SUTTON

 

 

Shane’s apartment isn’t what I thought it would be. It’s not as manly as I imagined. It’s softer. Homier. And so is he. For the first time, I can see him with a woman. I’ve never bothered to imagine it before because it doesn’t affect me, or I didn’t want it to, but now that I’m here where he lives, I can see it so clearly. I can imagine him bringing a girl home, offering her a drink, and making her feel comfortable with his warm smile and easy attitude. She’d grin at him. She’d flirt. He’d tell her she’s beautiful and she’d believe it. She’d feel it and she’d show him, following him to his bedroom. She’d giggle as he oafishly kicked off his shoes to strip away his pants. His underwear. Her inhibitions. His eyes would be like alcohol in her veins. She’d be drunk on him. She’d be naked and sprawled out on his California king, waiting for him and his huge body to be rough with her in the gentlest, sweetest way possible.

Would he whisper her name? Would he bite her neck in the tender place where her pulse runs wild with lust? Would she moan? Would she arch her back so her breasts are pressed against the never-ending plane of his chest that feels like a roof hovering over her; protecting her? Would he go slow? Would he go fast? Would he ask her how she likes it and give her what she needs? What she wants? Would he let her finish first before taking for himself? Would he kiss her slowly, savoring the taste of her ecstasy before driving in deep and bringing her to the brink for a second time?

“Sutton.”

I blink rapidly up at Shane. “Yeah?”

“You okay?” He sounds worried. His face is drawn with concern.

I wonder how many times he had to say my name to get my attention. It was definitely one too many to be normal. I shift nervously on the couch, pulling the blanket he gave me up high around my neck. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“Oh, that’s rude.”

“You look beautifully tired?”

I smile weakly. “That’s better.”

He grins as he hands me a glass filled with ice and bubbling liquid. “Ginger ale. It should help settle your stomach.”

“Thanks.”

I drink it because it tastes better than the flavor of my vomit, but it won’t help. He’s already made me drink two glasses of water because he’s convinced I threw up from dehydration or overexertion. That’s not my problem, though. It was my mother. Talking about her. Thinking about her. It brought up all the ugly I keep carefully tamped down inside me, and it had to go somewhere. It couldn’t stay inside so I threw it up on his feet and the artificial field that feels like a metaphor for my life. Fake. Fake. Fake.

Shane sits down gently on the other end of the long, gray couch. His apartment is huge. It’s very industrial with exposed plumbing and beams running across the ceiling. The floors are dark wood. The walls are painted a somber gray.

“I like your apartment.”

He glances around like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Thanks, but it’s not mine. It’s Colt’s. He owns the place upstairs too.”

“And the garage underneath?”

“Yep. Whole building. He usually rents this apartment out to tourists but when we found out the team was being moved, I sold my place. I jumped the gun. I thought it’d take longer to sell but it went in a month and I ended up homeless. He let me move in here until we leave L.A.”

I frown. “The team is moving?”

“Next year. This coming season will be our last in L.A. It’ll be the last for a lot of the guys too. Not everyone wants to go to Las Vegas.”

“It’s not that far away.”

“That’s what I figure. I don’t have anything holding me here. I might as well go and stay on the team I started out with.”

“Do a lot of players do that?”

“It’s rare. If you stay in long enough, you’ll get traded at least once.”

“Do you worry about that?”

“I try not to.”

“Do you worry about anything?”

Shane snorts a laugh. “Sure. I worry about a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Nothing right now.”

“Seriously?” I push aggressively. “You’re not worried about anything right now?”

“Not really.”

“That is goddamn amazing,” I whisper.

He laughs, full and intoxicating. I smile as I listen to it. “I just don’t see the point in worrying about what I can’t change. And right now, there’s nothing in my life I’d change, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

I still don’t get it. I can’t imagine a world where I didn’t worry. It sounds terrifyingly liberating. It makes my heart race to think about, like imagining you can fly. It’s invigorating and scary and so outside sane thought that you can’t really understand it. You can only dream and wonder. That’s what Shane looks like to me right then. Like a wonderful, terrifying dream.

