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One step.
Two.
Three.
I hold my ground as he comes closer, setting my glass down on the nearest shelf once only inches remain. His body heat seeps through the thin satin I’m wearing.
“We should’ve played for something,” he tells me.
I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “Even though I won?”
Beck makes a sound in the back of his throat. A dissatisfied vibration I think means he’ll argue about the outcome. He shocks me by agreeing. “Even though you won.”
My lips curve up automatically. “So, what’s my prize?”
He presses me against a shelf, prompting loud clangs as the glass bottles shift in protest. And then he kisses me. I’m kissing Adler Beck. But it doesn’t feel like I’m kissing a soccer superstar. There’s no distance—literal or metaphorical—to view the body pressed against mine as belonging to a famous footballer.
I have two options right now, but I don’t want to stop kissing him, so that brings me down to one.
Beck’s domineering. Overwhelming. Clearly used to being the alpha. Just like during our shoot-out, I don’t let him.
We’re already careening down a decline at a thousand miles an hour, so I yank the brake stick and toss it out the figurative window. He tugs my hair; I slip my hands under his shirt to dig my nails into his back. He slides his hands up and under my dress; I struggle with the zipper of his pants. The entire time, our tongues duel for dominance.
Adler Beck may be German, but he’s mastered the French kiss.
He’s already hard, his cock straining against the boxer briefs he’s wearing. Our brief, clothed interactions have never given me the impression Beck is compensating for anything. I receive visual confirmation of that when I yank down the fabric covering his dick. He’s huge. I run my fingers along firm, hot skin, tracing the erection that’s jutting up between us. Beck groans.
We’re both breathing heavily, the only sound in the small room aside from the muffled activity on the other side of the door. I’ve done this many times before, and I’m sure Beck has too. But I wasn’t expecting it to happen here, tonight, with him. I’m sober aside from the beer I had hours ago and the one sip of gin, completely aware of what’s happening. Too aware. There’s an unfamiliar flurry low in my stomach that has nothing to do with lust.
Yes, I’m attracted to him. Partly because of his appearance and partly because I admire him as an athlete. Those were known variables. But I wasn’t expecting to feel nervous around him. To enjoy talking to him. To care what he thinks of me.
Fingertips brush against the wet spot in my lace thong, discovering I’m just as affected by him as he seems to be by me. The flimsy fabric gives way easily. I gasp, first in response to the unexpected sound—he ripped my underwear—and then as a reaction to the sudden invasion. I clench around his fingers, moaning when his palm hits my clit. It feels so good. So consuming, the burst of pleasure overwhelming all my other senses.
Beck groans again—this time deeper and throatier. Then he says something in German. Something I don’t understand, and that’s somehow hotter than any of the dirty talk I’ve heard in the past. It’s the first time the harsh language has sounded erotic.
Whatever expression is on my lust-addled face makes his eyes even more heated. They blaze like twin flames, the same way they did when we faced off on the field.
“Turn around,” he tells me, tugging a foil packet out of his pocket. I’m not the least bit surprised to learn he carries condoms around in his pocket.
I decided approximately two minutes ago I was going to fuck Adler Beck, and delaying that lost its appeal about ninety seconds ago. But I’m not going to make it that easy for him. I’m a competitor too.
I lounge back against the metal shelves, keeping my eyes on his face as he concentrates on ripping the wrapper and rolling the rubber over his erection.
“Maybe I’m a missionary girl.”
One raised eyebrow is the only reaction I get at first. Then his gaze rises to meet mine, the split second when our eyes connect hitting like a jolt to my heart. I don’t get starstruck easily and I’m hard to impress, so I can’t figure out my own reaction to him just looking at me.
“You’re at Scholenberg to learn new things.”
I snort, not sure what to make of the fact he knows I’m here attending the camp. Lucky guess? Did he research more than my stats? “You’re not going to teach me anything I haven’t already—fuck.”
I’m facing the shelves now, barely having time to register the blunt tip of his cock pressing against my pussy before he’s pushing inside.
“Fuck,” I repeat, as he bottoms out and then starts to thrust. It feels incredible, even better than his skilled fingers. I’m also stunned—a little impressed—that he managed to catch me off-guard. That he’s taking control and I’m sort of letting him.
The pressure in my pelvis is already building at a dizzying pace, my muscles tensing and shaking as he manages to hit that elusive spot every stroke. I have to grab on to the edge of the metal shelf to stay upright, scowling when I hear him chuckle. I grind back against him, meeting each rock of his hips, and that shuts him up fast.
His hands fall to my waist and his grip tightens, trying to regain control of the pace. Our bodies are weirdly in sync, adjusting in synchronized tandem. We’ve never done this before, but it feels like we have. Not in a tired, overdone way—in a best hook up of my life kind of way.
