Chapter Thirty-Five #2
“I didn’t hit you!” I yell, desperate for more. “I smacked you because you wouldn’t let me answer your question and wouldn’t let me breathe !”
His chuckle is deep and humourless. He trails his tongue across his full bottom lip before answering. “I did, didn’t I?” he asks, clearly amused with himself. “Fine, Elise. You want to be heard so badly, tell me, what is it you want me to do to you?”
I roll my eyes, but I know this game. And reluctantly, I enjoy it. I’d die before admitting that to him though.
“Fuck me hard and fast until there are tears in my eyes and cum dripping down my legs,” I deadpan.
His chin presses to his chest, a low rumble of approval vibrating through him, and when his eyes meet mine again, there’s fire lit within them. But this time, it’s not from the fireplace.
He doesn’t waste any more time, crushing his body to mine, bringing his mouth above my bounding pulse, nipping the skin, and sucking it into his mouth.
“I’m about to make you my depraved little slut.
I hope you enjoy screaming my name because I can guarantee, whoever has you next won’t be the one you’re thinking about. ”
And with his last word, his hips plunge forward, burying himself in me.
My tits are bouncing on my chest, my core clenching tighter as he pounds into me relentlessly, and if I weren’t so busy doing exactly as he said I would, I’d have a smile on my face.
Finally, one dick that can satiate me, and I can’t even keep him.
“Rafa, yes!” I scream. “ Comme ca ...” I plead, my tone breathy as he stretches me, lighting every nerve fibre in my body.
“So fucking hot,” he grits out. “The dirtiest little slut for me.”
My mouth parts, and my head rolls back as I keen against him. Everything feels hot and too tight, like I could implode at any moment, a writhing mess of emotion-packed particles.
His movements don’t slow as he thrusts into me, his dick curving enough to rub beneath my clit, making my legs tremble.
His grip loosens on my wrists, dragging down my arms before he tucks them under me, hoisting me up his body as he sits up. He clutches me to his chest, standing and pumping his hips into me.
The change in angle is everything.
My back hits a wall, and his relentless, punishing thrusts don’t stop. I grip his shoulders, meeting his movements as I lower myself further onto him, crying out as he meets me every time, thrust for thrust.
It’s too much.
My core winds tightly, tears spill down my cheeks, and heat grips my throat as his hand snakes between us, palming my aching pussy.
Rafael’s fingers wrap around my clit, twisting and driving me over the edge. “Rafael!” I cry out, my head hitting the wall behind me.
I feel like I’ve fallen over a cliff, and I’m hitting every massive boulder and sharp edge as I make my descent back to solid ground.
His teeth dig into my shoulder, my mind still hazy as stars burst behind my eyes, and my breathing begins to slow. His body tenses. and he groans, pumping his hips into me, his movements fatigued and erratic.
When he’s finished, he doesn’t pull out of me until he’s dropped me into the centre of the bed, onto the deep-green duvet cover.
Small beads are sewn into the fabric in beautiful swirls, pressing into my bum in the most uncomfortable manner, but I don’t have the energy to get up.
My limbs are nothing more than gelatine, my body useless for the moment.
I watch intently as he tugs the condom off, tying it and depositing it into the bin before heading into the loo. He leaves the door wide open as he turns the sink on, grabbing a washcloth from the shelf. I watch as he cleans himself up, his round, perky ass even more perfect from his side profile.
Fuck, I love rugby.
When he’s done, he grabs another cloth and a towel, turning off the bathroom light and returning to me.
“Open your legs, peligrosa ,” he says, his voice hushed. After the first time he called me that, I asked Letty what it meant and was not the least bit surprised to learn that he was calling me trouble from the very start.
“Can’t, no strength,” I whine, making no effort to move my still-twitching muscles.
He rolls his eyes, rewarding me with a lopsided smirk as he grips my calf, lifting my leg and dropping it several inches over, opening me up to him.
He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, swiping the warm, wet cloth over my thighs and then between my folds.
The action is tender, and something aches in my chest, but I can’t pinpoint the cause of the offending reaction.
He uses the dry cloth to pat my damp skin, dropping both wash rags on the floor before climbing in beside me.
“They should really rethink these beads,” I grumble after a few minutes.
Rafael chuckles beside me, lifting up to grip the top of the duvet from either side of my waist, wiggling it down under me.
The sharp edges of the embroidered beads make me wince, but just as quickly as the pain comes, it’s gone, replaced by the satisfying warmth of soft, smooth sheets and a pillowtop mattress beneath me.
He lies back down, and we continue to stare at the ceiling, catching our breath, and as the high of what we did dissipates, I’m hit with the swirling dread of many, much less enjoyable emotions.
I try to work them out, untangling the frayed, knotted edges of each sentiment, much like my therapist had instructed over and over again.
The thicker, longer thread is more like a rope.
It’s the largest, most foreboding of the emotions warring inside me.
I slide that one out from the rest, imaging it as if it were an actual rope.
This one has a heaviness to it, making my chest clench, my stomach twist, and pins and needles stab at my limbs.
I recognise it as anxiety, fear, and dread.
The next is a thin little thing, clear like fishing line, difficult to dismantle from the rest. It’s transparent, ever-present despite my efforts, but it snaps easily after years of practice.
This one is easy to identify guilt. I’m remorseful for getting involved with someone who I shouldn’t have.
Someone my dad cares for. Someone I have no place being involved with because it’s selfish.
Many things could go wrong. He could lose his position as our coach, the same way Coach Lyon had, and as much as Rafael seemed to hate the job at the start, there’s been a clear shift.
He’s now the first person to cheer us on, unable to stand still on the sidelines as he screams at the top of his lungs during every game and practice, fighting with the refs when he thinks they’ve made a bad call.
