouncer nods, his stoic expression softening a bit.
“Anyhoo, he came up to me and was flirting. Then, he asks me to meet him here later. But he’d already asked for my name, and my friend Tiffany here”—I yank Natalie forward—“read some article about how you should never give a strange guy your actual name when you’re traveling because then he could track you down later. I mean, you should hear some of the stories my sorority sisters have told us about the creeps out there. So, I didn’t tell this guy my real name, but then he tells me he’ll put my name on the list here. And I couldn’t come clean then, right?”
The bouncer eyes me apprehensively. I have no idea if he believes me. If this place is really as popular as Natalie claims, I’m guessing he’s heard it all.
“What name did you tell this guy?” he asks. Well, maybe not all.
“I forget,” I respond, smiling sheepishly instead of triumphantly. “I panicked and just made one up. Lisa Linderhagen, maybe? Is that on the list?”
There’s a quiet snort behind me, and I hope the bouncer didn’t hear it. If one of these idiots ruins the compelling tale I just fabricated, I will never let them forget it. He studies me for a minute, not even bothering to glance down at his list.
“All right, you ladies can come through,” he finally says, unclipping the ceremonial-looking rope barrier. There are loud protests from those in line, but I don’t wait around to listen to them or give the bouncer a chance to change his mind. I saunter through the doorway into what, I have to admit, is a pretty cool atmosphere. If Kluvberg players do hang out here, they’ve got decent taste. It’s not flashy or extravagant, but minimalistic and sleek.
“That. Was. Brilliant!” Natalie announces, bouncing in beside me.
“Seriously,” London agrees. “I feel like I should be looking around for the poor guy who fell for the ‘I’m Lisa Linderhagen’ line.”
I scoff. “I’m going to grab a drink from the bar.”
“I’ll get a booth,” London announces.
“Let’s hit the dance floor.” Natalie pulls the rest of our group along with her.
The interior of the club is structured in a U shape. The bar sits to the far right, while the dance floor and DJ booth take up the left side. The bottom curve is bifurcated by the doorway, with booths lining the brick walls. I skirt through the crowd, ignoring the glances I’m garnering. I’m not in the mood for it right now, but it’s impossible to tune out the people close to my own age, all dressed in clothes that hint at designer labels. And they all seem to be locals. Nothing but German punctuates the thumping bass pumping through the speakers.
Finally reaching the bar, I order a gin and tonic, then study the expensive bottles of liquor displayed behind the bar as I wait for my drink. There’s a muted light shining behind them that adds to the alluring ambiance.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
Why is it the last person you want to see is always the one you run into? There is one person I didn’t want to encounter in Germany—actually all of Europe.
A geographic region comprising millions of square miles.
Thousands of clubs.
One Adler Beck.
I turn to face him, which is a mistake. Adler Beck looked gorgeous sweaty and pissed off. He looks even better leaning against the bar in jeans and a gray t-shirt that hugs a torso I’ve seen splashed on more magazine covers than I care to admit. He still appears pissed off. Either it’s his default setting, or I draw it out.
Or both.
“How do you know? Maybe I was personally invited by the owner,” I respond, mirroring his pose and leaning back against the bar. It’s so unfair hot guys are often the assholes. Hair that blond and eyes that blue should not be genetically possible.
“You weren’t,” Beck states flatly. He’s holding a bottle of beer, and the beverage choice surprises me. He seems more like the type to sip expensive liquor from a crystal tumbler. Then again, I’m just basing that off paparazzi photos of him with models exiting cars that cost more than four years of tuition at Lancaster.
>
Beck sets the glass cylinder down on the black bar top made of some sort of stone. Maybe marble? Can marble be black? I took geology, aka “rocks for jocks” as my science requirement, but we didn’t cover bar top construction. Regardless, the dark, lustrous surface fits with the sultry vibe emanating from each corner. Classy and chancy.
“How do you know?” I ask, before glancing over my shoulder to check on the bartender I ordered from. He’s busy flirting with some girls farther down the bar, meaning my drink is not about to appear. Welp, there goes his tip.
“Because I own this place.” The words are matter of fact.
