Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
LEVI
This is what modern-day hell would be.
This right here.
Sharing a living space—not sure how that happened when I specifically told her to stick to her room—with a girl who apparently doesn’t own any bras.
Oh wait, no, that’s not correct. She does own bras, but they tie into a bow in the front and with one tug .
. . breasts. Pretty sure that’s how she put it.
This is day two of being back from my trip, and this morning, she walked into the kitchen in nothing but a threadbare tank top.
I saw the definition of her nipples and had to retreat to my bedroom where I took some calming breaths and attempted to subdue the blue balls that are squeezing me to death.
I refuse to masturbate to the image of her in my head. Absolutely refuse because the moment I do it, is the moment I lose all control. I have to keep her out of my mind.
That’s how I found myself alone in my hotel room the other night, playing Phase 10 on my phone and swearing at an online player who I didn’t know. Player4756. The motherfucker kept skipping me. Several times, I almost chucked my phone against the wall.
Luckily for me, I could take out some of my pent-up aggression on the ice, and it did me well because it was a shutout game for us.
No one was getting by me, and certainly not Eli, either.
It was a much better showing than before, and Coach even complimented me, which he never does.
Sure, his compliment was a nod of approval, but still, I counted it.
But now that I’m back home, it’s like she’s trying to make me hard every chance she gets.
And it’s working.
Last night, I was hard while eating steak.
I went to bed hard.
I woke up so fucking hard.
And now as I sit here in my living room, staring at the tiny fiddle leaf fig tree she got for me, my balls ache, wanting relief.
“Hey, you in here?” I hear her call out from the kitchen.
Here we go. How is she going to torture me now?
I lean back on the couch and say, “Living room.”
“Oh, hey.” She steps up, and when I look to the side, I find her wet with a towel barely wrapped around her body.
Fuck.
Me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, averting my eyes.
“Sorry, I tried calling you, but you weren’t answering.”
“Oh, my phone is in my room,” I groan because fuck me, she’s wet.
She’s in a towel, and she’s wet.
“Well, I ran out of soap, and I was wondering if I could borrow some of yours. And I know what you’re thinking, I’m making this up because I was saying how great you smelled last night and I want to smell the same. And whereas a part of that is true, I don’t have any soap and need some.”
Keeping my eyes averted, I say, “Yeah, you can borrow some.”
“Awesome. Thank you. Is it okay if I just finish in your shower since I’m already naked and wet?”
“Finish?” I gulp.
Do you need help finishing?
Because I know a few ways I can get you off in that shower .
“Yeah, finish showering.”
Oh fuck, duh.
Jesus Christ, man. You are way too horny to be having these conversations.
“Oh yeah, sure. Showering. Can’t, uh, can’t just walk away from the water without soaping up, and since you don’t have soap, how can you soap up?”
She cutely tilts her head to the side, her towel dipping just a centimeter. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Fine. Really just doing fantastic. Are you . . . uh, are you okay? Not that I care if you are because you’re my assistant and I shouldn’t be asking you that kind of stuff, but are you okay?”
“Why shouldn’t you care if I’m okay?”
“Did I say that?” I nervously laugh. “I meant that I care, I care about your well-being but not like . . . you know, other things.”
“Actually, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
Yeah, Posey, what the hell are you talking about?
Can’t be sure.
I’m distracted.
Her breasts are ready to pop out of that towel. There’s nothing but terrycloth between us, and I can’t stop myself from getting hard.
Pathetic and creepy, I get it!
You don’t have to tell me.
I wish I could smack my dick into shape, but out of fear I might come from a whisper of a breeze, I couldn’t possibly punish it for being out of control.
“You know . . .” I tug on my hair. “I think I’m tired. Sleep-deprived and jet-lagged are not a good combo. So to sum up this conversation, you can use my soap, finish off in my shower, and I care if you’re fine.”
Her gleamingly beautiful smile nearly makes me weep. “Good to know. And thank you. I really appreciate it.”
With that, she takes off down the hallway, and my eyes trail her, watching the towel climb up against the bubble of her ass just as she disappears into my room.
I drag my hands over my face and groan into my palms.
I won’t last this. There is no fucking way.
And did she have to say naked and wet? I mean, it was obvious, but she didn’t have to point it out.
I don’t think I can keep this inside me. I have to tell someone. I need someone to bounce ideas off and combat this internal hell I’m living in.
