Laurel
“Those outfits are like the speedos of the athletic world, but better.” Donovan pokes me in the ribs with his forefinger to get my attention. “Do you see that guy from Ohio? I wonder if he’s single.”
“Or straight?” Lana teases, stealing the licorice from his hands and sticking it in her mouth.
“Would you two knock it off,” I plead. “I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“I would be, too,” Lana says, ripping off another bite of red vine. “The groupie game is strong in here tonight.”
We’re seated in the third row from the floor with the tickets Rhett had dropped at will call—three rows from the mats, sweat, and strapping male wrestlers.
So far, my roommates and I are enjoying the view.
“There are so many balls here I don’t know where to look first,” Donovan mutters excitedly. “And here I thought baseball pants were where it’s at. Compared to these singlets, they might as well be wearing diapers out there. I’ve slipped into my fantasy.”
“Would you please stop?” I laugh. “Stop staring at everyone’s balls.”
“I can’t help it.” He holds his hand out as if he’s presenting someone with a platter. “They’re literally right there. See? Balls.”
“And those groupies are on that shit hard,” Lana points out. Again.
She’s right though; the arena seems to be full of girls holding signs meant to draw attention to themselves, to attract attention from the players—wrestlers? Some of them wear next to nothing.
Fortunately, we’re not seated in the student section, not part of the throng. Unfortunately, we have to stare at that section from across the arena. When my eyes scan the crowd, they hit a sea of signs along the way.
WE WANT 2 HAVE YOUR BAE-BIES, OZ
OPEN FOR PITWELL, 24 HOURS!
RETT WE WANNA LAY YOU! CALL ME
Glitter, rhinestones, and markers. Sorority letters and tight t-shirts. Awkward and uncomfortable, I have to sit here and stare at the signs begging to lay Rhett Rabideaux.
WILLING WITH A PULSE #GETRETTLAID. CALL ME!!
Over my dead body.
If anyone is having sex with him, it’s going to be me.
Our boys earn themselves victory after victory, and the moment Rhett steps out onto the mats, I know I’m about to get educated on just how damn good a wrestler he is.
Why Iowa courted him so hard to bring him across the country, to our team.
He’s amazing.
Tall and lean, he is nothing but muscle. Firm contours of sweaty, sinewy brawn. His thighs online and in photographs are nothing compared to his thighs in person, live and in color.
Jesus.
“Are you imagining yourself fucking him?” Donovan asks, nudging me.
“Yes,” I whisper, staring.
“So am I.” My roommate laughs.
“Shut up, Donovan!” I shove him, eyes never leaving the center ring, the blue mat under the spotlight where Rhett takes a guardian stance, eyeing the Ohio wrestler he’s about to combat for the win.
For the pin.
Every cell in my body is aware of him, knees bent, arms out for centered gravity. Head goes down as he grapples with his opponent from Ohio, grabbing hold by the back of his neck. Pulling him down.
Rhett’s head hits the guy’s stomach, hands snake beneath his crotch, lifting. Ohio, as I’ve come to call him, flounders as his feet are suspended above the mats, Rhett flipping him onto his back.
Oh my God—that’s the double takedown!
He’s doing the move he did on me.
Seeing it done on someone else—with more force but just as much control—has me clasping my hands, lifting them to my mouth. Squealing when Rhett and Ohio are flat on the mats, twisting and flipping and rolling around on the floor.
Flipping and rolling: that’s how it looks to me.
“Damn!” Lana shouts. “Holy shit, look at him!”
Rhett has Ohio on the mat in less than a minute, pinned by the neck in a chokehold or whatever they call it, the rest of his body a brick wall of force intended to keep his opponent down.
The ref counts the match.
One.
Two.
Three.
Rhett stands, sweating, the referee holding up his arm, declaring him the winner. His roommate runs to him with a white towel and a water bottle as his coach slaps him on the ass—his firm, tight ass, the muscles constricting with every step he takes to the sideline.
I find him easily afterward; he’s alone in the hall, black duffle slung over his left shoulder. Head bent, tired. Lonely?
Watching him approach, I recline against the cinderblock wall of the basement tunnel that leads to the locker rooms, hands flattened against the cold partition behind me.
