Chapter Twenty-Four Elise
If his expression is any indication, Randall is just as shocked as I am by what he said.
“Randall, we had…” I struggle to gather the right words. My heart is pounding so loud I can’t hear myself think. We’re staring at each other in amazement. Weakly, I finish my sentence. “…we had rules.”
“You think rules are going to stop me from feeling this way about you?” Randall tilts his head, his gorgeous features intensified by worry.
“Just that—”
He straightens up and steps back. “You said no sleeping over, no commitments, no benefits.” Each condition is accompanied by a raised finger as in one, two, three. “You never said anything about developing feelings.”
“Well, it was implied.”
“Not clear enough, apparently. Sit down, Elise.” He points his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the living room.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Instead, I leave him in the kitchen and plop my ass on the sofa. From my vantage point, I watch the stiff muscles of Randall’s neck and upper back bunch while he grabs ice from the freezer. All I hear is the sound of drawers opening and ice clinking.
That stupid coping mechanism takes over, converting my perspective from participant to narrator.
Adelaine—such a great name—awaits on a sofa, sweat trickling between her breasts as her entire body kicks into overdrive. The man—let’s call him Rhett in homage of that sweet-talking playboy from the blockbuster novel turned movie Gone with the Wind—opens a few dressers and the freezer. He prepares an ice pack that he wraps with a towel.
Approaching, Rhett doesn’t sit beside Adelaine like she expects. Instead, he falls to his knees, positioning himself between her thighs. Adelaine’s legs open wide to accommodate his thick frame because her body parts are needy, horny sluts that do not listen to reason.
The coolness of the ice brings Adelaine momentary relief before Rhett’s lingering gaze sends a violent flutter through her chest. The need to squeeze her thighs together makes them tremble. Rhett’s focus shifts from her wrist to her legs.
With a shallow laugh and flared nostrils, he says, “Your legs can barely resist wrapping around me.”
Hypnotized, as if his observation was instruction, Adelaine begins to wrap her legs around him, calves running along the hockey player’s muscular hamstrings. However, instead of pressing his body closer like she expects, Rhett gives Adelaine’s knee a firm squeeze to stall her movement. When her legs drop, the relentless ache in her center throbs harder than her injured wrist.
He makes a tsk, tsk sound before leaning over to whisper in her ear. “That’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to be with you. To take care of you. This is not some kind of long-distance booty call because you are not that for me. At. All. If I have to prove it by keeping my hard cock to myself, then that’s what I’m doing.”
I’m sorry, what? His words pull me out of my mental narration.
This scene is failing to heed proper genre expectations. Excuse me, but at no point should anyone say “keeping my hard cock to myself.”
Is this amateur hour? Zero stars for this script; I need a rewrite.
Randall as Rhett is supposed to act like a sexy nurse. We would get carried away with hot-as-fuck sex. The edge of our unbearable sexual tension will fade into another hookup.
“Um, you want to prove what the what now?” I mumble.
He sits on his heels, increasing our distance.
“Prove that I didn’t drive here for sex, Elise. I get that you’re not willing to discuss us while you’re busy with the production. But I’ve given us a lot of thought, because you’re basically all I think about.”
“Randall. Randall, please.” I don’t even know what I’m asking for, only that his name signals hazy bewilderment and razor-sharp longing.
“You sound sexy as hell, but that’s not working tonight. We’re keeping this ice pack on for at least fifteen minutes. And then you’re going to bed and sleeping. I’ll stay out here. Now lean back and place your arm at the back of the sofa so it’s—”
“Who was she?”
His head recoils as if I slapped him.
“What are you talking about?”
“When you won game five in Columbus, you brought a woman home with you.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Randall, for the love of god, do not lie to me. I saw it with my own eyes. She posted you two on Insta.”
“What exactly did you see?”
He sounds suspicious and angry. Seriously, is he mad at me? As if I would concoct something as humiliating as my jealousy when I stalked him on social media.
“Nevermind.” Seriously, am I expected to describe something I can barely think about? “I’ll take a Tylenol and go to bed now. Thank you for your patience and assistance today.”
If I sound like a customer service representative, it’s because any other tone would reveal my frustration.
“What did you see, Elise?”
“I said nevermind.”
“What did you see, Elise?” he repeats like he’s teaching me a new language and I’m denser than a rock.
“She posted a video from inside your car while you were driving away from the arena. It’s none of my business, except you cannot honestly say you’re bursting for me if you’re still sleeping around.”
I’m so embarrassed by this rant, the thought of crawling behind Yorick is unbelievably tempting. I’ve come to appreciate the mannequin’s stoic presence.
