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He shifts between my thighs, rubbing his torso over my naked pussy, making me gasp. “Stop lying about lying. And I told you: I like playing by myself and I don’t sleep much anyway.”
“Why not?”
Sighing, he warns, “Bronwyn.”
I widen my eyes. “Conrad.”
His grip flexes on my thighs again. “Do you need another pill?”
“No,” I reply just to be stubborn because he’s being that way.
He leans closer then, his palms moving even further up, his thumb super-duper close to the seam of my core. “I saw your pussy, Bronwyn. It is trashed. All dark pink and puffy. I saw the blood on my dick too, and on the sheets. That’s why I gave you the pill. Now, I want you to tell me if you need another pill or not.”
I do, I think.
But I’m not going to tell him that until he tells me his answer.
“I’ll tell you if I need another pill or not,” I say, lifting my chin, “if you answer my questions.” Then, pointing my finger at him, “Truthfully.”
He stares at me, almost belligerently, but I wait him out.
Then, “I don’t sleep much because the house is quiet. Too quiet. I’m used to… more noise. So as my brothers left one by one and then Callie left, my sleep went away too. And I’m not going to play with my students because it reminds me too much.”
“Of what?”
A big breath. “Of the past. Of how I used to play with my team. And I don’t like looking at the past.”
My heart twists then.
It twists and twists in my chest.
It squeezes and contracts and becomes half the size of a normal functioning heart. I don’t even think it beats. Not in the normal way at least.
It beats in a broken way, in an aching way.
For him.
And I feel a sting in my eyes. A great lump in my throat as I open my mouth to say something. I’m not sure what I could say though. What I could possibly say to him at this, but I don’t have to.
Because he gets there first.
And he gets there with a frown.
“Are you…” He studies my face with what I can only assume is confusion. “Are you crying?”
A tear falls down my cheek the moment he says it but still I shake my head. “No.”
His hands snap away from my thighs and cradle my cheeks. “Bronwyn. Stop fucking lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
Wiping the onslaught of tears off my cheeks, he says tightly, “And stop fucking crying.” He adds sternly, “Right now.”
I fist the neck of his t-shirt. “That’s not how you make someone stop crying, Conrad. You can’t yell at them.” I hiccup. “T-that’s not how it works.”
His face ripples with pain and an onslaught of emotions. Just like my onslaught of tears. And his forehead drops over mine, his fingers dragging, squeezing my cheeks as he rasps, “Bronwyn, please, all right? Stop crying. Just stop crying. Please, baby.”
I cry harder at his ‘baby.’
This is the moment he chooses to call me by something other than my full fucking name.
This.
When I’m already so emotional over him.
When I’m already so in love with him that I’m bursting at the seams.
I wind my arms around his neck and press my forehead into his. “I hate it, okay? I told you. I hate that you’re alone. I hate that you’re even playing alone like this. Remember what you told me? I’ll always be an artist no matter what. And you’ll always be a soccer player. Just because you’re a coach and you teach things now doesn’t mean that you’re aren’t a player anymore. You don’t have to go pro to find joy in it, to play with a team. You can still do that. You can still make new dreams and find new joy. I promise you. You can.”
He presses his mouth on mine then. To kiss me.
To kiss my tears and probably to shut down any other words I may have about this.
But I can’t not kiss him back.
I can’t not show him that I love him every chance I get. So I do.
I kiss him back with all the desperation, all the love inside of me.
And all the lust too.
Because as his mouth moves over mine, his hips slide against my pussy. My sore, beaten-up pussy blooms and creams and juices herself up for him.
Breaking the kiss, he pants against my mouth, “I know I trashed your pussy earlier. I know I beat her up but I —”
This time I cut him off with my kiss that he latches on to, hungrily, desperately, before I whisper, “Do it, please. Fuck me.”
In the dim lighting, his eyes appear bright and feverish. Frantic.
As frantic as his hands that go down to open the zipper of his jeans. I’m no slouch either. I tighten my thighs around him and arch my body. I even go so far as to drag my hand down and rub my pussy to spread the wetness around.
