Screw it.
With one last glance, I crawled onto the bed and shoved my hand down my panties, barely suppressing a groan of relief as I started working myself against my hand. I pictured Kane, back on his knees in front of me, but in this fantasy, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he hooked my knee over his shoulder and kept eye contact as he trailed kisses up the inside of my thigh. My chest heaved and I worked myself faster as I imagined him extending his tongue and licking up the length of the crease between my leg and my pussy. He growled, and the sound was so loud, it felt like he was in the bedroom with me. In my mind’s eye, I reached out and fisted his hair, guiding him, showing him exactly — “Kane,” I breathed.
“Darcy.” My eyes flew open at the choked sound of my name, and there he was. Standing in the doorway, his eyes fixated on where my hand shamelessly continued to work, building me higher, even as I tried to convince myself to stop.
“Keep going,” he murmured, his knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe. “Don’t stop, Darcy. I want to watch while you make yourself come. Please.”
It was the please that did it. My mind conjured up an image of Kane making the same demand from on his knees and I shattered. My spine arched as my hips worked my core harder on my hand, the knowledge that Kane was there making the orgasm stretch out beyond anything I was used to. He groaned my name and I flicked my eyes toward the door. His face appeared tortured as he squeezed the huge bulge in the front of his wet jeans. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, his voice soft, full of something I didn’t want to look too closely at in my state of post-orgasmic bliss. I smiled at him, my whole body feeling lighter. No wonder people swore by sex as a form of stress relief.
There was also a small part of me that took pleasure in knowing Kane hadn’t come. He could deal with the blue balls. That probably made me a bitch, scratch the probably, but I didn’t care.
After a long moment of watching each other, Kane huffed a laugh and raised an eyebrow at me. “Coffee time?”
I grinned and rolled my loose limbs toward the edge of the bed. “I’ll get dressed and meet you in the kitchen.”
He saluted and backed away from the door. “Oh, and if you get distracted again, please feel free to call me back. I’m happy to help.”
I rolled my eyes, embarrassment starting to creep in as he walked away with a chuckle. What was he doing to me? And why did I like it?
* * *
Kane hungaround for another couple of hours, making breakfast and another pot of coffee before he had to head out for swim practice.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a genuine look of sadness. “I’ll drop back in after practice to check on you. Do you need me to bring anything?” I shook my head with a smile and waved goodbye from the sofa as he double-checked my front door was locked before leaving. After lounging around for a while, I decided I should try to make a start on a story that I couldn’t decide on an angle for. Kane had been nothing but kind and attentive since I came back into his orbit. Much like the boy I had known, but maybe with a little more potential for self-awareness? I had seen nothing of the womanizing he was infamous for, and whether it was because Coach had forced him to clean up his act for trials, or specifically because of me, I couldn’t be sure. What I did know was that I couldn’t report on behavior that I hadn’t witnessed, no matter what our history was. No matter how much he had destroyed me the first time around.
Shaking myself out of the funk I could feel building, I resolved to call in to work and report on progress. Maybe Mr. Fagan had a preference for a story angle.
“Rowsthorn,” he greeted in his usual brusque way as my call connected.
“Hi, Mr. Fagan. I wanted to get your input for the article I’m writing on Bryson. There are a few angles I could take, but I want the story to pop.” I laid out his stats and history, and what I could remember of his current workout plan. When I began reporting on the meet and greet from the night before, he interrupted. “How did you get in there? That’s supposed to be a no press zone.” I shrugged, unsure what to say. Then again, I was a reporter first and foremost, right?
“He’s agreed to give me full access in return for me playing the part of his girlfriend to help his image. Thus the article from the other week. It’s harmless, and it definitely helps me get an idea of the kind of athlete he is. It’s purely professional.” I studiously ignored everything that had happened earlier in the day as I tried to reassure myself as much as my employer. Mr. Fagan hummed and the line went quiet for an extended period of time. “Why don’t you work the fake girlfriend angle. It’ll make a hell of a story and people will love it.”
I shifted my feet underneath me, regretting sharing that detail already. “I don’t think it’s really all that relevant. I’m supposed to be reporting on the sports, not on how he’s cleaning up his image.”
“Report on what will sell papers, Rowsthorn. If you have a better angle, use it, but I want something more than a love letter to your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. I’ll get you a story, but it will be about the sport, not the man’s personal life.”
I could feel a flush working its way up my neck and I took a calming breath. Nothing good would come from yelling at my employer in defense of someone I had just insisted was not my boyfriend. An image of Kane standing at my bedroom door this morning, watching me fall apart under my own fingers, flashed in my mind, and I had to clear my throat as my body temperature rose a couple more degrees.
A grunt came down the phone line, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Just have something I can use on my desk within the next week.”
I opened my mouth to reassure him, only to realize the connection had been cut. Men. With a deep sigh, I dragged myself off the sofa in search of my laptop.
It was time to write.
Kane
Focus.
Breathe.
Succeed.
I swung my arms back and forth, bouncing on the balls of my feet behind the starting blocks, waiting to be called up for my heat. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t help glancing toward the bleachers.