It takes some coaxing, but I finally get Shane to plug the pen drive into his DVD player. We watch the first two episodes of last season’s DNA in quick succession, barely saying a word to one another. I doze off for a little bit about an hour in and wake up to find myself stretched out low on the couch. My head is on the armrest and my feet are in Shane’s lap. His hand rests absently on my ankles, his fingers slowly rubbing them through the thick fabric of the blanket.

It's almost too much. Part of me is screaming inside, telling me to sit up. To kick off his touch. I should go home and I should be alone, but I don’t want to do any of that. There’s another part of me, a quieter, scarier part, that’s comfortable here under the warmth of his blanket in his home with his hand on me. I feel oddly settled for the first time in a long time, and I’m not quite ready for that feeling to end.

When the second episode is over, Shane reaches for the remote with his free hand. He deftly changes the TV to a live channel. It’s ESPN.

“Nope,” I mumble from inside my cocoon.

His hand freezes on my ankles. “Shit, I thought you were asleep.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” I roll my hand at the screen. “Change it back. Next episode.”

“Just let me check the score.”

“To what?”

“The Mariners/Dodgers game.”

“Baseball, right?”

He casts me a disappointed look. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”

I smile. “Maybe.”

“You don’t follow sports at all, do you?”

“None of them.”

“Wow. Okay, yeah, it’s baseball.” He gestures to the screen. “The Mariners are Seattle. They’re playing the L.A. Dodgers. It’s a big match up for me because it’s my two teams.”

“Who would my team be?”

“No one because you don’t care.”

I kick at him gently, jostling his arm. “But what if I did? Who’s the New York team?”

“There are two of them. The Mets and the Yankees.”

“Okay… I pick the Yankees.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters, his eyes on the game.

I scowl at him. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Because the Yankees are baseball royalty.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Name one baseball player,” he challenges.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know any. I don’t watch.”

“Just name any player you can think of. Alive or dead. I’m sure you’ve heard names before in movies or on TV.”

I look up at the ceiling, thinking. “Um… Joe DiMaggio.”

“He played for the Yankees. Try again.”

“Babe Ruth.”

“Yankee. He played for Boston and Atlanta too, but his good years were with the Yankees.” He looks at me with an amused grin. “Go again.”

“I think I see where this is going.”

“Come on. One more.”

“Okay, fine,” I sigh. “Lou Gehrig.”

“Yankee.”

I drop my jaw, feigning shock. “What?!”

Shane laughs. His hand rubs my leg again, and I’m not sure he even realizes he’s doing it. He massages my calf gently, sending shivers down my spine. “That’s what I’m saying. The Yankees are the most famous baseball team out there. They’ve won a lot of pennants. And you love a winner.”

“I do,” I admit greedily. “They’re my favorite.”

“Then yes, the Yankees are your team.”

“Cool. Now turn the show back on.”

Shane laughs but he listens. He turns us back to DNA, immediately going to the last episode.

“What are you doing?” I protest. “We’re on episode three.”

“And we’ll watch episode three. But first I want to watch you win.”

I smile, stretching my legs out farther into his lap as I sink down deeper into the couch. He puts down the remote to massage my calf with both hands as the opening number begins.

“Is this bugging you?” he asks quietly, his eyes on the screen.

I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “No. It feels good.”

“You have a knot in this one.”

“I know. It’s been there all week. I’ll give you everything I own if you can work it out.”

He snickers. “Hell of an offer after telling me you’re broke.”

“I might not be rolling as deep as you but I’m a far cry from broke.”

“You mind if I put my hands under the blanket to get deeper into the muscle?”

“Do whatever you have to do.”

He puts his palms against my skin. They’re so hot it’s a shock. His touch makes the hair on my arms stand on end. I’m watching the TV but I’m hyper aware of his hands. He’s strong but gentle. He kneads the muscles in my legs with an expert touch, alternating between deep pressure and soothing strokes.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice so low I can hardly hear it.

I swallow roughly. “Yes.”

On the screen, Tina and her partner dive into a Paso Doble that will earn them some of the highest marks of the night.

Under the blanket, Shane’s hand drags along the back of my knee.

Inside my body, I start to burn.