I’m wearing a tight black Iowa wrestling t-shirt I bought especially for the occasion, skinny jeans, and black half boots. My red hair falls in a straight curtain, and I feel my cheeks flush as he gets closer.
“Hey.” He looks up when I greet him, disbelief in his eyes at the sight of me. Pleasure.
He’s pleased.
“Hey. You came.” His white teeth wink at me. “And you waited for me.”
“Of course.” My heart begins a steady beat inside my chest. “You’re amazing. That was incredible, Rhett.” I blurt out the words, not nearly as eloquent as they sounded in my head while I waited for him to emerge.
“Thanks.” His brown eyes drag up and down my body, penetrating. Unless my imagination is playing a cruel trick on me, Rhett is throwing heat he’s never thrown my way before. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Did you see me in the stands?”
Affirmative. “I knew just where to look, and that hair of yours is hard to miss.” He moves in closer, fingers flexing at his sides. Open, closed. “Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
His voice is low. Intense.
“I am?” My heart races. Nerve endings practically tingle with anticipation.
“Yeah.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “I am so full of adrenaline right now.”
I glance down at his hands. “Looks like it.”
“I could run ten miles.”
I’ve heard of these adrenaline highs, the rush athletes have after a game, the blood still raging through their strong, fit bodies. I’ve heard stories from other girls about sex marathons after a game. Sex for hours and hours.
I can see the tension in his eyes, the high color in his cheeks and face and neck.
He’s turned on.
Rhett approaches. Drops his duffle to the ground and stands in front of me, chest heaving up and down inside his tight compression shirt. Pecs firm. Nipples hard.
I want to run my palms up his torso.
“Je vais t’embrasser.” His mouth is moving, speaking words I don’t understand, inching closer.
I nod. “Okay.”
Those rough, callused hands cup my jaw, thumbs stroking my smooth skin.
“Je suis content que te es ici, Laurel.” His lips brush the skin beneath my ear. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
He’s so gentle. So tender.
My eyes slide closed and I bite my lip, bite back a moan.
“Putain, tu es jolie,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”
“Merci.” It’s the only other French word I know, and it slips out on a whisper as I tilt my neck so he can plant a kiss there. His warm hands slide to the back of my neck, lips dragging along my jawline. To the corner of my mouth.
I part my lips as his full mouth glides over mine, the tips of our tongues meeting. Rhett tastes like spearmint toothpaste, hard work, and good decisions. A sure thing.
Commitment.
It doesn’t take long for us to get carried away, and soon, we’re making out in the empty tunnel as if our lives depend on it. Rhett has me pinned to the wall, years of repressed sexual energy and adrenaline bubbling over, and before I know it, his chaffed hand is sliding down my spine.
Across my waist. Up the front of my shirt, thumb brushing along the undersides of my breasts.
My capable hands rake up his chest, around his neck. Tangle into the hair that could use a trim.
It’s all so fucking good.
I’m pinned to the wall, his pelvis—his hard dick—pressed into the apex of my thighs, and I do the only thing I’m capable of doing at the moment: I moan.
We’re just getting to the good stuff when the sound of my moan mingles with the sound of voices echoing out of the locker room door. We’re not alone.
“Shit.” Rhett breaks contact, muttering. Lips hit my temple, land a kiss along the collar of my shirt. “Come with me. Let’s get the fuck out here.”
I nod. I’d follow him anywhere.
I grasp his hand as he swipes his bag from the ground, the two of us breaking into a light jog in the hall, desperate to get to his car.
Desperate to be alone.
I’m being pulled behind him, his hand clutching mine as he guides me down the tunnel toward the exit that leads to the parking lot.
“We’ll come back and get your car later.”
This side of him thrills me, the bossy, in-control side—the side that only took minutes to pin a two-hundred-pound man onto a blue wrestling mat.
I let him lead me down the hall, out the door, to the dark parking lot.
“Where are you parked?” My eyes do a quick scan for his Jeep, the only car parked at the far end…
“It’s right over—” He stops in his tracks. “What the fuck? What. The. Fuck.”
He drops my hand, pointing to the Jeep at the far side, wrapped in…
I hate asking out loud, but, “Is that plastic wrap?”
