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“Quarterback,” she answers too quickly.
I pause, stunned, as I hold a finger up. “Okay. First, I wasn't talking about football positions. And second,” I stall with my mouth open, shaking my head in disbelief, “you should've said running back because your boyfriend is a running back.”
“First,” she begins, circling around me like a hawk until she’s behind me, “you're not my boyfriend.” I shoot her a bratty glare over my shoulder.
“And second…” She walks around until she's directly in front of me again. Gripping the front of my shirt in her fists, she pulls me forward until our hips meet. Looking up at me, she says, “Any position that gets me to cum.”
Swallowing sand.
Can’t form words.
The statement makes my cock twitch in my pants as my mouth remains open, my eyes widening like she dropped me in the middle of the desert and her name is conveniently Lake.
She plants herself behind the machine again, waiting for me to make my move before muttering, “But if I'm being honest, I like the weight of you pinning me down.”
Visions of myself on top of her flood my brain. Her legs on my shoulders, her legs spread wide for me, her legs curled tightly around my lower back, pulling me deeper and deeper…
“You're up, Deck,” she says with a smirk, pulling me from my sex fantasies.
She knows how to play me. Fucking hot-ass, tart, little saucepot.
I make another tough catch to the chest and note how she admires my quick speed and agility. If I'd known better, I'd say seeing me in action is actually turning her on.
“Do you want kids someday?” I ask, breathing a little harder than before.
Her back straightens, tension in place as she stares at me.
“Haven't thought about it,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
Lie.
“Well, now that you've thought about it...do you want kids someday?” I push.
She releases an exacerbated sigh as her eyes dart nervously around me. “I don't know. Maybe.”
I cock my head, confused, as Dylan pushes past me to get back out onto the field for her catch.
It appears this little game is becoming more challenging than we thought. The questions are scraping the surface of the secrets we hold dear, and needless to say, it's getting uncomfortable.
I feed the football into the JUGS machine, tilting it a tad higher to make the catch more difficult. If she wants to play tough, I'll meet her game. It flies up and into the air with ease. She plants herself beneath the ball, clutching it firmly to her chest as it falls, like the chance to ask the next question is the key to eternal life.
“Not bad,” I admit with surprise as she approaches. “Practically better than Candy.”
“What's one part of your childhood you wish you could change?” she asks breathlessly.
Jesus. Going for the jugular.
“Wow. Okay, um…” I rub my forehead, wondering how deep to go.
There’s a lot to my childhood I wish I could change. I'd kill my father before he ever had the chance to lay hands on my mom. Before she had the chance to become strong and leave him. I'd focus more on helping make her life easier. I'd enjoy the simple things in life before abuse and illness took away the hope for our future. To pin it down to one point, one answer? Well, that's difficult.
Exhaling suddenly, I remember the first time it happened. I wouldn't eat my dinner. I was tired of sandwiches. Greasy peanut butter and expired crusted jelly on stale bread were getting old. Across the table from me he sat, a bottle of Jack in hand, glaring at me with a certain amusement to his contemptuous smile.
He was waiting for it. Wanting a reason to go off. He taunted me with his words, eliciting a response so he could strike. When he finally came around the table to hit me, I cowered. She threw herself in front of me, taking the blow. The blood from her nose splattered across the stale bread I was too stubborn to eat.
“I would've stood up for her sooner.”
She stands there with her soft eyes, absorbing my change in demeanor. Confusing thoughts circle us and it's making the air around me thick. Too thick. She's connecting pieces I don't necessarily need her to connect.
