Chapter 34 Otto
OTTO
“Idon’t know.”
My fingers press harder into her hip. I hate that I said that to her.
“I don’t know.”
I graze her clit with my teeth, then flick it with my tongue. I hate that she said it back to me.
“I don’t know.”
I push one finger inside her quivering cunt, then add a second.
Claire gasps. Moans. Begs me for more.
She’s not pretending right now—I know that for sure. Just like I remember everything she loves most, and I am making sure to remind her how I acquired that information. I press a palm to her stomach, feeling her abdominal muscles bunch and flex as she squirms beneath me.
She’s close. Her cheeks are flushed. Her breathing is choppy. Her thighs are trembling.
I feel like a fucking god, registering her reaction to me. Claire has a hard time relinquishing control. That she’s handing it over to me so willingly feels like a gift.
Attraction is one thing. Want involves action. Includes a level of trust I worried might have been permanently destroyed between us.
I stop teasing her. Eat her out in earnest, biting and sucking and swirling and consuming, until she flies over the edge. My erection passed the point of painful a while ago. It was fucking aching long before Claire started moaning like this, but the erotic soundtrack is really not helping.
She goes still, so I sit up and slump against the cushions. Adjusting myself doesn’t help much. Not while Claire is naked from the waist down a foot away, her pussy pink and wet and puffy from my mouth.
Claire slowly sits up, breathing heavily. “That was…” Her voice trails. She’s blushing, eyes on the bulge in my pants. Her gaze moves higher, over my chest, and lingers on my right shoulder.
Claire leans closer. I catch a whiff of the shampoo she uses in her hair, the one that was in her bathroom at the Village and also in her LA hotel room, mixed with the smell of sex as she flicks open a few buttons of the dress shirt I wore to dinner.
She tugs it aside, staring at the two incisions on my shoulder.
Neither’s that long. The surgeon explained the entire process to me, but I was too stressed and scared, frankly, to pay close attention to the details of the procedure.
They were as noninvasive as possible, wanting to minimize the scar tissue.
Will, who went to the appointment with me, said the surgeon was probably more nervous to operate on me than I was to be operated on, which wasn’t super reassuring. Beck said he seemed like an FC Ludlin—Kluvberg’s biggest rival—fan, so I’d be fine.
Her thumb slowly traces the lower line, then the higher one. The incisions are fully healed, but the knit skin is paler and more sensitive. I fight a shiver in response to the light brush.
“Do they hurt?” she whispers.
“Not anymore.”
Claire’s hand moves again, following the row of buttons down the center of my chest.
I’m barely breathing, silently praying this is headed where I hope it is.
“What about this?”
She palms me through the pants I’m wearing, and I swear I could come from this alone. I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I got injured, and the fact that this is Claire touching me? I’m going to have to jerk off after she leaves at the very least.
“Does this hurt?”
I laugh, but it comes out as more of a pained gasp. “Claire.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” She sounds smug, sliding off the couch and kneeling in front of me. “I’m not a doctor, but I could try to help?” Her fingers trail back and forth, teasing, and I can’t focus on anything else. “If you want me to?”
“Ja. Yes. Yes, Claire.”
She smirks as she spreads my thighs with her hands, settling between them. She holds eye contact as she unbuttons and unzips and tugs.
Fuck me. This is actually happening.
My cock appears, fully hard and leaking pre-cum.
Claire looks down. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip, and I can’t restrain the groan that spills out as she stares at my erection.
“You still wear the same brand of boxers.” She seems amused by that as she pulls my pants the rest of the way down.
“They send me free ones,” I croak.
Claire giggles—a light, happy laugh that causes a different sort of seizure in my chest—and then finally fists me.
I grunt, battling the urge to thrust in her hand.
“Not so fun, being teased, huh?”
“You loved it,” I manage between heavy breaths.
“Yeah, I did.” She circles the rim of the leaking tip with her tongue, then traces the pulsing vein that runs the length of my shaft.
And then, finally, she sucks me into her mouth.