He stalks in the direction of his car, grinding out an angry, “Yes.”
The Jeep is indeed tightly wrapped in plastic, a clear coat of something sticky beneath it, like someone smeared Vaseline then swathed the Jeep with an industrial-size roll of saran wrap.
“I can’t go home. It will just end up in a fight.” His hands go behind his head, pacing. “Those fuckin’ assholes.”
“Who would have done this? We weren’t inside long enough for someone to have done it while you were in the locker room, were we?”
“No. Someone else could have easily done it, but I doubt it.” He picks at the plastic, peeling back a layer. Shoulders slouch, defeated. “Fuck. This is going to take all night to get clean.”
I lay a gentle hand on his firm tricep. “Come with me now and I promise we’ll come back in the morning and figure this out together.”
“Yeah.” He hefts his bag. Nods. “All right.”
I take his hand, tugging him toward my car, my father’s late-model SUV. I used to hate it because it’s so big, but man, I can fit so much shit in the back.
Once, in high school, I had twelve of my friends piled in. Not safe, I know, but…we were stupid back then, and irresponsible.
It’s big, safe, and outdated—and it’s all mine.
“This is your car?”
“Yes.” I laugh, hitting the locks. “Hop in.”
His large body hits the seat, collapsing into it. Buckles himself in. Sags, head hitting the headrest.
Poor guy.
I pat his thigh.
Start the ignition, pull out of the parking lot with Rhett beside me, staring out into the dark night.
I feel so bad. “Where should we go?”
I’m not ready to take us home.
“Anywhere.” He turns his head to look at me. “Somewhere quiet.”
I rack my brain for possibilities, the only spot that’s coming to mind a lookout point off campus, high in some bluffs. It’s secluded and remote and no one will bother us there.
Slowly, I wind my SUV up the narrow road toward the highest point in the county, just a two-mile ride out of town. The road twists up and around, a short ten-minute drive.
It’s a popular spot, high in the hills, the sight panoramic, crossing twenty miles into the distance—and when it’s dark, nothing beats the span of glowing city lights below. Nothing.
We’re lucky tonight—when we pull in, there are only two other cars present, and my guess is that they’re empty. The reason people come up is for the view, and the view from the overlook is a hot spot for photo ops; I never pass up a chance to bring my parents here when they visit.
I find a spot, cut the engine.
Unbuckle and turn to face him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
I nod in the dark.
It’s pitch black up here, save for one poor excuse for a flood light. This is not a place I’d want to be alone with someone I just met, and probably shouldn’t be here with a guy I’m just getting to know.
But my instincts are screaming that Rhett’s one of the good guys.
“Have you ever lost a match?”
I hear him shrug in the dark. “Sure.”
“Like, how many?”
His soft chuckle comes out of the dark, warming my insides like warm, gooey caramel. Mmm.
I poke his bicep with the tip of my finger, teasing. “Come on, tell me. You obviously know the exact number, don’t be modest.”
“Five.”
“Five this year?” When did their season start, and how long does it last? “That’s not…terrible.” Is it?
“No, five since I was a freshman.”
“Five?” Holy shit, that’s it?
“Yeah, that’s it.”
My face turns red, and I’m grateful for the dark. “I said that out loud?”
“Yeah, you said that out loud.”
“Jesus, Rhett, that’s…I mean, I know nothing about wrestling but I know a little about stats, and that…wow. Five.”
“Thanks.”
There’s a console in the center of the front seats, separating us by about ten inches, and his big hand is rested on top of it. I can see it even in the dark, his skin illuminated just enough.
“The more I learn about you, the more I like you.”
I lay my hand on the console next to his, breathlessly waiting to see if he’ll take it.
It takes several heartbeats, but he does, sliding his rough palm over my knuckles. Stroking the silky skin I meticulously maintain with expensive lotions and sea salt scrubs.
The callused pads of his fingers against my smooth skin are a delightful contrast, reminding me of how different we are, how strong and virile and hardworking Rhett is.
Our fingers entwine.
“This is nice.”
“It is.” His gravelly voice is a low murmur, barely above a whisper. “I needed this.”
“Honestly?” I give his hand a squeeze. “Me too.”
