Seduced by the Football Player Page 2

  With a muffled groan, he opens his mouth, his own tongue rushing out to meet mine, as he begins to explore the moist cavern.

  The sudden change in atmosphere affects him too, as his arms sweep around my body and he hungrily grasps my buttocks in his large, strong hands. He squeezes, using just the right amount of force to be on the good side of painful. Pulling me to him, I part my legs slightly. Desperate for relief, I press my mound against his hard, muscular thigh, groaning in pleasure as I grind against him.

  His fingers continue to mold the flesh of my ass, as his mouth clasps and unclasp over mine, his tongue diving in and out. I’m aware of the bulge that’s nudging my hip and I can feel it swelling.

  “Chris,” I gasp, pulling my lips free. I don’t know what else I want to say. I don’t know whether his name is an obscure plea for something.

  But he seems to interpret it as one. His hands quickly slide to my hips, where he grips me roughly and spins me around. Suddenly, I’m being propelled backwards the few paces towards the door. My spine lands with a hard bump that expels all the air from my lungs, as I meet the wooden panel.

  It’s only at this point that the reality of the situation sinks in. Am I really about to have a quickie in a poor excuse for a dressing room, with my high school crush? Is this how I’d dreamed about it, when I’d hoped he’d be the one to take my virginity? D

  Definitely not. But I’m a little older and a little wiser now. I know that sex isn’t always romantic. It’s not about candles or warm, clean beds and ‘I love you’.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, his breath shallow. His face is tilted down, his head resting on my forehead.

  Glancing up, I realize he must have sensed the change in my focus. He’s smiling at me, with just a hint of concern in his expression. “Yeah,” I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You want to stop?” he asks, unconvinced.

  Do I want to stop? That’s essentially what I’d been asking myself just moments before. And yet, when he asked it, my answer was sudden, blunt and incredibly simple. “No,” I said shaking my head, as my hand reached for his groin.

  “O…” he begins to say, but stumbles, as my fingers cup the denim clad swelling. “Okay,” he manages breathlessly, recovering himself.

  It’s immediately obvious that he’s big. Really big. And it briefly occurs to me that perhaps it’s a good thing he wasn’t the one to deflower me. I rub my fingers over the bulge, pressing my palm against the seam of his jeans.

  His hands rest on the door by my side and his eyes drift closed momentarily, as he seems to allow himself to enjoy the sensation. However, it doesn’t last long. Soon, he’s eyes are once again open and peering down, as his hands grip the edge of my red dress and begin to bunch it up around my waist.

  A lacy pair of black panties are revealed to him, and he leisurely runs his finger across the waistband before the whole of his right hand smoothes down over my mound and possessively cups the juncture between my legs. His fingers move expertly, pushing the lace of my underwear between my folds, as the pad of his thumb instantly finds my clitoris and moves in small circles.

  “God, you’re wet,” he says through gritted teeth.

  In other circumstances, my obvious arousal and the wanton way I was widening my stance, begging for more, would have made me feel ashamed. However, there is no embarrassment here. I feel no shame in groaning for more. I’ve spent the last eight years fantasizing about this moment.

  A small adjustment of his fingers and my panties are pushed aside and he is giving me more. His middle finger runs between my damp outer lips, before sliding with ease into my passage. He moves purposefully, probing deeper and stroking my slick inner walls.

  “Yes,” I hiss, my fingers suddenly feeling lethargic and dropping away from his groin.

  His quick reflexes come into force again, as his free hand swiftly moves to grab my wayward fingers. Insistently, he pushes me back to his neglected member.

  I know that I won’t be able to focus, while he’s doing wonderful things with his finger and thumb. So, I shift my hand slightly, one-handedly unclasping the thick leather belt, before pulling his zipper down. As he slips a second finger inside me, a moaned, “Oh, God,” escapes my lips, and I hasten my efforts to remove his pants.

  With both hands now on the case, I manage to slip the brass button through its aperture and then I’m tugging the fabric over his hips.