I consider going into my room to grab my phone, but knowing her, she left the bathroom door wide open. She doesn’t seem to have any issues with privacy. She just lets it all out.
So instead of doing anything, I just sit here, twiddling my fingers and taking calming breaths. I was so desperate to get over this aching feeling inside me that I watched a twenty-minute video on YouTube on how to combat horniness through meditation.
I take deep breaths, envisioning a peaceful meadow, waves of green bristling against the wind. Puffy clouds against a bright blue sky. And Wylie, running toward me, her tits bouncing against her threadbare tank top tempting the elasticity of the fabric.
Annnnnnd . . . I’m hard all over.
I pick up a throw pillow, place it against my face, and scream into it, only to lower the pillow and find Wylie standing there, drying her hair while wearing one of my hockey shirts.
Mother.
Of.
God.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
No.
I’m not.
I want to fuck you.
I want to bury myself between your legs.
I want to live there for days on end, making you come on my tongue over and over again just so I can watch you writhe against the mattress.
I want to feel you squeeze my cock.
I want to feel your slick pussy, bare, with nothing between us.
I want to hear you cry out my name until your voice is hoarse.
I want to be rid of this ache that’s holding my dick hostage.
I FUCKING WANT YOU!
I tack on a smile, painfully aware of my desperation. “Yup, everything is great.”
“Okay because it looked like you were screaming into a pillow.”
“Stubbed my toe,” I reply. “Got me good.”
“Ooo, I hate when that happens. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Because I can take care of it for you if you want. Ice it. Massage. Suck on it . . .” She winks, and I nearly choke on my own saliva. Suck. On. It. Yes, I fucking want you to suck on it—it being my cock that is weeping for you.
I nervously laugh. “Uh, not needed. I’ll survive.”
She clutches her chest. “You’re so brave. By the way, I hope it’s okay that I’m wearing one of your shirts. I thought it would be better than a wet towel.”
I prefer the wet towel.
Actually, if I’m taking requests, no clothes would be best. And if you want, you can sit on my lap to air dry if you need to.
“Yeah, totally cool.”
“Great because I might keep it. You have like twenty of these in your closet, and it’s the perfect nighttime shirt.
” She moves over to the living room and takes a seat next to me.
Okay, so she’s sitting down, that’s what’s happening.
Be cool, man. “Have you looked through the social media posts I’ve made? People are loving them.”
“I haven’t. I’ll be sure to look through them.” I keep my eyes forward and not on the way her tits sway against the loose fabric of my shirt.
“Some of your female fans are using the hashtag, Pretty Posey.” She props her head on her hand while leaning against the back of the couch and asks, “Were you aware that you’re pretty?”
“Uh, I prefer handsome, but sure, I do tend to look at myself in the mirror and think, wow, you’re a good-looking man.”
She laughs. “How often? Every time you look in the mirror?”
I rub my palms on my thighs, still looking straight ahead. “I average about once a day.”
“You know, it’s good to have confidence. As long as that confidence doesn’t turn into cockiness.”
“Cockiness isn’t bad,” I reply while I pretend to pick a piece of lint off my shirt. Anything to avoid looking at her.
“Maybe on the ice, but when dealing with women, it’s bad. It’s kind of a turnoff.”
That piques my interest, so I turn toward her. “You’d rather have a blubbering mess trying to hit on you than a guy who’s sure of himself?”
She smiles broadly at me, probably because I’m finally looking at her rather than avoiding her like .
. . well . . . a blubbering mess. “I think there’s a fine line.
” She drags her finger on my forearm and says, “I think it’s good to have a man who’s confident but doesn’t think a woman is beneath him, like she’s lucky to breathe the same air as him. ”
Chills pulse up my arm from her touch. “Uh-huh. Yup.”
I have no other response because my mouth is salivating.
Actually salivating.
In any other circumstances, I’d be turned fully toward her, my hand on her thigh, my thumb rubbing along her smooth skin, moving higher and higher.
I’d lean into her, touch her hair, stare at her lips, and get lost in her eyes.
I’d make a fucking move, tell her how goddamn beautiful she is, how she steals my breath when she enters the room.
But lucky for me, she’s completely and totally off limits. So off limits that if I were to even think about touching her, I might get my dick skated off by her father.
I remain stiff—in all areas—salivating over a touch of a finger.
“You remember that night we first met?” she asks.