“So good, baby. You feel so good under me. So beautiful and perfect. Your big cock leaking all over your stomach for me. You love this, don’t you? Love when your man takes control of you. Love being a good fucking boy for me.”
“Elliot,” I whine, thrusting my hips to match the rhythm of his fist. He’s fucking amazing. I can barely manage to remember his name, and he’s out here dirty-talking me into oblivion like it’s nothing. Our balls brush against each other, my sac so fucking tight that just the whisper of his hair on my skin pushes me closer and closer to the edge.
“Go ahead, come for me. Come so fucking pretty for me Alex. Take me with you.”
Elliot is barely finished giving me permission when I blow, my orgasm crashing into me rough and brutal, stealing the air from lungs. My stomachbottoms out, the world turning technicolor as thick, sticky cum spurts from my cock and all over my chest. Elliot’s voice is a symphony of praise, telling me how good and perfect and hot I am as the pleasure continues to roll through me. When the first rope of his release hits my stomach, an aftershock rocks through my body and makes my toes curl. And when he finishes, he lays on top of me and kisses me senseless until neither of us can take the feeling of our cum drying between us any longer.
In the shower, I can’t help but stare at Elliot as he squeezes shampoo into his hands. He lathers it up, and then makes a motion for me to turn around so he can wash my hair. Scarlett watches us from her spot on the heated tile floor, still incensed that she was locked out of the room during sexy time.
I might be a cat lady now, but I’m not a “fuck in front of your cat”, lady.
“So, does this mean I’m your boyfriend?” I ask, tilting my head back so he can run his soapy fingers through it.
“I think so, Goat,” he chuckles. “Is that okay?”
“Hell yeah. I’m going to be the best boyfriend ever. I’m going to buy you flowers and rub your feet when they’re sore. I’m going to come to as many football games as I can, and I’m totally going to have all your babies.”
“I don’t think that's possible, Goat. Just like, biologically speaking.”
“Biology, shmiology. I’m not going to let a little thing like science stop me from trying.”
Elliot grabs my chin, angling my head so I can look back at him. Water sluices down his face, and he’s so painfully beautiful, I can hardly stand it.
“I love you, Alex. I love you exactly the way you are. I love us exactly the way we are.”
And when he kisses me, quick and gentle, I know that the best thing I ever did in my life was let my teammates drag me to that damn nightclub all those weeks ago.
Because now that I’m Elliot’s, I love us exactly the way we are, too.
24
ICING THE KICKER
Elliot
“Whose bright fucking idea was it to build an open-air stadium in fucking Chicago? This wind is goddamn criminal.”
At some point during the season, I learned to stop listening to Coach Mancini when he’s bitching about weather and wind conditions during games. He can mutter and mumble about the benefits of stadiums with roofs all he wants. I just focus on what I can control, and that is swinging a few practice kicks and getting my head on straight, because from where I’m standing, the fate of this game is resting on my shoulders.
The Redwoods ended our regular season with an 11-6 record. Not the best, but it gave us the chance toplay today in the Wildcard Round. If we win today, we get to go to the divisional round and keep our Big Game dreams alive for another week.
It’s the end of the fourth quarter, the score is 16-15 with Chicago in the lead, and at this point, there’s no telling which way this game is going to go. Part of me wishes we’d been able to get it together early on, or that Breaker pulls off some kind of Hail Mary miracle so that our playoff hopes weren’t dependent all on me and my ability to kick a field goal. But this is the first game of mine Alex has been able to make all season, and the macho, egotistical, peacock part of me is looking forward to showing off in front of my man. He and Mom are seated right in the end zone, both dressed head-to-toe in Redwoods red and gold and covered in face paint and glitter all over their cheeks.
After we made things official, Alex and Mom became the best of pals. She helped him work through the mental struggle of cutting off his parents, and the three of us spent Christmas at Mom’s place in Minnesota, where she and Alex drank a metric fuck ton of hot chocolate and took turns swapping embarrassing stories about me. I’m pretty sure Alex talks to my Mom more often than I do at this point, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love that thetwo people I love the most in the world care so much for each other.
And when Breaker and the offensive line fail to convert on third down at the forty-three yard line, a part of me really loves that I get to kick my field goal attempt directly in Mom and Alex’s direction.
Coach calls a timeout, leaving us with one left, and that thirty seconds gives special teams enough time to get coordinated out on the field. With only ten seconds left on the play clock, every breath counts.
I fucking love this part of football. When the seconds have ticked down and the need to manipulate the clock is almost—if not more important—than manipulating the ball.
We line up, and I take my last few moments of the timeout to visualize all the angles and feel which direction the ball needs to go. I can make a forty-three yard field goal in my sleep, but with everything on the line, I need to make sure all cylinders are firing.
The play clock starts back up, Lennon snaps the ball. It’s lined up in front of me, my foot connects, and I watch it soar straight through the middle of the uprights. I wait for the refs to signal that the kick was good and essentially end this game, but they don’t raise their hands.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Lennon calls out, and that’s when it hits me. The sound of whistles blowing just as I stepped forward to kick.
Chicago had one timeout left, and they called it before I could connect with the ball.
