Chapter 9 Beck #3
I buck, and he leans forward, trying to secure control, but I catch a gap at his side and twist hard, grabbing his arm and pulling just enough to break his grip.
My momentum carries me forward and I spring up, practically tackling him.
My chest slams against his, and before he can react, I’m on top, hooking my legs around his to control the movement of his hips, pinning him flat against the mat.
With our chests pressed together, arms tight and legs entwined, I can feel every inch of him. His heart beats frantically against mine. For the first moment he doesn’t move, but as soon as Coach starts the count, he struggles, elbows scraping, but I’ve got leverage and a good hold.
Not daring to chance looking down at him, I huff out a raspy, “You’re the one that’s going to take it.”
He fucking laughs, the fight giving out of him as Coach finishes the count and blows the whistle.
I push off Brody and get ready to go again, keeping my eyes focused on him and how out of control he makes me feel. How angry that makes me. How desperate.
I’m definitely getting hard, but I bend at the waist and ignore it, hoping it’s not too noticeable.
The thought has me flashing back to the comments he made about my dick size—which was bullshit, by the way.
I might not be as big as him, but I’m still on the larger side of average.
I’ve measured from several angles just to be sure.
His massive cock-having self is the one that should be worried about getting hard.
Yes.
He should be the one who’s worried.
Suddenly, I know what I need to do. I need to turn the tables on him. I need him to be the one to lose the match and walk away with an erection, especially because I know everyone in the room would be able to see it. He’d be lucky if it stayed in the stupidly tiny shorts.
It’s my choice now, and I know the right move is to choose a neutral or bottom position, but there’s no part of my pride that will allow me to say the word bottom around Brody Miller and I don’t give a fuck what Caty and her judgmental psychoanalyzing bullshit has to say about that.
“Top,” I say firmly. Let’s see how he handles me behind him.
His eyebrows lift, amused. My pulse stutters.
We set up, and when the whistle blows I press my chest harder into Brody’s back, hands gripping his hips to control their movement.
I try to quickly get control of his arms, but Brody shifts his elbows inside, posts his hands, and rolls, closing the gap.
I drop forward to try and press him onto his back.
We’re chest to chest again, bodies intertwined, legs braced for balance, hands grappling for control of each other’s arms. Every time I press forward, he rolls slightly, elbow inside, trying to free himself, but we’re locked in a stalemate, sweaty and breathing hard as we continue to grapple.
My lips part to let out a short puff of air, and Brody’s eyes lock on my mouth.
I lick my lips in response, almost forgetting that I’m supposed to be the one teasing him this time.
I roll my hips slightly, and Brody’s answering chuckle is dark and dangerous, sending a rash of chill bumps down my spine.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Brody rasps. “If you win this match, I’ll let you fuck me in whatever position you like.”
He huffs as our arms thread, hips shifting, each of us trying to tilt the other.
We’re rubbing against each other in a way that feels dangerous, but I can feel him getting harder, too.
I lean into it, but I can’t really say if it’s to fuck with him or feel him.
I forget for a moment that we have an audience.
“But if I win…” He locks my wrist and shifts his hips against me. “You’re mine to use as I please.”
I switch my angle, trying to focus on getting out rather than getting away. If my cock keeps rubbing against him like that…
He sprawls when I shift, and I roll, but it gets me nowhere. It’s just a back-and-forth struggle.
“Come on, Captain. What’s it going to be? You afraid of losing?”
“You. Wish. Asshole.”
“That feels like a yes to me,” he groans.
The sound stuns me for half a second, but it’s enough for him to make a subtle move, turning his hips and taking advantage of the slight shift in my balance.
He pops up, chest heavy into my shoulder, hooks the arm closest to him, and drives me onto my back.
The whistle blows, and he groans in a way that sounds filthy and pained at the same time.
The whistle blows again, and Coach makes some notes on his clipboard.
Brody wins—by one point.
The crowd claps politely. Teammates slap Brody on the back. My father stares down at me with a look that could peel skin off bone.
Brody turns, breathing hard, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Good match,” he says softly. There’s no mockery in it, but I can’t register it for anything other than the loss it is. And the fact that I know I didn’t lose because he’s better than me. I lost because some part of me—some twisted, shameful part—is more afraid of what I want than of failing.
And that terrifies me more than anything he has planned for me when he collects his winnings.