I sit back and watch, letting her decide it all. The pace, the depth, to do this.
I’m well aware this resolves very little between us. That getting each other off doesn’t decide anything about the future. It’s a relief though to touch her. To have her touch me. To acknowledge that we want each other.
She licks a straight line along the length of my dick.
I curse loudly, not caring if the whole building hears.
I doubt any blood is reaching my hands—I’m clenching them so tight.
Her mouth is perfect—slick and smooth and hot—tongue rubbing the underside as she sucks me deep.
The tip is brushing against the back of her throat, and I can’t think straight anymore. Can’t think at all actually.
There’s a distinctive tug in my groin that tells me I’m close to coming.
“Claire, I—I am close.”
Rather than pull away, she sucks harder, her nails leaving crescent marks on my thighs.
“Make sure you swallow it all, Boston.”
Claire moans, the vibration sending me over the edge. I come so hard that my vision blurs, heat streaking down my spine as my groin muscles contract, filling her mouth.
She does swallow it all, then reaches for her jeans like she didn’t just destroy me. She avoids eye contact as she pulls them on slowly, stuttering a half step as she stands. If not for her flushed cheeks and swollen lips and tangled curls, I’d think what happened was a fantasy in my head.
I’m hit with another wave of déjà vu. “Claire…”
“Don’t. Just…don’t. I have to go. It’s late, and I’m—you were right. I’ve been pretending. And I have to show up for practice tomorrow and keep pretending, so just…let me.”
I nod, yanking my boxers back up.
I shouldn’t have let it go that far. I want Claire to take my feelings for her seriously, more than I wanted that blow job, and I’m worried what happened gave her the opposite impression.
Like I’m still that horny twenty-three-year-old who fucked her every chance he got.
I mutter a chastisement to myself, then stand too.
“Don’t do that.”
I glance at Claire. “Stand?”
“Blame yourself. I wanted it too. I kissed you first. Don’t say you messed up.”
I blink at her, slow to comprehend. “You speak German?”
She flushes, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Not really. I just know more than I used to.”
“How much more?”
Claire bites her lip. “One of my mom’s doctors… I asked if there was anything preventative I could be doing. Studies have shown that learning a new language can strengthen the brain’s neural networks and prevent cognitive decline.”
“So, you learned it with her?”
“I…I learned it for me. Mom wasn’t able—it was already too late.”
I frown. “What do you mean, you learned it for you?”
Based on Claire’s expression, it’s a question she wishes I hadn’t asked.
“Dementia can have a hereditary component,” she says quietly. “Certain genes can increase the risk. My grandmother was older, but she developed it too.”
“Your genes?”
I’m stunned—paralyzed—by the possibility of her having to go through that. I got a call that my grandfather needed major surgery, and I was fine. Worried, but fine. Functioning.
Yet I suddenly can’t breathe, imagining Claire being sick in any way. It’s the awful moment of her hitting the ground, before knowing she was okay, all over again.
“I don’t know all the details. There are certain tests they can do, but I decided I don’t want to know. There’s no cure. Nothing they can do either way. Figured another language would be a fun challenge.” Her voice has changed, injected with fake cheerfulness.
She doesn’t want to discuss this anymore, I can tell.
I’m still reeling.
I don’t just care about Claire; I’m in love with her.
I think I knew when she went down on the field, but it was washed away with the relief of her being fine.
I didn’t have to confront the possibility that she wouldn’t be.
Didn’t have to consider what it would be like to live in a world where she didn’t also exist.
Loss has a devastating way of putting things in perspective. I appreciated football all over again as soon as I found out I could be done. I discovered what being in love felt like by losing it.
And I’m about to lose it again.
Claire’s finished fixing her appearance. She’s grabbing her phone and bag, setting her water glass down by the sink. Heading for the door.
I trail after her like a lost puppy. “Why German?” I finally ask.
She stiffens, reaching for the door handle, so I know she heard me.
But all she says before leaving is, “Bye, Otto.”