  His fingers plunge deeper and he spreads them in a scissor action, causing slight discomfort and I buck against him. “Oh,” I mutter. However, as my eyes land on the bright, white briefs he wears, which are distorted to the fabric’s limit by his rigid manhood, I realize he’s helping to prepare my body for him.

  The problem is I’m not sure I can wait. Tugging his jeans and briefs down to his hips, I let gravity take them down his thighs where they come to rest. His huge manhood springs free from the cotton and he moans in relief. The shaft, which is easily close to nine inches in length, is jutting proudly up to the ceiling.

  Gripping the wrist between my legs, I coax him from me. “I want you,” I pant. Once his hand is clear, I place my own hand between my thighs, covering the fingers with my arousal, before wrapping those digits around his warm, throbbing cock. I move slowly over it, carefully tracing the thick vein with my thumb.

  “Oh, Jasmine,” he moans, as I rub my thumb across his tip. His hands are now at my hips, fumbling with shaky fingers to remove my panties. Within seconds, the frustration becomes too much and he simply wrenches the waistband in opposite directions, ripping the fabric.

  The underwear is new and it was expensive, but I couldn’t care less. Instead, I’m easing his hardness down to me.

  Chris bends at the knees and, as he does so, I automatically wrap my right leg around his hip. Instantly, I can feel his enormous cock prodding at my entrance; stretching me.

  “Ready?” he pants, his cheek pressed next to mine, his lips near my ear.

  “Yes,” I gasp in return.

  And he’s moving. Slowly, he’s inching his way deeper.

  I close my eyes, and my mouth falls open. “Ohh…,” I moan, as he seems to have filled me. But, as I force my eyes open and peer down, I realize he’s only two thirds of the way in.

  “Okay,” he asks, his voice strained, and I can tell he’s exerting amazing restraint.

  “Yes,” I cry. “Don’t stop.” I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to take him. I don’t know whether it’ll leave my walking strangely for the rest of my life. But I want him all the same. “Don’t stop,” I repeat.

  He moves again, now his actions are jerky, no longer able to exercise the same self-control he’d begun with.

  “Ahh,” I squeal, feeling my muscles flutter, as my passage widens and lengthens.

  “Oh, God,” he finally grunts. This time I know he’s fully inside me, because I can feel the base of his shaft and his short dark hairs rubbing against my sex. “Jasmine,” he says breathlessly. “Christ, you feel good.”

  “You’re so big,” I almost scream in reply. The line between pleasure and pain so blurred now I’m not sure I can tell the difference. “So fucking hard,” I mumble, meaninglessly.

  He jerks; an unconscious movement, as the desire to thrust builds.

  “Fuck me,” I pant, rubbing myself against him, in an attempt to increase the pressure between his pelvic bone and my clit.

  My words have the desired effect and he pulls back sharply, before pushing slowly forwards, exhaling a long breath as he does so.

  “Oh, yes,” I sigh, as I feel his engorged head bump gently into my cervix. “Harder,” I moan.

  Again, he pulls himself back; an easy movement. This time, his thrust is much more forceful, as he quickly plunges into my depths.

  “Ah, shit,” I scream. “More,” I quickly add, ensuring that he knows the sensation is good.

  I’m not sure he would be able to stop or temper himself now anyway. He’s beginning to set a rhythm. His withdrawal always ste
ady and smooth, while his drives forward are gradually increasing in speed and ferocity. Every thrust is accompanied by a masculine grunt of force. Each time he buries himself within me, my back slides up the door and bolts of electricity course through my clit and buzz throughout my entire body.

  “Fuck yeah,” he groans, stepping up his tempo once more. “So good.”

  I yelp wordlessly, air pushed up from my lungs with each of his powerful thrusts. I can feel myself spiralling higher, the knot in my stomach is beginning to tighten and I hold my breath waiting for the release.

  It happens unexpectedly; much more quickly than I’d anticipated. Spots are dancing in front of my eyelids, as my mouth falls open and a nonsense stream of cries comes forth.