We study each other in the dark, hands clasped. Lean in at the same time, separated only by the console, lips meeting under the dull flicker of light. My eyes flutter closed when his mouth presses against mine and I sigh, accepting each and every kiss.
Blissfully, I sigh again, loud and long into his mouth when his tongue touches mine. Stroking.
He’s a damn good kisser.
I hum. “Mmm.”
His long fingers bury themselves in my hair, pulling me closer, grasping the back of my neck. Our lips suction together, needy.
I’ve never been this hot for anyone before; my body is on fire, a blazing inferno. Ignited, I want to touch him, not just kiss him.
“Mon Dieu tu sens merveilleuse,” he croaks out, fingers still buried in my hair. “You feel good.”
Crap. I am so screwed with this guy.
“Back seat, Rhett, back seat.” I pry my lips off him, instantly mourning the connection. “Back seat, now.”
I hit the unlock button on the door and we unbuckle our seatbelts, frantically scrambling out our doors and into the back. Rhett folds inside, parking himself center on the seat. Legs spread, I immediately climb on top, straddling him, craving the connection.
Flick the hat off his head.
My fingers plow through his shaggy locks, lips graze the column of his throat. Jawline. Temple.
I lean into him, breasts squished against that solid wall of a chest, rubbing over him like a cat against a scratching post. I groan when his mouth finds my lips, his hands skimming up and down my backside. Palms grabbing hold of my ass and squeezing.
My palms find his biceps, caressing. Run up and down his arms, across his shoulders, exploring. He’s so warm and firm and strong. Ridiculously strong.
I marvel at his body, wishing there was more light, wanting to see the expression on his face when I kiss the bump on the bridge of his nose. The scar on his eyebrow.
He reads my mind.
One of those brawny arms rises, swiping at the light switch in the ceiling. When it goes on, he leans back to study me. I return the favor, learning the contours of his face, just looking, my gaze tracing the arch of his brow. Cheekbones. The lines in his forehead.
He really is pretty darn cute.
I lean in to kiss him again, sweet, passionate open-mouth kisses that light a fire inside my soul—inside my panties—and fog up the windows. I arch so he can see my face.
A tentative finger traces along my jaw, down my neck, down the center of my sternum. I suck in a ragged breath when that finger hits my belly button, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. Taking his hands in mine, I guide them to my waist, under my shirt. Break any invisible boundaries he may have created in his mind, needing to feel his hands on my bare skin.
They skim up my ribcage, slowly, gliding their way to the tender undersides of my breasts.
Feather light, driving me insane.
I sink deeper onto his lap, lining up my pussy with his stiff cock, rotating my hips like a stripper in a nightclub giving a lap dance, head rolling back as his tip finds that sweet spot down below.
His pants are mesh polyester, thin.
My leggings are cotton, thinner.
Our guttural, simultaneous moans fill the cab of my car.
Rhett grips my hips, working me back and forth over his erection; I can feel everything through the threadbare fabric of my pants. Underwear. His pants.
My hands grapple at his waist. Haul his gray compression shirt up and over his head. He gives his hair a shake as I toss the shirt to the side. My hands—my lucky hands—roam his upper torso, greedy for his warm skin.
“Your body is insane. Unbelievable.” I could eat him up.
Rhett’s head sags against the seat when my mouth sucks on the space where his shoulder and neck meet, my tongue gliding. His flesh is smooth. Tight.
Hot.
So hot.
I circle his dusky nipple with the tip of my finger. Pluck it just to hear him gasp.
His paws are back on my body, skimming the sensitive skin near the waistband of my pants. He strokes my flesh but holds back, gripping my ribcage but not touching my boobs.
I bit my lip, debating.
Watch his face as he momentarily closes his eyes, lips parting, lost in the sensation of the gyrating motions in his lap. Over his erection.
Unable to stand it, I grip the hem of my Iowa t-shirt, pulling it off so I’m on his lap in nothing but a wireless bra.
I know what he sees, what my body looks like—he’s not the only one who works out, and my breasts are pretty damn fantastic.
“Shit,” he mutters at the sight of me, gripping my hips tighter.
“Like what you see?”
