18. Chapter 18 #2
She nods, cheeks burning. Two fingers glide through her arousal. Her breath stutters so hard her chest shakes. I tighten my grip behind her knee, lifting her higher, forcing her balance to rely on me.
“You like being watched?” I tilt my head.
“Yes,” she breathes.
“Show me.” I step closer, cock heavy between us, water running down my back.
She pulls her fingers free and lifts them, glistening with her arousal. “Fuck,” I whisper, staring at them like they’re sacred.
I grab her wrist and bring her hand to my mouth. I taste her—warm and salty—swirling my tongue around her fingers. She moans, head tipping back, completely wrecked from the sight of me tasting her.
“You’re insane,” she pants.
“And you’re delicious,” I murmur, dragging her hand down her stomach, my mouth brushes hers. “Taste how sweet you are. ”
I press her to the tile and crash my mouth onto hers. She moans, clutching my shoulders, arching into me.
I pull my lips away and I lift her leg higher, holding her open as water pours over us. I start stroking myself, eyes locked on hers. My cock is thick, leaking at the tip, and her mouth parts at the sight.
“Spread yourself for me.”
“W-What?” she breathes.
“Use those fingers and spread that pussy for me,” I drawl, hand dragging slow from base to tip.
She reaches between her thighs and parts herself—lips, clit, that soaked, waiting hole.
“Fuck. You’re perfect,” I groan, stepping closer, cock in hand.
I press the head against her clit. “Keep it open, baby,” I say, voice dark. “Don’t you dare let go.”
She whimpers, holding herself wider as I drag the tip down her slit, gliding through the mess she made. I circle her clit, then drag down to her little hole. She sobs, head falling back.
“Don’t look away,” I snap. “Eyes on mine. ”
She lifts her head again. The look on her face drains me. “You like this?” I growl. “You like showing me that tight little pussy, don’t you?”
“Yes!”
“Then keep holding it open. I want to watch my cock disappear inside you.”
Her chest rises sharp, a trembling gasp. I stroke myself once more, line the head to her entrance, and press.
“Watch my cock while it slides into your sweet little cunt.”
She obeys, eyes falling between us. I push in slowly. She chokes on a moan as the head parts her open, the first few inches stretching her.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “Keep watching, baby. Look how this pussy takes it like it was made for me.”
I stop halfway, watching her pink cunt swallow my cock, then push deeper. She sobs, getting heavier in my grip as her body grows weak, and I bury myself to the hilt, making her suck in air.
“Christ. So fucking tight.”
I pull out halfway and push in again as her body arches .
She’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen—brilliance, fire, passion—and I refuse to be anything less for her. She deserves it all.
I thrust slow, dragging every inch out, then sliding back in while her soaked pussy grips and swallows me.
Her free leg gives and I catch her before she drops. “Fuck,” I snarl, grabbing under both thighs, lifting her clean off the floor, pushing her back against the shower wall. She squeals, spread and suspended while and begin fucking her with a punishing rhythm.
She cries out, hands trembling as she keeps herself spread, fingers shaking just above where my cock pounds into her, eyes fluttering closed from the pleasure.
“No,” I growl, snapping my hips harder. “Look at it.”
Her eyes snap open with a gasp. “You see how deep I am?” Another hard thrust. Another scream. “You see how your pussy takes it?”
She’s losing it. My beautiful girl is held up by nothing but my grip and the cock spearing into her over and over .
“Rub that little clit while I fuck you,” I growl, slamming into her.
She obeys, her fingers sliding over her clit, trying to find the rhythm that matches my pace.
“Faster.” I say, voice rough. “Show me how you make that pussy feel good.”
She moans and rubs harder, eyes locked on mine, her cheeks flushed.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “Good fucking girl. Come for me, baby.”
She releases a broken sound, and her eyes flutter.
That’s all it takes — a few seconds of pressure on her clit and she shatters. Her back arches. Her whole body goes rigid and then snaps, folding around my cock in a loud, sobbing, breathless scream that echoes off the shower walls.