He’s pushing boundaries. He’s doing it slowly, giving me plenty of time to complain, but I don’t. I can’t. His touch is everything I’ve wanted for weeks. I haven’t been able to shake the memory of kissing him in the rehearsal room. I think about it all the time. I’m thinking about it now as he moves his other hand up my calf, around the front of my knee, and between my thighs. His fingertips brush the tender skin that’s pressed together, asking permission.

I’m breathless when I give it. When I open my legs to let him in.

He doesn’t dive in right away. He takes his time exploring the ticklishness that lies just at the edge of my tight workout shorts. He teases me slowly. Painfully. I’m panting with need by the time he brushes one thick fingertip under the elastic material, pushing upward until he grazes the edge of my underwear.

We aren’t looking at each other. We’re staring at the screen, pretending to watch the show, but in reality we’re both between my legs. I’m with him as he tugs at the thin material of my underwear. We’re one when he drags his finger down the center of my body, making me gasp. Making me buck.

That’s his undoing and mine. We stop pretending to care about the television. Fuck the show. Fuck the whole competition. Fuck the world. Just, please, for the love of God, let him fuck me.

I toss the blanket aside as he sits up on his knees on the couch. There’s a fierceness in his eyes as he leans over me, replacing the warmth and weight of the blanket with his body. It makes me tremble with desire that feels like lightning in my veins.

His kiss is tender and slow. He takes his time with me, exploring my mouth, and I moan low in the back of my throat with a devilish delight at how thorough he is. We stay like that for five minutes or an hour or a day – I lose track of time and myself. At one point I’m gasping, ready for him to take it to the next level before I lose my mind, but the next minute I’m giggling as he runs his hand up my side, tickling my skin. He smiles against my mouth and I swear to God, I can taste it. It’s like icing on a cupcake I’d never eat in my wildest dreams, but I love the flavor of it. The easiness of him is something I can’t understand but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it.

I tug at his shirt, yanking it up over his head to find more of him. All of him. As I kiss him, he becomes everything I’ve ever denied myself rolled into one, massive package of joys. The ridges of his stomach that count out a perfect six. The thick tresses of his hair the slide smoothly through my fingers. The hard roll of muscle that builds the landscape on his back. The tattoos on his shoulders. The thick cords of strength in his neck. He’s candy and cake and soda. He’s birthdays and swimming pools in the summertime. He’s every kiss I never got as a girl. He’s the fun, flirty sex I’ve been too afraid to have as a woman. He’s big enough to be everything I want and need him to be, and he does it so effortlessly it hurts. It almost makes me angry how good he feels.

He mumbles something about a condom. He hesitates after he says it, waiting for me to complain or pump the brakes, but I don’t. I stare up at him silently, smoothing my hands over the warm skin on his chest that bristles with wiry black hair. He has a tattoo of a bear there. A Kodiak. I look into his inky eyes that stare back blankly, and I nod to Shane.

“Find one,” I whisper. “Hurry.”

Shane is a big guy, but he’s fast on his feet. He’s gone for maybe thirty seconds before he comes back with a condom in hand and a look in his eyes that asks me if I’m sure about this.

I answer by sitting up just long enough to pull off my shirt. Then my bra. I toss both at his feet but he doesn’t look. He doesn’t move as he watches me lay back, arching my back to slowly pull my shorts down my legs. When I’m naked and trembling from the cold, Shane undresses as well. He doesn’t go slow. He’s quick and efficient, bringing his body heat back to me as a kindness to us both.

I exhale slowly as he lowers himself over me. He feels bigger than he did before. He’s so much it’s scary, but all I have to do is look into his eyes to feel safe again. He’s gentle in his eyes. He holds me steady with them as his body presses against me everywhere.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, his voice strained. He’s holding back and he’s hoping like hell I don’t tell him no. But he’s asking because that’s what nice guys do. Just because I’ve never seen it before doesn’t mean it’s a myth.

I nod shakily, bracing my hands against his shoulders. They bulge against my palms; solid as stone. “Go slow,” I whisper fiercely.

He smiles at my nervousness. He knows exactly what I’m worried about and the smug asshole is flattered by it.