Thank God I didn’t compliment the décor out loud. It would ruin my perfect record of not feeding his ego. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?” He grabs his beer from the maybe-marble surface and takes a sip.
“You don’t really look like the nightclub-owning type. Show me some paperwork.” That sounded a lot less lame in my head. I’m speaking like some sort of amateur gangster. I blame it on the fact that I never expected to see him again.
“What exactly does the nightclub-owning type look like?” Beck inquires.
“Not you,” I reply, unable to think of anything wittier. I would love to leave this conversation where I can’t come up with anything clever to say, but it’s fairly obvious I’m standing here waiting for my drink, and there’s no cocktail to be seen.
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” There’s the barest hint of a smirk, which makes me think Beck might be aware of the fact that I’d very much like to leave his beguiling presence.
“No idea,” I tell him honestly. Yup, there’s definitely some amusement in his expression now. “Maybe you should spend less time managing your club and more time practicing penalty kicks.” I went there, and Beck’s expression makes it clear he didn’t think I would.
I turn to look at him fully for the first time, enjoying watching him decide how to respond. Defend or ignore?
“Otto’s new.”
I smirk. Or blame the goalie. “He blocked one of yours,” I’m quick to point out.
“You caught him a bit off guard.”
“I can’t think of a single game I’ve played in that progressed the way I expected it to.”
“I was referring more to the fact that you’re American.”
“I actually wasn’t talking all that much,” I respond cheekily, finally finding some footing in the conversation. I’ve never fished for a compliment in my life, but for some reason I really want Adler Beck to acknowledge he means my appearance, not my heritage.
Eyes the exact color of the sky when it’s marred by only a few fluffy clouds flit away from my face, down the navy slip dress I’m wearing, and back up. “Hard to ignore that accent,” he remarks.
Fine. He’s a worthy competitor off the field, too. Adler Beck doesn’t just have confidence; he oozes charisma. It exudes from every invisible pore, clogging the surrounding air with cockiness.
“The only player in the club over ninety is me.” Grudging, barely discernable respect lightly coats his tone.
Adler fucking Beck checked my conversion rate. “You looked me up?”
“Mm-hmm.” He takes another sip of beer.
I mastered the art of appearing indifferent a long time ago, but the knowledge that Adler Beck took the time to look up my conversion rate for penalty kicks is surreal—not that I have any intention of telling him that, or telling him I’m impressed he found my conversion rate based on nothing but my first name. My soccer stats aren’t exactly splashed across the internet the way his are.
Thirty seconds of silence pass before Beck speaks again. “You here alone?”
“No, with a teammate from home. She’s at Amnerallons and came for a visit with new friends. I needed some… I came to grab a drink.”
“What did you order?”
“Gin and tonic.”
Beck turns and says something in German. I look behind me to see the bartenders are now rushing about. Maybe he really does own this place. Or maybe they’re just responding to the presence of the world’s most famous footballer. In seconds, a glass filled with bubbly, clear liquid and topped with a lime wedge appears before me.
“Tha—” Beck swipes the glass mid-word. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t reply, just starts walking to the left, clutching what I assume is my drink. Foolishly, I follow him. He takes an abrupt right and heads down a short hallway. Then pushes open a side door. I walk after him into what must be the stock room.
Glass bottles line shelf after shelf after shelf, barely illuminated by the solitary lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Beck grabs a blue bottle and sends a generous splash of its contents into the glass he’s holding. Wordlessly, he holds it out to me. I take the glass and sip some of its contents. Lime, botanicals, and expensive gin hit my tongue.
“It’s good,” I inform him.
“Good.”
Beck doesn’t move. Neither do I. But I meet his cool blue gaze unflinchingly, suddenly very aware—excruciatingly aware, in fact—that the two of us are in a room alone. Together. There shouldn’t be any familiarity between us, but I know what he’s about to do before it happens.
Beck steps forward.
One step.
Two.
Three.
I hold my ground, only moving back and setting my glass down once our bodies make contact. Once the warmth of his skin sinks through the thin satin I’m wearing.