  Chris holds himself deep within me, waiting for the clenching of my muscles to cease. As I slowly come back to my senses, I realize he’s moving again. Another hard, fast, brutal thrust and then a second. And then his lower half is shuddering in short, sharp spasms, as his rigid shaft lengthens and violent jerks of hot fluid are expelled.

  My arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, as my pulse beats hard against my eardrums. He makes a few lazy circles with his hips, and I feel some of our mingled warmth trickle from my entrance and down my thigh.

  I jump violently, as a knock hammers on the door at my back.

  “Mr. Hays,” a male voice calls. “We need you for a group shot.”

  “Alright, just a minute,” Chris replies, his voice calm and strong. “Sorry about this,” he mutters, as he slips wetly from me and steps back. “I don’t want to leave like this,” he continues pulling up his underwear and jeans in one smooth move. “Will you stay here?” he asks, looking up, as he fastens his belt.

  “Stay?” I ask, my voice decidedly shaky. I’m still leaning against the door, with my dress around my waist, my lower half completely naked to his view. I’m aware of these facts, but can’t quite find the energy to leave the security of the door.

  “Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he quickly states. “But, you’ll leave your number, okay?”

  Too brain fogged to really process what’s happening, I’m slow to pick up on the theme here. He wants to see me again. “Err,” I mutter, forcing myself straight and quickly acquiring some dignity, by rearranging my clothing. “Sure.”

  “Great,” he smiles. “If I don’t see you, I’ll call you,” he adds, stepping past me, but pausing just long enough to press his mouth to mine.

  Still punch drunk, I simply watch him leave. “Yeah,” I eventually say to the empty room. “Yeah, that’d be good.” Things have definitely changed since high school, I think to myself, as my wobbly legs manage to transport me to the couch.

  Chapter Four

  The office is always noisy, but this morning, it’s particularly so. The drone of conversation is muddling my head and the cackle of Penny’s laughter three desks away is slicing through my brain like a six-inch carving knife.

  I didn’t think I’d had that much to drink the night before. Sure, I’d had enough to loosen me up, but I’d been completely in control…hadn’t I? The hangover I’m sporting seems to suggest not. And, in the cold light of day, I realize I made two horrible mistakes.

  The first had been allowing Chris to take me from the safety of the very public ballroom. I should have known, and on some level probably did know, that all roads from there led to sex. Incredibly good sex, but that’s beside the point. My second mistake had been to leave him my phone number.

  At first, I thought the request had been a formality; a line he used with the countless women he had meaningless flings with. Why I then took it upon myself to leave my card on the tiny coffee table, I cannot begin to fathom. That, along with the fact that I didn’t stop to think about protection, even though I know he has a reputation for getting around, remain mysteries to me.

  I’d like to be able to blame the alcohol, to absolve myself of partial blame. However, I know those three or four glasses of tepid champagne had very little to do with it.

  No, it was hormones; rampant, raging hormones, that had thrown all caution to the wind.

  My head wearily droops into my palms. Without moving my face, my eyes wander to the left, where my iphone sits. Three missed calls. So much for the request for my number being for appearances.

  But, why? Why did he want to talk to me? Surely, he’d got everything he wanted from me?

  “Jasmine,” a female voice from behind me called.

  Spinning in my seat with a speed I immediately regret, I turn to face Jan, my editor.

  “Yes,” I reply, wincing.

  “Can I talk to you for a moment?” the pant-suited redhead asks, as she gestures towards her office.

  “Sure,” I nod as enthusiastically as I can muster, while I slowly push myself to my feet. Following the harsh clip of her high heels on the shiny floor, I make my slightly less than graceful way to the corner of the bullpen.

  Every part of my body feels heavy and sluggish, how much of that is the effects of alcohol and how much is self-loathing, I cannot say. I know there’s a large amount of self-hatred bubbling beneath the surface. At the moment, it’s taking a backseat to the headache and feelings of nausea.

  How could I have been so stupid? My long-running obsession with him, the fact that he was the first man I ever felt any kind of sexual attraction to, is no excuse. I am no longer a hormone-addled adolescent. No, apparently, I’m a hormone-addled twenty-three-year-old.