He swallows, hips rocking beneath me. “Yeah.”
Then look your fill, Rhett Rabideaux.
Rhett
I don’t know where to put my hands after Laurel peels her shirt off and tosses it aside, but I sure as shit know where to look.
I can’t not stare; it’s impossible. Laurel’s perky tits are right fucking there, in my face, an erotic wet dream come to life.
She trails her fingertips along the straps of her lacy, see-through bra, up and down and back again, slowly tracing the edges near her nipples. Wiggles her ass on my lap.
Leans forward, long red hair brushing my chest.
My nerves are going fucking haywire, exploding, every touch shooting off a sensitive spark. My chest, her hair, skin, thighs.
My cock is ready to detonate.
I’m so fucking hard it’s like I can feel the blood draining from my brain and rushing to my throbbing dick.
At the sensation of her fantastic boobs rubbing against my pecs, back and forth and up and down, I swear I almost jizz my fucking pants.
“Touch me,” she whispers near my ear, licking the outer shell. Guides my hands back up her bare torso.
Wordlessly, my palms cover her breasts, over the pale lace, languidly tracing the delicate scraps her hands were covering, the pads of my trembling fingers running up the straps of her bra.
Yeah, that’s right—I’m goddamn trembling.
Dragging both straps down, I incline, and when I kiss the swell of her plump flesh, goose bumps form on her skin. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and I move it aside to kiss her neck. Kiss her throat, dragging my lips across her bare shoulder, two bra straps limping lifelessly down her triceps.
Until they fall down her arms.
I tenderly palm her boob, thumbs slowly brushing back and forth across her stiff nipples. Around and around her areola. Her head goes back, a strangled moan escaping her throat, filling the void in the car.
Laurel rotates her hips, grinding down on my dick while I cup her boobs. I can feel the slit inside her black leggings, the head of my dick seeking the heat I know must be primed as fuck. Slick.
“You’re going to make me come—God, you found my clit,” she says as she pants, her words drawn out like a whine. “I’m so close.”
Come. Clit. Close. Those three words, a heady aphrodisiac.
“Fuck, so am I.”
“I want you so bad.” I don’t know if she says it or if I do.
When I suck her tits into my mouth, one stiff nipple at a time, she grabs a fistful of my hair. Tugs. Bears down on my lap, dry humping the shit out of me.
My hands grab her ass cheeks, instinctively dragging her down harder. It feels so fucking good it’s almost agonizing. My brows furrow as if in pain as my arms wrap around her, holding her tight.
Our mouths fuse, one breath.
My balls tighten; her boobs feel like heaven in my mouth and against my bare chest and I want to fuck her, fuck the fucking shit right out of her, so bad my mouth waters at the thought.
Laurel sucks my earlobe when I tip my head back against the headrest, her labored breath fueling me on, hips thrusting upward, wanting to be inside her.
“Oh! Yes, yes, keep doing that…” comes her frantic whisper.
Another set of headlights eases up the rise, but we’re consumed with each other, one thing on our minds—coming.
“Mmm,” she groans into my mouth, riding my lap, mimicking sex I’ve only seen in Tumblr porn. Grabbing my hands and planting them back on her tits. “Mmm, yes.” Laurel hisses through her teeth. “Don’t stop touching me or I’ll die.”
It’s more than I can take.
The slow build inside my balls grows.
“Shit,” I growl. “Shit, shit.” I’m going to come in my shorts, something I’ve never done in my entire fucking life, because I’ve never had a hot girl grind on me, never even been alone in the same room with a hot girl before Laurel.
Ever.
“Are you coming?” she whimpers.
“Are you?”
“Yes, yes, don’t you dare stop.”
I couldn’t even if I wanted to, not for a million fuckin’ bucks, despite the imminent chafing happening inside my boxer briefs.
When we come, we shudder together, her arms sliding around my neck, warm lips finding the pulse in my throat. She nuzzles my shoulder, mouth resting below my ear.
“I like you.” Her fingers reach up, toying with a curl at the back of my head. “A lot.”
“Je vous aussi,” I murmur into her hair, stroking it with my palm, hand gliding down the smooth skin of her back. I like you, too.
And it scares the shit out of me.