Lainey Chapter 8

 

“Lainey,” he buries his face in my neck, “tell me to get off you.”

Tell him to stop touching me? How is that even possible? If I could summon even an ounce of resistance, we wouldn’t have slept together in the first place. Now, knowing how he can make me feel? How he wrings out every last ounce of pleasure, I can’t say those words even though I know they are my best defense.

He makes a frustrated noise and I hold my breath; maybe this is the time he’s done and we stop this craziness.

“Fine, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll take it, but you’re going to look at me while I fuck you.”

The crudeness of his language spears me. This is the way he talks to his groupies. The ones who hang out in the hotel of his away games, the ones who line up for a shot at him in bars and restaurants and nightclubs. I would know… I was one of those girls once. Hell, maybe I still am.

As his head dips lower, the shaggy ends of his hair kiss my collarbone and settle into the hollow in my throat. Even his unintentional touches arouse me. His mouth smooths across the top of one breast and then the other.

I didn’t even realize he’d unbuttoned my blouse. My bra is loosened with one move. He groans as his hands cup my breasts, molding them, squeezing them, and then finally, laying his hot open mouth across one aching nipple.

Every time we’re apart, every time he’s not touching me, I tell myself I have to give this up. That I can’t hate him and love him at the same time. It’s not healthy!

But rational thought doesn’t exist when his mouth is hungrily sucking at my breasts, when he makes those groans as if he’s been waiting all day, all year, all of time, to taste me. I’m helpless to stop his inexorable slide down my body, abandoning my breasts to investigate my navel, and then down even further until the waistband of my prim A-line skirt prevents him from moving on.

Actually, nothing stops him. He kisses my hipbones through the fabric. I can feel the heat of his breath, his desire, through all my layers of clothing. He waits, quietly, patiently, dropping tiny kisses all around my hips and thighs until I can’t stand the teasing any longer.

“Do it,” I command. My voice is unnaturally harsh.

“Do what?” he mocks. He always does this. He makes me say it. Makes me submit. Drives my humiliation deeper. One day, I vow. One day I will get over this. One day I won’t be in his thrall.

One day.

But today is not that day.

“I want you, Nick.” I spit out the words mulishly. I don’t like admitting it and he knows it, the smug bastard.

He arches a brow. “It’s a good thing I’m not sensitive or that tone would put me off.”

My eyes drop to the bulge in his jeans. “Yeah, it really looks like you’re on the cliffs of disinterest.”

He runs his massive hand — the one that holds the football so confidently, the one that cradles Cassidy’s head so carefulfully— he runs that hand over his erection and then grips himself. “We both know I’ve never been disinterested where you’re concerned.”

I watch with jealous eyes as his hand kneads his hard shaft through the denim and cotton. I want to be the one touching him. I want my hand to be on that hard dick.

Enough I tell myself. If I’m not going to turn him away, then I’ve got to stop being passive and pretend like I’m merely accepting his attention.

I’m a fully-grown woman with a child. It’s okay to want sex, even from someone I don’t particularly like all the time

There are worse people to sleep with. Far, far worse. I know this from personal experience.

I knock his hand away and attack his pants. His erection makes it hard for me to pull down the zipper but I manage it. Nick watches, hunger and humor warring in his eyes. I finally tug him free, savoring the weight of him in my hands.

He’s bigger than any man I’ve ever had. His penis spills across my palm and I have to add my other hand to cover him fully. His head lolls back against the cushions as I lower my head.

“Take me nice and slow,” he rasps out. “You’re going to need to make up for all those mean things you said to me at the bar.”

“You deserved them,” I snipe.

“Maybe so.” His hand curls behind my head. “But you’re going to suck me off nice and good anyway, aren’t you?”

He tangles his fingers through my hair and guides me lower.

“Only because I want to,” I say before taking the broad head into my mouth.

“Naturally. Wouldn’t want it any other way.” The strained tone to his easy words matches the tenseness in his thighs.

I tease him with my tongue and lips, skating across the top, the edges, down the sides. I whisper touches along the base. The grip in my hair grows fiercer as Nick struggles for his own control. I feel like this is the only place I win with him — when I can wrest away his control, strip him down to this feral, needy thing.

On the field, in a bar, his gravitational pull is such that he’s the sun and we’re all just his adoring satellites circling around him. But alone, his cock in my hands, he’s nothing but clay. My clay. Mine alone.

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