  “Take a seat, Jasmine,” Jan offers, bringing me back to the present.

  I gratefully do as she asks, sinking inelegantly into the high-backed leather chair opposite her desk.

  “I need to speak with you about the Panther Sports piece,” she continues, sauntering around the table and slipping into her own seat.

  “Oh,” I reply uselessly.

  “It’s a little….” she pauses, her face creasing as she tries to find the right adjective. “Thin,” she eventually plumps for.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly the burning of Rome,” I grumble in reply, crossing my legs, as I try not to dwell on last night. “Truth is, the press event was extremely boring.” I shrugged. “Not much to write about really.”

  She allows the merest hint of a smile. “I realize that,” she relents, her eyes lifting to mine. “But we’re not exactly the New York Times, either,” she adds.

  I lift one shoulder half-heartedly. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I sigh. “The night was very dull. I’ve given you descriptions of the new sportswear they were launching, but there wasn’t much more I could say.”

  “Didn’t you get a one-on-one with any of the stars they had attending the event?” she persists.

  I felt my face flush, as I immediately relived the one-on-one I’d had. “I…umm,” I stammer. If I say, ‘no’, she’s going to counter it with ‘why?’

  If I say, ‘yes’, she’s going to expect some copy on the interview. The interview is non-existent, and the answer to ‘why?’ would be, ‘because I was too busy having the best sex of my life.’ In short, whatever I say to her, I’m screwed. “I…” I continue to babble.

  Then, fate smiles on me. A light tap on the door saves me from further aborted efforts to speak.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Jan,” Johnny, one of the young interns, states, pushing his upper body through the open doorway. “There’s someone here to see you, Jasmine.”

  “Me?” I blurt in confusion, once again regretting the sudden movement, as I twist in my seat,

  “Yeah,” he confirms, running his right hand through the slightly too long bangs that rest on his forehead and fall into his eyes. “Chris Hays,” he adds. “Says he has an appointment with you.”

  “Huh?” is all I can manage.

  “Oh, good,” Jan says. Although I’m no longer facing her, the tone of her voice, tells me that she’s beaming. “So you did get a one-on-one,” she continues, excitedly. “Well, it’s very good of Mr. Hays to come all the way down here.”

>   “Yeah,” I nod numbly, trying to force a weak smile on my lips. It doesn’t work.

  Chapter Five

  I lead Chris through to one of the large conference rooms. It has an oval shaped glass table in the center, with eight chairs spaced around it. On the far wall, there’s a 40 inch LED flat screen, which currently displays the newspaper’s logo written in bold red.

  Other than a buttock-clenching awkward, ’Hi’, when I saw him standing patiently by my desk, I haven’t managed to say a word to him. He’s remained silent, too. However, casting surreptitious glances at him, I see him smile warmly, clearly not suffering from any similar embarrassment.

  “Take a seat,” I suggest, watching his broad, strong back, as I close the door quietly behind us.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs, not bothering to actually place himself in a chair and settling for perching on the edge of the table.

  My eyes immediately dart to his thick, muscular thigh as it’s pressed against the fabric of his charcoal gray tracksuit pants. But his hand is soon obscuring my view.

  “I take it your editor assumes I’m here for an interview,” he comments casually, as one sneakered foot swings back and forth.

  Avoiding his gaze, as I make my way further into the room and take a seat approximately opposite him, I reply, “Yeah, we were just discussing the Nike launch and she mentioned that my article needed something more.”

  “So, when I turned up, she assumed I was the something more?” he asks, with a hint of a smirk.

  “Something like that,” I shrug.

  “Is that why you haven’t been answering my calls? Was it just a ruse to get me to come down here?”

  “No,” I quickly assure him.

  “Then why haven’t you been answering my calls?” he counters, the smile vanishing from his face, as he regards me closely.

  Feeling like a bug under a microscope, I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat. What is it they say? The best defense is offense.

  “Why have you been trying to call me?” I challenge, folding my arms beneath my bosom and leaning back in my chair. “I mean, surely you get everything you want from me last night?”