Dad might be upset, maybe even blame himself if I get hurt because he was the one who pushed Rafael into the position.
My teammates could be let down if they don’t have a coach and the season is a wash.
My career could be over before it even started if I’m caught in a scandal with my coach.
And who knows what would happen to Rafael’s career after something like that.
I take a deep, steadying breath, filling my lungs to their maximum capacity before releasing it as a slow, steady stream.
The action calms me enough to work through the “what ifs.” Rafael and I are adults, and what we both engaged in was completely consensual.
I do not bear the weight of every decision for every person potentially involved in this scenario.
People sleep around in sports all the time, and while it might be broadcast on the news for a week, everyone eventually moves onto the next big thing.
And even though I’d thrown a fit about having a babysitter in the beginning, I realise that’s not the case at all.
I was looking for problems where there weren’t any because I was afraid of change.
I recognise that now and can appreciate how much my dad has done to make my dreams a reality.
That clear strand always takes the brunt of the weight off once I’ve managed to work through it, the ache in my chest nearly gone, with mere remnants of smaller, more manageable emotions left behind.
“Elise,” Rafa murmurs.
“Mhmm?” I ask, unable to speak as a lump forms in my throat and begins slowly drifting to settle in the pit of my stomach. He’s about to tell me to go back to my room, where I’ll be alone and reminded of the fact that as much as I know this can’t happen again, I really want it to.
“I don’t—” he starts, clearing his throat. “I don’t think I can pretend that never happened.”
My throat constricts, and I remain silent, waiting for him to fill it with his rejection or to tell me it was a mistake. That I was a mistake.
“So I think we need clear boundaries for how we go about this,” he says.
My mind is reeling, unable to dissect what he’s saying, so I turn over on my side, assessing him. His expression is hopeful as he turns his head to meet my gaze, tilting his chin.
“You mean, you want to keep seeing each other?” I ask, and my ears burn with how needy that sounded.
“If you—” he averts his eyes, “if you want to.”
The breath gets lodged in my lungs, and I’m unable to answer with words, so I just nod, awkwardly, feeling completely pathetic.
What is going on between us?
As of a few weeks ago, we could barely stand to be around each other, and now I feel so drawn to him I’m willing to lie to my friends to have time with him.
It’s just the sex, Elise. He’s got a great dick.
It’s not often that I lie, not to friends and certainly not to myself, but I recognise that thought for what it is.
Maybe it’s the fact that his grumpy, shit-ass attitude matches mine, or maybe it’s that he has something so broken within him that my mind and soul recognise. I’m not sure yet, but I have a feeling I’m on my way to find out.
When I still haven’t managed to answer, he squeezes my hand, his dark eyes boring into me as if digging into my mind to search through the files in my brain, searching for an answer.
I swallow audibly, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I want to.”
He cups the nape of his neck, then scratches uncomfortably.
“Okay, good, well, what boundaries are important to you?” he asks.
“We can’t tell anyone,” I immediately blurt out without any thought as to how that might make him feel. Though I’m sure he’s probably relieved, and the moment he breathes out a loud sigh and drops his hand on the bed, rolling onto his back again, I know I was right.
“Agreed. This is only sex, companionship without all the extra, time-consuming shit like dates,” he huffs out.
My mind starts to settle a bit. Good, we’re on the same page then.
“Sounds perfect,” I say. “If this starts becoming inconvenient for either of us, we stop,” I add.
“Okay. And we need code names or something.”
My lips twitch, brows raising. “Code names?” I ask, my tone teasing. “Are we Spy Kids or something?”
“The things I’m planning to do to you are far from child-friendly, though parental advisory may be advised,” he says with a deep chuckle that vibrates through my core.
I smack his bicep, rolling onto my back, in desperate need of a reprieve from his handsome face. He’s too distracting to look at. “What are these code names for?”
“You live with your best friends—they’re a bunch of nosy, oestrogen-driven women. We can’t have them finding out because I text you to meet up and your phone is in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“No wonder you’re single. Who the fuck wants to be with a testosterone warrior who thinks women are all looking for gossip? Jesus Christ,” I grumble.
“Then it’s a good thing all you want is my dick,” he says, and thankfully, he’s right. Some of the strange, awkward haze from earlier has lifted, and I think I’m realising I’m just bloody exhausted.
“Yep, good thing. So, nicknames.”
“I’ll save you as ‘sunshine’ since your personality is so sunny,” he says, clearly joking. I’ve never been called “sunshine” or anything similar in my life.
“Great, and I’ll name you ‘Sunny D.’ Because your dick is the only thing about you that makes me feel so sunny .” I smirk.
He barks out a laugh, and I’m flooded with a pleasurable feeling whispering through me.
“I probably deserved that,” he says. “Any other boundaries?”
“You can send me dick pics all you want, but they better not be from weird ass angles. And speaking of weird asses, don’t send me pictures of your asshole either.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks, but he’s watching me with a sort of disturbed smile that I kind of enjoy. “Christ. Well, the same doesn’t go for me.”
I raise a brow in question. “You don’t want pictures for when I’m not around? Nothing for your spank bank?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I meant you can feel free to send me pictures of your ass. Pussy and tits would be great too. Lips wrapped around a vibrator would also be stellar.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, chuckling.
We exchange phone numbers, saving our contacts under the designated code names, and when we realise the time, I’m about to head back to my room, but Rafael wraps his arms around my waist, tugging me against his chest. He reaches across me, flicking off the lamp, and tosses the duvet over us.
I suck in a breath, ready to flee as my chest starts to constrict, but when he whispers into my ear and says, “We said companionship too, Elise. Don’t make it weird,” I settle down, dragged into the most restful three hours of sleep I’ve ever gotten outside of a hospital.