He presses me against a shelf, prompting loud clangs as the glass bottles shift in protest. And then Adler Beck kisses me. I’m kissing Adler Beck. But it doesn’t feel like I’m kissing a soccer superstar. There’s no distance—literal or metaphorical—from which to view the body pressed against mine as belonging to a famous footballer. There’s just a chiseled frame exuding the temperature of a furnace and forcing a pool of lust to form in my stomach.
I have two options right now, but I don’t want to stop kissing him, so that brings me down to one. Beck’s domineering. Overwhelming. Clearly used to being the alpha. Just like during our shootout, I don’t let him.
We’re already careening down a decline, so I yank the brake stick and toss it out the figurative window. He tugs at my hair; I rake my nails across his back. He slips his hands up my dress; I unzip his pants. All the while, our tongues duel for dominance.
Adler Beck may be German, but he’s mastered the French kiss.
He’s already hard. Really fucking hard. Our brief, clothed interactions have never given me the impression Adler Beck has to compensate for anything, and I receive visual confirmation as I yank down his jeans. He’s huge. Hot. I run my fingers along the firm, silken shaft that’s prominently protruding between us, and Beck groans. His length jerks in my hold.
Skilled fingers find the evidence of my own desire, but I’m done prolonging what I hope is inevitable. I decided approximately two minutes ago I was going to fuck Adler Beck, and delaying that lost its appeal about ninety seconds ago. My right hand is still stroking the length of his pulsing cock, so I fish through my purse with my left to procure a foil packet. His dick is sheathed in seconds, and then I impale myself on it, shoving his fingers out of the way. I have a feeling he’s used to receiving compliments at this point. An “oh, your dick is so massive”, or a “will you even fit?” Those thoughts are absolutely running through my head, but I definitely don’t voice them.
My hands-on approach clearly catches Beck off guard, but he recovers quickly. Those same reflexes that blindside world-renowned defenders and send championship-winning goalies into fits of cursing make it clear anything I throw at Adler Beck will be tossed right back.
He might not have been expecting me to take control, but he’s ready once I do. Ready to challenge me. Thrusting. Kneading. Pulsating inside of me. Adler Beck and I are a blur of passionate, practiced movement. We’ve never done this before, but it feels like we have. Not in a tired, overdone way—in a he-knows-exactly-how-to-make-every-cell-of
-my-body-reverberate-with-pleasure kind of way. Probably because he’s practiced with half the women in Europe.
Beck brushes that elusive bundle of nerves with every stroke. Sends shockwaves skittering across the surface of my skin. The words muttered in a German accent don’t hurt either. His syllables sound thicker when he’s aroused, and the hard—pun intended—evidence of that is rapidly sending me toward a very happy ending.
I’d love to prolong this moment, but I can already feel the pressure rising, ebbing over me inch by inch. I want to ask him to slow his strokes and put the eruption off a little longer, but I lost the ability to string a coherent sentence together when I shoved him inside me. Actions are most definitely trumping words right now.
Then it’s too late.
Ebbs become flows.
Pleasure floods my body, coating every centimeter and each cell.
I free-fall through a stratosphere of delectation. And land in a small closet filled with expensive liquor next to a gorgeous German who is most certainly smirking at me.
I yank my dress down and stride out of the room, leaving him alone in the dark.
Chapter Five
“You were out late last night,” Ellie comments the following morning, appearing in the doorway of my room and flopping down on my bed.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I respond, not looking up from the course catalog I’m scrolling through on my laptop. I have to choose my fall courses this week. Attending class is one part of life at Lancaster I definitely won’t miss. School has never been my strong suit. I cycled through four majors before landing on public relations, and I already have regrets. “Natalie turned it into a whole thing.”
Ellie snorts. “You are aware I follow you on social media, right? If there was anyone instigating anything, I’d bet it was you.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Any German lover boys?” Her playful words dredge up the memories I’ve been trying to repress ever since I woke up. A rough palm sliding up my thigh. Hot tongue in my mouth. Dirty words whispered in an accent. Dragging Natalie, London, and the rest of the girls out of the club as soon as I left that storage closet, claiming a guy at the bar told me about some hip new place around the corner. The club we ended up at was neither hip nor new, but no one seemed to notice.
First Flight, Final Fall Page 5
