Chapter Forty-One
“Okay, so what exactly are you struggling with on this assignment?” he asks, tugging on my calves, laying my legs across his lap. He absentmindedly strokes a trail up my shin as he waits for my answer.
“Everything,” I groan, fighting the urge to fall back into the cushion dramatically.
He rolls his eyes at me, wearing a grin that sends sparks of pleasure zapping up my spine. God, I love that playful smile.
“The essay’s about creating a strategic play for engagement and revenue growth for marketing sporting events.
It could be about anything from grassroots promotion to large-scale digital campaigns.
It just has to be an idea that could really be implemented in the real world, and I have to have some sort of data to back my stance. ”
He nods his understanding, tugging his full bottom lip between his teeth as he sorts through his thoughts. “Well, what about something like the fundraiser we do each year?”
I shake my head. “That’s a fundraiser for a good cause though; it’s not for gaining revenue for the team.”
He pins me with a disbelieving stare, and he smirks.
“Elise, it is for a good cause, but we’d be naive to think that the only reason the higher ups allow this fundraiser each year is for my benefit.
It’s definitely not . While yes, they are helping people, and I appreciate it more than I could properly express, they’re also making a good name for themselves by doing so, and they’re driving potential donors to our events where they can check out our team and our amenities and mingle.
We make them feel special, and important, leading them to be more likely to want to be a part of it so they then donate to our team and not just the fundraiser we do each year. ”
My head is spinning. “That’s genius!” I shout, never having thought about it that way at all.
He squeezes one of my calves. “It was actually your dad’s idea to do the fundraiser after I told him about Carlos. He said if management wanted to use money for events to gain traction, we should at least exploit that for good too.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at the thought. My dad really is the best.
“Perfect, that’s what I’ll write about!” I tell him, excited to get this over with. It’s by no means my last essay I’ll write before graduation, but it’s the last one for this class.
“We,” he corrects.
“We?”
“Yeah,” he says, reaching across me, snagging my laptop from where it rests on my thighs. He places it over top of where my lower legs rest over his meaty thighs. “ We will write about it.”
A blush creeps up my neck before I can control it.
“You don’t have to help me write it. I can type,” I say, chuckling.
“I just get stuck on the idea because honestly, I don’t want nor need a degree, despite what my dad says.
He just doesn’t want me to wind up injured and unable to play with no fallback plan.
That’s why I’m not already playing in the premieres. ”
He tilts his head to the side. “Why didn’t you choose something easier then if you weren’t planning on using it?”
I let out a frustrated huff. “Because I thought this was an easy A. I figured it wouldn’t be hard, and it at least had something to do with sports, but as it turns out, a sports management degree is bloody brutal. ”
A loud laugh erupts from him, and I love the sound.
That should worry me, but it doesn’t. Something about how easily our conversations flow and the happy feelings he elicits in me sets my mind at ease.
He makes me feel calm even when nothing else does, and instead of running away from that like I so often would, I’m giving into it.
You deserve to feel things. It’s been a while since I last heard the whispering of my sister in my mind, but today, I welcome it more than usual.
He places my laptop on the armrest, planting his hands on my sides, clutching my waist as he hauls me into his lap.
I melt into the warmth radiating off his strong body and wrap my arms around his neck, resisting the urge to press a kiss to his temple.
He smells like cedar and oranges, the heady accord enveloping me.
“Did you like school?” I ask, desperate to steer my thoughts to more comfortable territory and out of murky waters.
“I did actually, but I think it was mostly because it was something to keep my mind busy. It gave me a distraction from the mess I’d left at home and from all the guilt I was living with. It gave me direction I knew I needed to get through it.”
“And where’s home for you?” I ask.
He squeezes me more tightly, his brow smoothing out as he relaxes.
“Home is here now, but I grew up in Argentina. We lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone, which was good and bad. As an adult, I think I’d love it, but as a reckless teen, it made not getting caught really difficult,” he tells me with a wry grin. “You were born in France, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, but after what happened with my maman and Rachelle, Dad and I were desperate for a change. Some people handle grief by wanting to constantly be around the memories and in the space they were most with their loved ones, but instead of making us feel closer to them, it only made everything worse. It was like we were suffocating and unable to truly grieve until we got out. And Dad couldn’t sleep in my parents’ room anymore, so for months, we were roommates,” I tell him, laughing as I recall the memory.
“Wasn’t that…weird?” he asks, no judgement in his tone, purely curious.
I shake my head. “We weren’t home often, and when we were, it was just to sleep. We used separate bathrooms and stuff, but every night, he’d climb up that ladder, bump his head on the ceiling, grumble to himself, and climb in, shaking the metal frame like an earthquake.”
“Why the hell was he on the top bunk?”
I avert my gaze for a moment, gathering my emotions before explaining.
“Rachelle slept up there because I was, and still am”—I pin him with a pointed glare—“afraid of heights. And it didn’t feel right for me to sleep in her bed.
So when he was offered the job to coach rugby here, your rugby team, he jumped at the opportunity, and I was thrilled to leave. ”
“How old were you when you moved then?”
“Seventeen. They passed away when I was sixteen, so we were in that house for eight long months before we were able to move. Neither of us has been back to France since, but I’d like to.
I want to visit all the places my maman used to go, everywhere she’d take my sister and me. Maybe it’d be healing for me too.”
