Chapter Fourteen
Naomi
How does the phrase go?
It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to?
I’d like to make an amendment to Ms. Gore’s iconic lyrics because this is my party, but I have no plans to cry tonight.
No, tonight I plan to exactly three things: drink roughly my weight in Graham’s Pain Killer cocktails, find two- no, three- no, four of the hottest players on Miami Sharks soccer team willing to practice passing all night long, and come. A lot. Loudly.
Because it’s been roughly three months since I let Graham take me back to his place and fuck me into seeing God for the first and last time.
Three months of avoiding The Cellar, of picking up guys right in front of him only to be left disappointed two to three times a week when they proved him right.
I’m the only one who can make you come, mi reina.
For the record, I did believe that would be the last encounter we ever had.
Nelly was going to marry Cristian, and we were all going to go to great lengths to ensure we never ran into the Island King or his friends ever again.
I would limit my nights at The Cellar, we would never come to El Rincón, and over time we would all fall back into our old normal.
Except, Elias had to go and grow the biggest balls in the universe, drive his fucking Bugatti onto Vincent Winchester’s golf course and crash the Lightning Cove wedding of the century.
It was without a doubt the most romantic crap I’ve ever seen.
But it also means I’m now perpetually stuck in Graham’s orbit.
Stuck being the object of his hungry stares.
Stuck with the constant reminder of how soul shattering it felt to come on his cock like my body was made to do just that forever and ever and ever—
“Need another drink, baby?” One of Cristian’s teammates murmurs in my ear, the touch of his lips against my skin sending a shiver down my spine.
The music in El Rincón is the exact level of obscenely loud that I requested.
Elias will be singing tonight, per my vehement request. The Island King may not be my type, but I’m not oblivious to the effect the rhythm of his music has on the libido.
I am nothing if not a little manipulative and I intend to make these men hungry for me.
With a grin, I grab the closest one by the front of his shirt, pulling him toward the bar. “You read my mind, handsome.”
I have no idea what his name is, nor do I intend to learn. Making Cristian invite them was an effort to get laid, not develop deep, sentimental ties to soccer’s legendary roots. Like I said, this night has exactly three goals.
Goals that would be a lot easier to focus on if Graham Rosales wasn’t looking at me like that.
Pathetic.
Starving.
Submissive.
“Hey there, angel.” His smile is fucking devastating and I hate it. “What can I get you?”
I try to remain as unaffected as possible- Fuck, who am I kidding? I was soaked the first sentence he spoke to me tonight. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Plastering on a smile I swirl my finger in the air to account for the little posse I’ve acquired. “Another round of birthday shot for me and my handsome friends please, Graham Cracker.”
His jaw clenches visibly. Through his teeth he grinds out a “Sure thing,” and gets to work on my order.
Another player begins kissing slowly up my exposed throat and I tilt my head just enough to give him a little more access while another on my other side skates his fingers up the small of my back where my dress dips too low.
“Save it for later, boys,” I admonish gently. “Don’t spoil your dinner with too many snacks.”
The one on my left curses in German against my shoulder. “Where has Santos been hiding you, Schatz? He has been holding out on us, all these beautiful women he casually surrounds himself with.”
I’m not sure casually is the right word, but I don’t correct him. Cristian has only been practicing with them these last several weeks and won’t even be starting next season. Let them cultivate whatever image of him they want, and if it’s that he’s a selfish cad all the better I say.
“Mmm,” the man on my other side hums. “I think we should make the rookie run extra laps this week, Maier.”
I grin, tilting my head up to smile at him. “You can do better than that. Make him suffer for keeping you boys away from me for so long.”
His grin is devilish as he leans in, brushing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “You are quite the minx—”
Shot glasses slam down on the bar a little harder than necessary, pulling the Argentinian player away enough for both of us to glance at Graham. His smile is so too sickeningly sweet. “Birthday shots,” he pours them each full to the rim. “On the house.”
“My three favorite words.” I grin, reaching for one of the glasses. The surrounding players and I cheers, the echo vibrating in the too thick air as Graham stands there, watching my throat work to swallow the sweet drink.
“Bienvenidos a todos. Gracia por venir esta noche,” Elias takes to the microphone with all the practiced ease of a seasoned performer as Clara and Nelly join us at the bar. “I want to especially thank the starting line-up of the Miami Sharks for coming out tonight.”
The players around me as well as a dozen others raise glasses as applause welcomes them to the club.
Penelope grabs Cristian’s sleeve before he can duck out of the spotlight he truly hates being in.
Fortunately for him, his daddy loves him enough to leave him alone.
Instead, he turns his eyes on me, slightly annoyed but also slightly affectionate.
“And I want to wish a very happy birthday to Miss Naomi Mychal.” His eyes narrow. “I hope this fulfills whatever obligations you think I have to you as my girlfriend’s friend.”
It doesn’t, but I lace my fingers innocently beneath my chin, smiling beatifically in the spotlight. Clara rolls her eyes, reaching up to adjust the crown I’ve pinned to my braids- completely my idea of course. I also found a sash which I plan to put to better use later tonight.
“Vamos!”
As the music starts, Penelope immediately grabs Cristian, dragging him out to the dance floor and I hop off my barstool. I down the last shot left behind by one of the players choosing not to drink tonight and take two of their hands. “Let’s dance!”
Four of them join me on the dance floor, but eventually I lose one.
Three, I decide, is still a perfectly reasonable number of toned bodies.
