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Now his palms are spanning the small of my back, touching the elastic waistband of my soccer shorts. I can feel the length of his dick pressed against the inside of my thigh, straining against his blue FC Kluvberg shorts. Rather than relief about his reaction, it makes me even more nervous. I don’t want to know kissing me while I most likely stink turns him on. He’s Adler Beck. He knows more models than a fashion designer.
“No. Doing this,” he says in a low, sexy rasp that further ignites the warmth spreading through my body.
I shiver when his hand slides to the front of my shorts. “I’m all sweaty.”
“I don’t give a fuck. So am I.”
“I’m not shoving a hand down your shorts.”
He grins. “I wouldn’t complain if you did.”
I snort. “I know you wouldn’t.”
His finger circles my clit through my cotton underwear. I bite my bottom lip to contain the moan that wants to escape, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“You’re the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
I taste the metal tang of blood, my teeth digging deeper than I realized. It’s not a line. My bullshit detector is excellent. And he’s not talking about how good I look leaning against a cinderblock wall. He’s not turned off by my dedication to soccer, not incredulous or annoyed by it the way other guys have been. I’m pretty sure he’s attracted to my commitment, not just that incessant training means I have a great ass.
It’s unexpected. If I’d had to guess, I would have said he went for women who stroke his ego. Who are in awe of him. Who would happily pop out however many kids he wants.
One finger pushes inside, then he stretches me with two. I exhale, instinctively rocking into his hand. My breathing quickens, desperate inhales matching the motion of my hips as I try to get even closer.
I didn’t lock the door. I’m not even sure if it has a lock.
Anyone could walk in and see us like this. See me riding Beck’s hand. If it was someone from Scholenberg—someone who knows who I am—then I know mutters of slut would join the murmurs of bitch that echo around the house. It would elevate him in everyone’s mind. The guy who can get any girl he wants, even a heartless, motivated one like me. And they’d look down on me, the girl who let a pretty face distract her.
Even the risk of those repercussions isn’t enough to douse the fire kindling inside of me. Beck has the type of presence you couldn’t forget you’re in if you tried. Being the sole recipient of his full attention is intoxicating. Beck’s focused on my face, noticing every shift as he fucks me with his fingers.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he says. His palm hits my clit, and this time I can’t stifle the moan.
Pretty sure the narration of my fantasies is going to have a German accent from now on. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to unhear the sound of Adler Beck swearing as he touches me, each syllable wrapped in layers of lust.
I’m not even touching him. I haven’t even touched him.
Heat is unfurling inside of me, spreading so quickly and thoroughly I couldn’t douse it even if I wanted to. It’s a natural, biological reaction, but I’m mentally focused the same way I was last time. I’m aware of—actively thinking about, actually—who is touching me. I’m not just enjoying the pleasure. I’m responding to him.
My thighs start quivering, the pressure building to a crest I know means explosion is imminent.
“Say my name.”
I’m in a haze, my eyes slow to meet the blue ones bearing into me.
His fingers stop moving, holding me right on the precipice as fire simmers low in my stomach. “Say my name, Saylor.”
I squirm, trying to force some friction. The hand that isn’t between my thighs lands next to my head, erasing the distance that was already basically nonexistent.
“Beck.” I spit his name out like I’m talking to a teammate.
He smirks. “You close?”
“I was.”
His grin only grows in response to the obvious irritation in my tone. But his fingers start moving again, and that’s quickly all I care about. I’m barely aware of the gibberish coming out of my mouth, but I know I’m saying his name a lot, and not in the annoyed way I did before. I come with a cry he covers with his mouth, kissing me as I squeeze the shit out of his fingers. My toes curl inside my sneakers as my entire body lights up.
I tell myself it’s this good because I scored a hat trick during practice. That it has nothing to do with him.
But I think it’s a lie.