He nods and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“I appreciate you opening up to me,” he says, his face still buried in my hair.
“You make it easy,” I tell him, and he meets my eyes, confusion swirling in his, dark brows pinched, his nose scrunched in the cutest way that makes his gold hoop nose ring glimmer under the overhead lights.
“How so?”
“You just…listen. Without pretence. Without judgement. You don’t ask tons of questions or pressure me into telling you more than I’m comfortable with. You give me time to say what I mean so I don’t wind up saying the wrong thing and dwelling on it later.”
He cups my cheek in his large, warm hand and brings his lips to mine for a chaste kiss. They’re soft and pillowy as they mould to mine, and my body sags into the feeling on instinct. When he pulls away, it’s like he’s replied to what I’ve said but without any words being spoken at all.
“Well, so much for not bombarding you with questions, because I have one now,” he teases.
“Mmm, and what’s that?” I ask, tilting my head, sighing into his warmth. Rafael is outstandingly dreamy when he isn’t trying so hard to keep people out.
“That wanker that grabbed you the other day…” he trails off, refusing to meet my eyes. It’s a shame, really, because if he bothered to look at me, he’d see the absolutely massive grin stretching my lips till my cheeks ache.
“Are you jealous ?” I ask, eyes wide.
“No,” he rumbles, voice low. “I’m merely a concerned citizen. I don’t appreciate women getting snatched.”
“Tell me you’re jealous and I’ll explain who he is and why you have nothing to worry about.”
He drags in an exasperated breath, finally meeting my eyes. “Fine. I was a tad green.”
I can’t resist the urge, squeezing his cheeks until his lips pucker like a fish, giddiness spilling into my actions, my body vibrating with the unfamiliar feeling. He places his hands over mine, pulling them from his cheeks to settle in his lap.
“Go on then,” he urges.
“That tosser was Noah. He’s about the blandest person on the planet, with a less than satisfactory prick, to boot.
We’ve shagged on a few occasions, never without someone else.
” His brows climb at that, but I continue, leaving no room for more of his prying questions.
“He started pressing me about spending time with me outside of our extracurriculars, and I have no interest in doing any of those things with him.” The unspoken part being that for some ungodly reason, I do have an interest in spending time with Rafael outside of sex—exhibit A would be our current predicament.
“He’s about as interesting on the inside as he is on the outside, and as you’d seen, he looks no different than the crumbs at the bottom of a box of crackers. Pale and unsustaining.”
Rafa’s smirk says it all, so instead of adding to my assessment of my past lay, he says, “Let’s get this essay over with so we can do better things with our time, yeah?
” He sets the laptop over my thighs but with the screen facing him, typing all of my ideas, running through every thought I have for the assignment.
His fingers fly across the keyboard, and by the time the sun has set, we’ve had our fill of salmon, salad, and pasta, and I’ve submitted the essay.
Rafael shuts my laptop and sets it on the wrought iron side table, lowering himself further into the cushions and shifting my body so we’re lying lengthwise on the couch, facing each other.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and trails a rough hand down my side, settling it over my hip where the bottom of my sweatshirt has ridden up.
“Are you ready for your reward?” he asks, his voice quiet and husky.
The sound sends a shiver down my spine, and I arch into his touch.
His low answering chuckle is the only sound as he slips his fingers beneath the waistband of my leggings.
“I take that as a yes?” he asks, his brow quirked, and I nod my agreement.
My lips part, resting my thigh over his as he works his fingers under my cotton thong and over my clit. I feel my pulse beating between my legs, and a whimper falls past my lips.
“You were so good today, baby,” he says, and I preen under his praise.
“You played so well and then got to work like such a fucking good girl.” His words are barely above a whisper, and while I’m someone who doesn’t tend to love the tender touches or soft, whispered words, I want all of it with him.
The way his dark eyes hold my gaze makes the moment even more intimate, and when he slips a finger inside me, I’m already soaked.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine as I stay locked in his gaze.
“I’m proud of you for accepting help, and I’m glad I could give that to you.
But I’m not such a good boy,” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave.
I want to say something, but I can’t manage through the blinding pleasure building in my core.
“H-how?” I stammer.
“Because,” he says, lowering his lips to my neck, tugging the skin between his teeth as he slips another finger inside me and I cry out, loudly.
The sound of my strangled moans startles even me.
When he rests his forehead against mine again, he spreads his fingers wide, just the way he now knows I like, and I nearly shatter.
But what really does me in is what he says next.
“This whole time I’ve been helping you, I’ve been so selfish, Elise, baby.
I’ve been waiting for this moment. For us to finish your essay so I could bury my fingers inside you, and the only thing better than that will be when I get to suck you off of them. ”
I buck against him, his fingers pumping inside me as he presses the flat of his thumb against my clit.
A hot fire licks up my spine, and Rafael devours the sounds I make with his lips pressed to mine, his fingers stroking my walls relentlessly until I’ve spilled every ounce of my pleasure onto his fingers.
My body sags further into the cushions, and he slides a hand around my back, tugging me to his chest before he removes his hand from my pussy.
My eyes flutter open, and I watch with rapt attention as he sucks those fingers into his mouth. He moans deeply, his chest rumbling as he cleans his fingers of my juices.
“God, you taste delicious.” He groans.
And I die. Right here on his couch. I simply pass away from how annoyingly hot that was. My body burned to ash, or at least, that’s certainly what it feels like.