“That was Eleanor, the team’s marketing manager. It was her idea to create buzz around the win by posting from the perspective of the players. If you don’t believe me, you can ask her girlfriend who was sitting in the back seat,” he explains with a wide grin.
“Well, um, fine.” Top-notch vocabulary, that’s me.
“It’s not fine that you waited this long to tell me that you were jealous.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Call it whatever you want, but you should have said something earlier.”
“It’s not my business who you’re hooking up with.”
“There you go again, bullshitting both of us. And stop using that expression, hooking up, because that is never happening again.”
Oh. Oh, OK, wow. I try to hide my expression of shock and hurt. Before I can step away from our cocoon, Randall wraps his hands around my waist. He’s still on the floor, looking up, blue eyes darkened by the night or by emotion, it’s impossible to tell.
“We’re never hooking up again because the next time I have you, Elise Chen, we’ll be making love.”
The last word slots into my unconsciousness like a puzzle piece that someone found on the floor. It makes the last few weeks clearer, somehow. My longing when we’re apart, the giddiness of our interactions, the turmoil of my jealousy, and the happiness of seeing him today. Everything snaps into place. That one word, simple and terrifying, completes the picture.
I want to make love to Randall. Not a rush of lust or a fleeting quickie, but something else. A dance that lets me show all the tenderness and affection and care that’s been developing through the weeks. He’s right, this isn’t a hookup anymore.
The realization should alert me to the uncertainties ahead, but instead all I feel is the thrill of excitement. Like I’d been going through the motions of a dance and now I’m called to the stage and it’s time to do the real thing. Rehearsals are over and adrenaline is stockpiled. My body and mind are grounded by the man on his knees, while my heart soars above us.
I run my fingers over his hair. His grip tightens around my hips. Leaning forward, I press a kiss on his forehead. He takes a slow, deep breath as if I’m his oxygen. When my mouth finds his, the scorching softness makes me hungrier for more. I run my tongue over the seam of his lips and ache to delve deeper.
He pulls away abruptly.
“Elise, baby, don’t tempt a hungry man. Tonight, you’re resting. I mean it.”
“Why? I heard you. No hooking up. We both want the same thing. Please, Randall,” I beg.
He stands so his athletic frame towers over me.
“I’m taking you to bed—to sleep.”
I snicker because yeah, right. “Sure, you are.”
Walking ahead of me, Randall turns the knob of the first door on the right. When he sees that it’s the bathroom and not the bedroom, he makes to turn around. I stall his movement.
“Actually, I can’t go to bed until I take a shower,” I state.
“Fine. I’ll wait in the living room till you’re done. Do you need me to get something for you or—”
“Can I take a shower with my splint?”
He lifts my arm up. “I can wrap it with plastic. Where do you keep tape and plastic bags?”
“Under the sink, but I don’t know if I have any tape.”
“It’s fine, I can tie it up. Give me a sec.”
When Randall leaves the bathroom it’s like a swoosh of energy escapes with him. I’m not sure if his earlier confession about developing feelings is what does me in, or the comforting care he’s offering, or maybe a combination of the two that’s propelling me to break my rules.
Keeping our hands off each other has always been a challenge. But something fundamental shifted tonight.
This is no longer about giving in to the urgency of lust.
What I’m offering isn’t surrender; it’s a gift. I want to give Randall something of myself. I want to share a part of me I’ve never wanted to share with anyone before.
Maybe that’s the difference between having sex and making love. One is a release, but the other is a gift. A gift for both of us.
When he returns with a stern expression, my heart skips. Randall is always gorgeous to look at, but the way he’s staring, it’s as if I’m all he sees.
“Release the right arm from your shirt,” he says, all business like.
“I have a better idea.” I remove my shirt altogether. My chest rises with each breath, taut nipples straining against the white bra.
“Jesus, Elise.” His expression is agonized. “Let me focus.”
“What’s stopping you?” I say because I’m a brat.
He takes the challenge and looks only at my wrist. Randall gently cradles my arm while wrapping the section from elbow to fingertips in plastic. His restraint is meant to keep me at bay, to force me to relax. It has the opposite effect. Seeing him this caring and capable is only adding to my desperation.
“I usually use my good hand to unclasp my bra. Can you do it for me, please?”
His nostrils flair but he’s less stern when he speaks.
“I see what you’re doing, baby.”
“What am I doing?”
“Making me go back on my word about hooking up. It won’t work, because I’m serious about proving to you that this isn’t a booty call, alright?”
“Yeah?” I take a step forward and rub breasts against his abdominal muscles.