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

I’d laugh, but he’s too quick. He’s sliding inside me inch by agonizing inch, and I’m gasping. I’m dying. I’m flying and floating as he does something terrible and beautiful to me. I can’t catch my breath but he keeps his promise; he goes slow.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I gasp. My eyes are wide on his. I move my hands from his shoulders to his face where I can feel stubble pricking my palms.

“Tell me to stop if you need me to,” he grunts. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His words make my heart hurt. They make it swell to twice it’s size until I can feel it against the back of my throat, reaching for him.

Shane’s face contorts with determination. He lowers his head between his arms, letting it hang as he focuses on keeping pace. He’s almost all the way there. He has to be. It feels impossible for there to be much more of him. If there is, I’m not sure my body can take it.

I run my hands through his hair in a soothing pattern. “You can go faster, Shane.”

He shakes his head stubbornly. “Not yet.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“It doesn’t hurt that much. And I’m tough, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Then why are—”

“I’m about to come, Sutton,” he snaps.

My hands freeze in his hair. “Seriously?”

“You’re too goddamn tight,” he breathes. “It’s killing me.”

“Then just come.”

“No.”

I scratch my nails down the back of his neck and over his shoulders encouragingly. “I don’t mind.”

“I do,” he chuckles tightly. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve imagined this? I’ve been dying to get with you and now I’m going to lose my shit in the first minute.”

“What have you thought about?”

He raises his head to look down at me. The rest of his body is held tensely still. “What?”

“What have you imagined?” I run my hands down his chest slowly. It’s peppered with coarse, golden hair that tickles against my fingertips. I can’t stop touching him. I’ve felt him against my hands every day for weeks but now I can feel him literally everywhere and it’s like a drug. I’m drunk with it. “Were we like this?”

“No.”

“Where were we?”

Shane smiles. “On the stage.”

“The stage?” I laugh.

He winces. “Shit! Don’t laugh. You get tighter when you’re laughing.”

“Okay. Sorry. Were we alone or was everyone watching?”

“We were alone. I’d never be able to share you.”

My smile softens. “Did we dance?”

“Yeah.”

“And then?”

He shifts his weight on his arms, leaning forward just a little. “Then I kissed you.”

“Did I kiss you back?”

“Always.”

“How often do you imagine this?”

“Every damn day,” he admits huskily.

I lick my lips, pinching them between my teeth. “I have to.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Your Jeep.”

Shane smiles. His body lowers over mine a little further. A little deeper. “Night or day?”

“Night. It’s raining.”

“That’s so hot,” he moans.

“It is. We’re soaking wet and it’s hard to take our clothes off so we just work around them. You’re in the driver’s seat and I’m in your lap and I’m grinding on you slowly.”

“Is there music?”

“There’s always music with me, Shane.”

His eyes flutter as he starts to move again. In and out in a slow, easy rhythm that makes my heart give way. It floods my system, washing me in warmth that feels like the heat coming off his skin. Like we’re the same.

“You have your hands on my hips,” I whisper to him. “You’re guiding me, showing me how you like it.”

“How do I like it, Sutton?”

“You like it slow. And you like to look me in the eyes when you’re inside me.”

He’s looking down at me now with those blue eyes that always remind me of the sky, and I forget how to breathe. All I can do is feel. I feel him and the air and the heat rising in my core as my breaths and his strokes become shorter. Faster.

“I love your eyes,” he pants.

“I love your hands.”

He lays one on my chest; over my heart. He’s supporting his body on one arm but his tempo never falters. He’s a marvel of strength and tenderness that humbles me. It breaks me in two. His forehead falls against mine as he finally lets himself go and I sigh into the sweetest orgasm of my life. In that moment, I am new. I’m a meadow in the morning reborn under the rays of the sun. Baptized in drops of dew. Shane is my sky. He’s the clouds and the mountains and the rain on my fields. I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do as he holds me to him like I’m more precious than gold.

He lowers his body slowly onto mine, careful not to crush me. Leaning on his elbow, he uses his free hand to brush my hair away from my face.

“I’ll do better next time,” he vows with a self-deprecating smile.

I pull his hand to my lips, kissing his palm softly. “I’d love to see you try.”