“That’s right,” I groan, pounding her through it. “Let it all out.”
Her thighs squeeze my waist as she falls apart in my arms, twitching with every deep thrust. Fucking gorgeous.
She goes limp against me, breathing as if she almost drowned and barely surfaced. Her pussy keeps pulsing around me, clenching and refusing to let go. I pull out anyway, my cock dragging against her swollen walls.
Her legs tremble and I grip her tighter, one arm under her ass lifting her, holding her against the wall while she whimpers, still on the high. With my other hand I start stroking myself, hard, fast, rough.
“Fuck, baby,” I growl.
Her eyes flutter open, the look in them barely there. My hand pumping my cock hard, tip flushed and ready to explode.
“Look at it.” I meet her eyes. “Watch me do it.”
She lifts her head, and suddenly her hand wraps around mine, stroking with me.
“Fuck, Jessica.”
I cum hard. Hot, thick spurts paint her stomach, streaking down her flushed skin, across her belly.
“Jesus fuck,” I groan as the orgasm tears through me hard, my muscles locking, cock pulsing while I empty every drop onto her.
When I finally come back into myself, my breathing is hard. So spent and satisfied, I almost feel dizzy.
“You look so fucking good like this,” I murmur, my breath still heavy .
Her body is limp against me, but her eyes burn. I ease her down slowly, one hand steady on her waist.
“Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
I keep a hand on her just in case, but she plants her feet, exhales, and bites her bottom lip with a soft, pleased smile. She glances down at the streaks I left across her.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Come here.” I pull her fully under the spray, warm water washing over both of us.
I hook a finger under her chin and tilt her face up for a wet kiss. Her fingers curl into my chest; the heat between us still smolders.
“If this is the punishment for spying on you,” she murmurs, “I’m gonna make sure I do it every time you shower.”
“That so?” I say, smirking.
Biting her lip, she nods. I look down at her, fighting the urge to pin her to the wall again. Instead, I pump body wash into my hands and begin lathering her, dragging my palms up her back, rubbing soap into her shoulders, kneading the muscle with my fingers .
“Where did you learn to massage like that?” she breathes, eyes half-lidded.
“Physio,” I say. “We get it every week during the season. Learned a few things.”
I rub my thumbs in slow circles over her upper back, earning a hum of pleasure. I kneel for a moment and repeat the motion down her thighs, the pads of my thumbs working into the tight spots from holding her up.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“I got you dirty,” I say, looking up at her. “So it’s my job to get you clean.”
Her cheeks flush again. I don’t want to stop touching her. I work my hands slow and worshipful. My cock stirs, heavy between us, brushing her hip as I stand. She feels it and reacts, but I lean into her.
“You’ll get it again after dinner,” I promise, kissing the spot behind her ear. “ If you’re good.”
I’m in the kitchen with a glass in my hand, cold water running down my throat. The house is quiet, but it’s not the empty kind anymore. It’s the occupied kind.
I check the clock on the oven: 12:32 AM.
I set the glass down and lean on the counter, staring at nothing.
The kitchen still smells like the dinner I cooked for her.
I try not to think about how much that pleases me — the knowledge that I can bring something good to her life, take care of her in some way.
I’ve never felt like that with anyone besides Melody, my little sister.
I’m overprotective of Melody by default.
Jessica… Jessica is something else entirely.
This place has always been quiet. Melody stayed with me for a while when she first moved to Miami, but it was only temporary before she moved in with Jace.
Now I see them for morning coffee, ten minutes after grocery runs — a little noise at the door, then gone. This house always returned to silence.
Until her.
At first it pissed me off. Being forced into it as one of her conditions.
She takes up space without asking, leaves her things around like she’s testing how far she can go, talks when I’m thinking, touches the things I leave exactly where I want them.
I don’t like people in my space. Now I notice when she’s not in the room. I crave her presence.
Fuck.
What am I doing with this girl? If this were just sex, it’d be easier and cleaner. But she let me be her first. That’s not casual.