“But—”
“But?”
“I never said anything about not getting you off.” With those words, Randall reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. My nipples pucker without shame, straining for contact.
Randall obliges by grazing his knuckles back and forth over them. Slowly, like he has all night to torture me. Oh dear, how the tables have turned. His rapt attention is like having a drug injected into my veins. It creates a rush of adrenaline before the heady buzz of intoxication.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Elise,” he says while languidly running a finger along the skin just above my jeans. “I’m going to take care of you tonight. Give you a shower so you’re nice and clean, tuck you into bed so you can rest…”
He undoes my jeans and tugs down. I grab his wide shoulders for purchase while freeing one leg at a time. When he speaks again, his mouth is inches from my soaked center.
“And if you’re a good girl…” He runs one finger along my waistband before pressing his thumb in tight circles over the pink bow at the center of my panties. I recall how expertly he can work my clit.
“Wha-what? If I’m a good girl, what?” I pant, anguished and aroused.
“I’m going to eat you out till you come.”
Before I have a chance to process the words, he’s turned the shower on. When the temperature is just right, Randall leads me in so I’m facing away from the flowing water, my right arm lifted past the curtain to lessen exposure.
I watch as he pulls off his shirt and steps over discarded pants. My mouth waters, awaiting the sight of his long, thick cock. Instead of fully undressing, Randall steps into the shower.
A gasp of surprise accompanies my obvious ploy to get him naked.
“Take your boxers off. They’ll get wet.”
“Let me worry about that. Relax and lean your head back.” I do as instructed, submitting to Randall’s scalp rubs and neck massages as he lovingly washes my hair.
Meticulously, he cleans me from top to bottom, sudsing bath soap over his hands and caressing my skin in sensual circles. Every inch he touches with those large, calloused fingers, he awakens and stimulates. Under my breasts, along my hips, at the back of my calves. Every inch of me is so aroused, it hurts.
“Please, Randall,” I whine, running my left hand down the center of my body before letting it linger over my clit.
His voice is hoarse with need. “Need to come, baby?”
“Yes, yes!” I’m at my breaking point, delirious with desire.
“Let me take care of that, too. Brace yourself.” He guides my uninjured hand to lean against the tile before pressing sweet kisses down my back. As his lips graze each ridge of my spine, he’s lowering himself till his face is lined up with my canted bottom.
His hands widen my cheeks and I feel a rough tongue swipe over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, surprised by how good it feels to have him there, relentless with those nasty, insistent licks along my ass.
In a steady rhythm, he laps along the crevice between my butt cheeks while holding me in place. Holding me up, really, because the sensations are making my legs buckle. One hand keeps me standing while another runs along the outside of my hips to find my clit.
“So slippery and tight right here, Elise,” he says between licks. “Need to be filled, baby?”
“Muh-huh, ye-es, my, oh god,” I mumble nonsense and nod my head knowing full well he can’t see because his face is buried behind me.
A movement shifts his body. Legs the size of tree trunks slide forward. He’s sitting on the shower floor. “Sit on my face. Let me fill this perfect cunt with my tongue.”
Randall doesn’t wait for me to respond or move. He’s positioned perfectly so I don’t even have to shift my legs. I simply bend my knees like I’m easing myself onto a stool.
His face becomes the seat to my most sensitive parts. A skillful mouth finds my opening and pushes up, French kissing my folds. Oh god, nothing should feel this good. My eyes are crossing and my entire body trembles. I begin writhing over him, but I’m also conscious of his discomfort. Professional goalies are more flexible than most, but this is top-level agility.
“Don’t hold back,” he grunts. “Ride me like you mean it, Elise.”
“Oh!” I exclaim when his large palm presses my lower abdominal as his tongue sweeps deep, deep inside me. My walls quiver as he licks and caresses my most intimate parts. I’m wetter than the shower, primed for an orgasm that will slay me.
The muscles of my stomach contract. A knot in my core squeezes to a sharp ache before it releases. I explode, riding his face through my orgasm. Screaming his name and losing my mind, I let the climax turn me boneless.
The next few minutes are a blur. Randall shuts off the water, grabs a towel to wrap around me, and guides me to the bed. He tucks me in like he promised.
“Come to bed,” I beg, staring at his erection outlined by a soaked and tight pair of boxers. “I want to make love to you, too, Randall. Let me.”
He grazes my forehead with a finger, pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Go to sleep, Elise. I’ll clean up and check on you later.”
I want to contest, but he looks so resolute, so confident in what happens next, the words don’t come to me immediately. All I can do is nod and hope he’s beside me soon, where he belongs.