It would have been fun if on my twenty-second birthday I could have played a little two plus two.
But this- the German known as Maier runs his hands slowly up my legs from behind, pinning me to the Argentinian at my front as a third player I haven’t really spoken to grinds into my hips- will definitely do.
???
I have, admittedly, possibly gotten too good at faking orgasms in the last sevenish years of sexual activity.
The first time I let a boy finger me I was fourteen.
He took me to a movie and then we made out in his car after.
His fingers had eventually found their way beneath my skirt, into my panties, and then inside me.
It took little effort, I had very much wanted him to touch me, but it had still been surprising, and my body didn’t really know how to react.
It’s not like he really knew what he was doing either.
He never touched my clit even once in the entire thirty minutes he spent sliding his skinny finger in and out of me.
He had finished. In his pants. Just from touching me and while that feels like a huge compliment now it had been highly confusing at the time.
Especially when he stopped touching me and asked if I had also finished.
I had, of course, not finished. But I hadn’t known enough yet to say that for certain, so I’d just nodded, thanked him, and then let him drop me off at home.
By my second encounter I made sure to do my research.
I watched When Harry Met Sally, scrolled Tumblr for hours, even snuck some dirty books out of the library with my brother’s help.
In retrospect, Nathan was not a good role model, especially considering he bought me my first vibrator for my fifteenth birthday.
All that to say, when my next boyfriend and I reached the point of finger fucking in the backseat of his car, I was more prepared.
Which also meant I left the experience even more disappointed.
Because by that point I knew what an orgasm was and was giving them to myself regularly.
So, when I managed to successfully finish him with a hand job and he- much like the first guy- asked me if I had finished, I once again lied so as not to damage his ego too badly.
For a while, I just hoped it was a high school boy thing. Lack of experience on their part. When I moved on to college everything would change.
Except it was just more of the same. That’s not to say I haven’t had some phenomenal sex.
Eventually real men managed to know what a clit was and how to use it.
I would have my fun, maybe spank someone a little bit, typically get myself off subtly.
But not a single one ever left me with the desire for more. At least not from them in particular.
That is, no one until Graham Rosales decided to fuck his way into my subconscious like a devil of carnal lust.
I hate him.
I hate that I am currently sandwiched between two of the hottest men I have ever seen in my life- the third trying to catch his breath on the bed beside us- covered in their sweat and other bodily fluids and yet all I can fucking think about is Graham fucking Rosales.
Does the man have a magic fucking cock or something? Was his tongue enchanted by a fucking fairy? Did he sell his soul for that kind of core strength?
I go to Pilates three times a week. The men I am wearing workout for a living! Why did I still have to finish the job myself?!
I’m the only one who can make you come, mi reina.
Now I do want to start sobbing because my fingers are fucking shaking- it took way too long to get myself there- and the headache is starting to set in, and I desperately want to get the smell of these men off of me.
I refuse to think about how great Graham’s cologne smelled.
I refuse to think about how long it took me to get him off my skin and how I still haven’t fully forgotten the memory of it.
It’s fucking burned into my nose or some shit because even when I’m sitting in my goddamn bedroom, utterly alone, all I can smell when I reach for my vibrator some nights is him.
The fútbol players and I ended up in a very high-class hotel. I guess they rented rooms so they wouldn’t have to drive home after partying so hard. Quite reasonably responsible. Also, easier to make a getaway on my part.
With a nudge of my elbow the player at my back- I leaned he was a Florida local about halfway across the threshold, but I can’t remember how or why I asked- lifts off and out of me. “I need a shower,” I tell the three of them, pushing off Maier beneath me.
He grunts out a clear disagreement, but I’m already halfway across the room, grabbing two little bottles out of the mini bar.
They can afford it. “I’m stealing the robe,” I call back.
The American gives me a thumbs up, already crawling up the Argentinian’s body.
They are all very familiar with each other. Has Cristian ever—
I actually snort the thought away because Cristian Winchester-Santos ever even thinking of touching another man is laughable. Honestly, I can hardly imagine him touching women sometimes and I know exactly what he sounds like when he comes.
Closing myself off in the bathroom, I flick on the lights, turn up the shower to the hottest level and take a moment to just look at myself in the mirror.
I’m relatively unscathed considering the marks my teeth and nails and hand prints left on the men in the other room.
They tried to be gentle, didn’t argue when I asked them to get on their knees, never once complained when my nails dug crescents into their jaws.
By all accounts it had been a fantastic fuck.
It just hadn’t been enough, and that’s the thought that finally makes me crack open the little bottle of vodka. I take a few swigs as I watch their spend dry on my skin.
I’m the only one who can make you come—
Yes, thank you disembodied voice, I know!
The question I keep asking myself is why.
Why him? Why is what we did so much different than what I just did with those three other men?
! Three! And they all tried their fucking hardest to make it happen too.
I certainly didn’t let on that they were all complete failures but fuck, what was the deal?
Sucking at my teeth, I finish the mini bottle, grab the second one, and get in the shower, scrubbing my skin raw until I’m sure every last bit of me is clean of my birthday orgy.
Somehow I have to resolve that this is just the life I’m bound to live. There’s no denying that Graham was right but fuck him that doesn’t mean I have to give in to his temptation. Graham can go fuck himself, eat a dick, get fucked if he prefers but he will never be touching me ever again.
I will not ever fuck Graham Rosales ever again.