Lady and the Champ (18 page)

“What are you doing?”

Oh God, his mouth. He sucks me into his wet warmth and bites down, his thick cock throbbing inside me.

“Sucking your beautiful tits.”

“Austin, oh my god. You’re going to make me scream.”

“Good.”

No. Not good. I slide my legs off him and push his chest. He stumbles back, the grin still stretched across his face. Then I sink to my knees and grab his rock-hard cock.

“Fuck!” Austin lets out a loud hiss as I wrap my lips around him. With him gliding in my mouth, I watch his eyes roll into his head. His breathing deepens, and when he opens his eyes again, his gaze is as hard as the cock between my lips.

“Babe, you’re fucking perfect.
Fuck
me.”

I pop him out of my mouth. “I
am
fucking you.”

He grins, but it’s a primal sort of smile. Then his fingers grind into my head, his hips pushing as I take him down my throat. I’m sucking his cock, nearly gagging myself in an attempt to get a reaction from him. His arm flings out, catching the railing as though for support.

“I can’t.”

He pulls out from my lips and reaches down with an inhuman growl. My arms are seized as he lifts me up. Then the world spins, and suddenly I’m bent over at the waist, grabbing the railing.

“Spread your legs.” He utters the command with a slap against my ass that cracks loudly across the lawn.

Then he sinks into me. My arms buckle as he fucks me hard enough to throw me over the edge if it weren’t for his hands yanking me back. He fucks me until I’m biting my tongue with the effort of keeping silent. My legs tremble and my pussy feels like it’s on fire.

All they have to do is look up, and they’ll see Austin Sherwood taking me from behind, my tits swinging back and forth.

I’ve never done anything like this before. Everything inside me winds tighter and tighter until I’m certain I’ll break…

…and then I do, into a million pieces that seem to scatter out into the wind. A strange noise comes from the back of my throat—

“What was that?” comes a voice from below.

“I don’t know. Maybe a bird?”

—before I can stop it, and then Austin makes a low grunt. His cock pulses and then he pounds hard as he releases a moan into my neck. I feet the hot jet of his cum filling my pussy as my walls clench around him, emptying him of every drop.

We’re both very still for several long seconds, Austin still inside me while I clutch the railing as hard as I can. I’m not so much afraid of falling as I am of just separating from him. I don’t even want to back a single step away. I just want his cock to stay there forever.

But finally he slips out of me. His hands are gentle on my waist as he turns me around, and then he gives me a soft kiss. We’re like two kids, laughing with the thrill of getting away with fucking in a public space.

“That was a Kodak moment,” he whispers.

I release a breathy laugh against his chest.

* * *

I
hate work parties
. Always have, always will. But I’m semi-obligated to attend this one. It’s sponsored by the football team as a thank-you to the therapists and the medical staff.

I
shouldn’t complain
; the food is good, the booze is free, and we get free run of the club level at the stadium. Even so, I try to keep to the corners, nibbling tiny cucumber sandwiches and sipping champagne. I don’t really want to run into Roger tonight. He’ll get drunk—he always does—and then God only knows what will come out of his mouth.

Somehow, I’m still not fired.

I’ve heard nothing through the grapevine about anything implicating me and Austin. That means Roger kept his trap shut. It puts me on edge the whole evening.

I manage to avoid Roger for most of the event, but after about an hour of making small talk with people I barely know and hiding from everyone else, I try to grab the same piece of cheese as Dr. Richards slides into view.

Dammit.

“Chloe!” he says brightly. “I was beginning to wonder if you were even here.”

“Oh, I’m here.” I smile, and I’m pretty sure it looks convincing. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“How are things going with Mr. Sherwood?”

I fucked him on his patio in front of a bunch of unaware paparazzi.

My mouth curls. “Just fine. He’s finally listening to me and following his regimen, so I think he’s got a chance of sorting himself out.”

“That’s good. Good.”

But there’s something a little off about him. Before I can think too much about it, he takes my elbow and steers me toward a quiet corner of the room. He’s got a mild frown between his eyebrows now, which is making me nervous.

“What’s up?” I ask him.

“I just wanted to ask you about something,” he says. “I was looking at one of the papers yesterday—the tabloids, you know. The ones with the unsubstantiated gossip.”

“I’m familiar,” I tell him dryly. What is he working up to? I haven’t been watching the papers, and I have a sudden, horrible fear that somebody’s managed to get a picture of Sherwood and me in flagrante delicto.

“Well, there were some pictures there of you and Mr. Sherwood.”

Oh God
.

“Pictures?” I repeat, trying to keep my face coolly neutral.

He gives a quick wave of one hand. “Just you and him going into a restaurant together, and one where it looked like you were chatting over your meal.” He pauses. “You’re not getting…involved with him, are you?”

“No, of course not.”
Not if you don’t count all the sex
. “I’ve just been keeping close tabs on him. If I let him out of my sight too long, next thing I know he’ll be suited up and out on the field. So I’ve been spending some social time with him, just to be sure he stays out of trouble.”

Dr. Richards nods sagely. “That seems like a pretty good idea. I’ve heard he’s difficult.”

“He’s making good progress,” I tell him with a smile. “I think I’ve got it under control.”

“That’s great.” He lifts his glass of champagne, and I tap mine against it.

He’s more than a little tipsy, so even if he doesn’t completely believe my story, he’s probably not going to be all that clear on what we even talked about by tomorrow morning.

We part ways and I head back into the shadows, hoping the worst is over. Everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves; I should give that a try, too.

Fuck. Roger.

He appears, reeking of alcohol and leering at me in a way that makes me want to find the showers and stand for about an hour under the hottest water I can tolerate.

“Hey, hotshot,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm and gin. “Having a good time?”

