Dex

Here’s the thing about being a professional athlete: There are a lot of women.

They show up at parties and hotels. They follow the teams around. They suddenly appear on the street if you go out in public. They give you looks from behind airport check-in counters. They’re fans who get hot for your underwear ad. They’re eager, they’re excited, and yeah, some of the women you meet are models—models like athletes a lot, which is something we sure as hell don’t complain about. It sounds great, and I’m not going to lie, for most of us it pretty much is. When you’re a pro, getting laid by a beautiful woman is never a problem.

But here’s the other thing: It isn’t everything it seems. My day-to-day life, year in and year out, is all guys. The team, the coaches. All of the managers, owners, and execs. The agents, the financial guys. The doctors and physical therapists. You think I’ve ever met a woman who was a top sports agent? You think I’ve ever been in a meeting with a sponsor and they’ve sent in their top woman to do the job? In four years, I have been interviewed by exactly one female journalist. I don’t care what year it is—professional sports is still a big fucking boys’ club. Aside from the women at parties and the ones who sneak into your hotel hoping for a fuck, I swear, it is all dicks, all the time.

Wrong, maybe. Probably. Boring, most fucking definitely.

Because here’s the thing about me: I’m picky.

I always have been, even from the beginning. Random one-time fucks with nameless women are some guys’ thing, but they aren’t mine. I have exacting standards. I have to be in the mood, for one. I have to be outside the mindset of my most intensive training period, which means no sex for months before a major championship. The sport comes first. When I say I play hard, and I play to win, I mean it. Nothing comes between me and my goal, once I’ve set my mind to it. Ever.

I don’t drink, which is another part of it. It’s an unacceptable loss of control for me, and it fucks up my training, comes between me and a win. My body is a machine, and I run it to maximum effect, pristine perfection. Which means I win games, but I don’t celebrate by getting drunk at parties, taking girls back to my hotel. No drugs, either. No uppers, no downers. I either fuck you fully sober, because I want to, or I simply fucking don’t.

Maybe that makes me an egotistical asshole. But I’m Dex Carter, and I don’t particularly fucking care.

I’m not claiming to live like a monk. I like women. I like sex. I play better when I’m not too pent up. And like I said, models. But there were a lot of nights when my teammates were out partying and I was in my hotel room, alone. On a lot of those nights, I’d text Sophie.

She’d always answer me. Honest, real. Curious. Smart. Just—herself. Living a life I tried to imagine from thousands of miles away. College and classes, exams and roommates. And then job hunting, the ups and downs, worrying about her career and her future. She never talked to me about guys. I pictured her finding some nice guy, a lawyer type maybe, pictured her daydreaming about a wedding, kids. And I’d say to myself, She is not daydreaming about you, Dex, because you are not that fucking guy.

It bothered me. A little at first, but as time went on, more and more. It bothered me that she saw me as some far-off celebrity figure, her famous stepbrother. It bothered me that even though I was rich as fuck I’d never be able to do something normal with her, like take her to a movie. What woman cares about a guy who can’t take her to a fucking movie? And when her father had had a health scare last year—a heart problem that had landed him in the hospital for a week—it bothered me that because I was playing an important game, I couldn’t fly home and be with her, help her out. While she was at her father’s bedside, wondering if he was going to die, I was in Manchester, playing. And winning.

Like I said, not that fucking guy.

And still, here she was. In bed with me, a thin sheen of sweat on the perfect skin between her breasts. She’d let me fuck her, the first man she’d ever fucked. She’d let me put my hands on her, my mouth. She’d ridden my cock, let me come inside her. Me, the guy who was no good for her. Who couldn’t give her a single thing she wanted.

Well, except orgasms. I could give her those.

Part of me had always wanted this. Sitting alone in a hotel room, texting her about everyday things—of course I wanted to fuck her. Sophie had that sweet body, the legs that wouldn’t quit, those small little breasts. That long, chestnut hair and that sexy sweep of bangs. But she’d been nineteen when I’d first met her, and so off-limits it wasn’t even funny. I’d known her two years before I was ever near her without our parents in the room with us, for God’s sake, and I was hardly ever in the country. To say our timing was off was an understatement.

But now I was home. And we were alone.

I didn’t know what the hell that meant, except that I wasn’t finished. I wanted more.

I led her to the bathroom, wet a towel with hot water, and helped her clean up. She was embarrassed at first, and then she wasn’t. Under the soft light of the bathroom, her eyes traveled over me, taking in my naked body, her expression going unfocused again. Being naked wasn’t something I’d ever been self-conscious about. Plenty of people had seen me naked—not just women, but my teammates in the locker room, the team’s doctors, whoever. The entire planet had seen me in my underwear. But it was different when Sophie looked at me.

I liked looking at her, too—I very much fucking did—but this moment was all about her. I tossed the towel away and stood in front of her, all of me just there for her to look at. “You like it?” I said.

“Oh, my God,” she said softly. “You are so sexy.”

“Ah, now,” I said, moving closer to her, putting my hands on her waist. “You’re feeding my ego.” I dipped my face to her neck, smelled her soft girly smell, now mixed with sweat. “Keep talking.”

She laughed a little and put her hands on my chest as I kissed her neck. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me you want to fuck me again,” I said, moving my hands down to her bare ass.

I heard her exhale a breath. “I want to fuck you again.”

Good. “Tell me what you want.” I kissed her neck some more, up behind her ear. She tilted her head to give me more access, and I took it.

She was going soft against me, her hands sliding up to my shoulders, her hips pressing against my cock as it went hard again. “I want… Oh. Right there.” Her head lolled as I kissed the crook between her neck and her shoulder, then bit it gently. “Oh.”

“Sophie,” I growled, impatient, gripping her ass harder, pressing her against me.

She straightened her head again and caught my face in her hands, kissing me as I squeezed her harder. “I want to come on you,” she said.

I liked hearing her say that, that dirty wish on her lips. In seconds I had her on the bed again, but this time I kept her on her knees. I put my own knees between hers and pulled her snug to me, her back to my chest, my arm over her ribcage. I felt her hand move over my flexed bicep.

“Dex…”

“Relax,” I said in her ear. “Just feel it.”

I moved her hips, bent her slightly, and slid into her; she felt fucking amazing, and I had to catch my breath. I moved my free hand lower, down to her belly, and held her still as I moved out of her and in again.

She moaned softly, her head falling back against my shoulder. My flexed arm held her up, and her nails dug into my bicep. I moved in her again and again, finding my rhythm, as my hand moved lower and found her pussy, her clit.

It was like we fit together, and we always had. In minutes she was squirming on me, panting, as I felt sweat drip down my back. I was completely lost in her, like I’d never been with anyone. I fucked her with hard, even strokes as I rubbed her.

“Oh, God,” she said, arching her back so her shoulders pressed against me, her hair trailing over my skin, her hips pressing into my hand. “Dex—oh God—Dex—please—”

I couldn’t help it. “You are incredible,” I said as I pounded into her harder, holding her up, circling her clit. “You are so fucking amazing.”

She came hard, with a little scream, squeezing my cock. The sensation was blinding. I fucked her hard, again and again, as she came; then I came, too, a cry ripping from my throat as I emptied myself into her. We were like that for a moment, entwined together, with nothing at all between us; then I let her go.

The room was quiet except for our breathing. There was a faint howl of wind up here on the third floor, right beneath the roof; I’d listened to it all last night as I’d lain awake, thinking about her. It was a lonely sound.

But I wasn’t lonely now. Not yet. Tonight, I had her. I had Sophie.

And right now, Dex Carter was on his knees.