And if I’m honest? It’s not casual for me either.
I pulled strings for her, made calls I don’t make for anyone, got her into rooms she didn’t even know exist. I researched fucking coloring pencils, took her on a date. A date. This isn’t nothing. I’ve never felt like this about anyone.
And then the thought I’ve been dodging all season pushes back in. It’s been happening more often.
Zed.
The conversation we had keeps coming back like a bruised spot you forgot about until someone presses it. I told myself to drop it. I didn’t. I never do when something doesn’t add up. I think about his brother. The careless question I asked without thinking: Does your little brother still play ?
Zed locked up. Not stiff, not annoyed — murderous. As if I’d reached into something buried and yanked it out.
I’ve heard things: whispers, half-sentences that die when you walk in, suited men lowering their voices, coaches changing the subject.
I can’t believe they let him play after… after what?
That kid used to be all laughter, all noise, loved life. Now he’s something entirely different. The only things left are surface details: pale eyes, black hair that still falls into them. Except those eyes don’t laugh anymore. They chill you to the bone.
I’m already walking toward the living room before I realize I’ve moved. My laptop sits on the couch. I grab it and flip it open. I don’t usually do this — digging into teammates’ lives isn’t my thing — but this won’t let me go.
I type his name and hit enter. The first results are boring: stats, draft history, injury reports. Then the tone shifts the deeper I go. Old headlines. Scandals. Arrests that never quite stick, charges quietly dropped. Language that dances around something instead of naming it .
I scroll, opening article after article, skimming. Arrests pile up.
Battery.
Property damage.
Assault.
Disorderly conduct.
None of it fully sticks. Charges dropped, evidence insufficient, statements retracted. But the arrests remain.
I lean back, jaw tightening. Zed’s family name is everywhere.
I know his folks; they were close with my own once.
That’s how Zed and I met as kids in the first place — both families with old money, political donors, foundations, the works.
It doesn’t take a genius to know how Zed got out of those charges.
The language turns more careful the more I dig — hedged, padded, wrapped in distance. Words chosen to avoid blame, to avoid naming names.
My heartbeat picks up when I hit pieces that aren’t sports news. This is where it stops being messy and scandalous and starts being rotten. Really fucking rotten .
I read slower as my brows draw together.
Articles begin to pop up that feel different, each one stranger than the last. Something shifts in my chest — a wrongness you feel before you fully understand it.
My thumb hesitates over the trackpad on the headline: Only One Heir Remains: Zed Mercer’s Tragic Ascension to Family Fortune.
Then another: Questions Linger Over Sole Heir’s Inheritance.
It’s the kind of thing you don’t find unless you’re already looking for what you don’t want to see.
My pulse spikes as I click through. At first, nothing makes sense. My eyes move, but my brain lags, like it’s bracing. The writing is careful; every sentence hedged, every claim softened. No one names what happened.
There are photos on the side, the sort you’d miss if you were skimming. I click one and my vision blurs as recognition hits. My breath pulls sharp through my nose, involuntary. My stomach drops cold and heavy, and my hand tightens on the laptop’s edge.
Jesus.
I don’t linger, but I don’t look away fast enough either. The image burns into the back of my skull: the angle, the stillness, the way it looks when something irreversible has already happened.
My heart hammers. This isn’t messy. This isn’t reckless. This isn’t a kid who lost control.
My throat goes tight as I keep reading, slowing down, hoping the words will rearrange themselves into something less horrifying. They don’t. I feel like the biggest idiot for asking Zed if his little brother still plays.
I snap the laptop shut so hard it makes a sharp, final sound in the quiet and toss it onto the couch. I stare straight ahead at the space where the world made sense five minutes ago. My hands come up on instinct, rubbing my face, dragging down hard.
Fuck.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, palms pressing into my eyes as if pushing harder could erase it.
It can’t.
The image is still there, the implication standing in plain sight. My voice comes out low, hoarse, barely there.
“Oh my fucking God, Zed.”