I give him a cool look, hoping an icy reception will convince him to peddle his papers elsewhere. Sadly, he’s too drunk to figure this out.

“Yep.”

“Probably weird being in the stadium with your clothes on, huh?” He honks a laugh, and I just stare at him.

“You need to leave,” I say, barely able to keep my voice level.

He laughs again. He sounds like a goose that broke into somebody’s liquor cabinet. It’s an even more obnoxious noise than that goose on TV in the insurance commercials.

“Don’t like hearing about the truth, huh?”

“I don’t like hearing you say lewd shit to me. Dr. Richards is here, you know. I bet he’d like to hear about how you think it’s okay to talk to me like that.”

This admonition just brings on another honking serenade of laughter. “Oh, I bet. I also bet Dr. Richards would like to hear about what you were up in the locker room with ‘Mr. Sherwood.’” He puts air quotes around Austin’s name for some reason, like it’s an alias Austin goes by or something.

“You mean when I treated him to take care of his injury?” He’s got my back up, and I’d like nothing more than to crush him like a bug. “Like I was hired to do?”

“Oh, what I saw had nothing to do with appropriate physical therapy treatment. How stupid do you think I am?”

“You don’t want me to answer that question.” My hand’s shaking on my champagne flute, and bile has risen in the back of my throat.

He crowds closer to me, his eyes flaring a little. He’s drunk, yes, but he’s also angry. I’m suddenly afraid, wondering how far he’ll go under these conditions. Austin’s not here to run interference for me, and the truth of the matter is, Roger did see something I’d rather he hadn’t. He hadn’t caught me with Austin’s head between my legs, but it was a damn close thing. And I don’t want him talking to Dr. Richards. The only positive thing I’m seeing in this conversation so far is the implication he hasn’t spoken to my boss yet. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

“Leave,” I tell him again, even more firmly this time, but he just bunches a little closer.

“I don’t think I want to,” he says. His grin has gone feral. “I’m not done talking.”

“You’re never done talking.” I glance from side to side, trying to scope out an escape route. There’s maybe one or two people watching us, but as soon as I make eye contact, they look away. Minding their own business, I suppose. For once I don’t think that’s a good thing.

Roger reaches up, his hand curling around the base of my throat. I flinch. What the fuck? Does he think he’s going to actually physically attack me in the middle of the party? He would, though. Especially as drunk as he is. I can feel my heart speeding up, the rapid tap-tap right behind the base of his index finger.

“I want an explanation.” His voice is quiet now, but tight, menacing.

What the fuck is he thinking?

“For what?”

“Why the fucking hell you’d spread your legs for that brainless jock and not look twice at me.”

I blink. My mouth starts moving before I can think about what it’s going to say. “The fact you’re threatening me physically in a corner at a party where we’re supposed to be having fun ought to give you about half a clue, asshole.”

His grin twists, half leer, half sneer. His hand lowers, as if he realizes on some level that he’s out of line. Beyond out of line. So far past inappropriate there’s not really a word for it.

“I’m just being friendly. In fact, I don’t want to threaten you at all. Let’s just make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Sure.” He gives an insincere shrug. “You don’t want me to talk to Dr. Richards, so how about this? We head over to that corner”—he indicates a dark area of the room with a nod—“I’ll drop my pants, and you suck my dick until I tell you to stop. Then I won’t tell Dr. Richards a damn thing.”

My hand tightens on the champagne flute, and before I can think, I toss its contents into his face. “Get your hands off me, you fucking piece of shit.”

He backs off, more surprised than cowed, and I take advantage of the opportunity to slip away from him and out into the rest of the crowd. I can feel people watching, but I avoid eye contact. All I want to do is get away.

I head for the opposite end of the party, grabbing more champagne on the way. I’ve finished the first glass before I pass another tray, so I exchange the empty flute for a new one.

Before I know it, I’ve downed four glasses, and I’m still moving rapidly and aimlessly through the crowd. I’m getting dizzy. I’m also so angry I can barely contain it.

Finally, I find my way to a door that leads out of the club area and into the rest of the stadium. I push my way through it, unnoticed, and head for the one place that feels like a refuge to me—the locker room.

There’s no one there, of course, and the lights are down. I slip in and immediately feel better. I’m used to this place. Austin spends time here—so much I almost think I can sort his smell out of the multiple threads of other scents, but of course that’s my imagination. I head for the training room.

It’s so quiet, especially compared to the party I just left. I stop for a few minutes just to catch my breath and settle my breathing, to let the heavy pounding of my heart slow. Here’s the tub where Austin kissed me; here’s the bench where he went down on me. There’s a tin of eyeblack on a shelf. I pick it up, wondering if it’s his. Sure enough, it has his number 22 written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the bottom of the tin. Austin uses this for every game, I think. He’s touched this a million times. He’s opened it and dipped his fingers into the black grease, spreading it on his face.

I open it. I’ve never seen eyeblack before. It just looks like black Vaseline. I dip a finger in it and sniff. It smells like Vaseline. Experimentally, I draw a line down my wrist. It looks harsh, dramatic against my pale skin.

An idea hits me. It’s probably the alcohol talking—okay, it’s definitely the alcohol talking—but I don’t care. I unbutton my blouse and undo my bra, then decide that’s not sufficient and just pull everything off. My nipples rise high and hard at the exposure. Digging my fingers into the eyeblack, I scoop out a generous portion and write across the tops of my tits. When I’m done, I pull my phone out and hold it up for a selfie. I can see myself framed on the screen—hair a little askew, bare skin smeared with eyeblack that forms the number 22—Austin’s number.

Perfect. My head’s still swimming a little, the champagne making me dizzy and wobbly. I smile into the camera and snap the picture.