The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 86
He moved his eyes to me meaningfully and then back to his teammate, his jaw working.
Meanwhile, I slid my teeth to the side and tried not to roll my eyes.
Too much testosterone. I’d seen the fellas hyped on its effect before—after they’d had a particularly rough practice—but never like this. The locker room reeked of it—of the violence of sport, of winning and losing and testing limits. Of giving and taking punches.
Boys.
I spent the second half with Daly, taking him through gentle exercises, icing, and rubbing down his legs. We watched the remainder of the match on a TV mounted to the wall. Ireland won. It wasn’t even close. But still, when the last minute drew to a close, I could see Daly’s features relax.
Soon the room was full of players and reporters, coaches and support staff. I was tasked with administering massages, applying stitch strips to cuts, and disinfecting wounds. Everyone was high on victory, the room vibrated with celebratory male energy. Their eyes were a little wild, looking at me like untamed marauders instead of professional athletes. No one seemed to mind their abrasions or bruises. Quite the opposite.
As an example, Ronan had a black eye, but he seemed pleased as punch about it.
“Isn’t it painful?” I asked, handing over an icepack.
“It’s not bad.” He shrugged, then winced as the pack made contact with his swollen brow. “I’m getting too old for this shite, but it’ll all be worth it when my Annie gets hold of me.”
I grinned at this. “She’ll take good care of you?”
“The best.” His grin turned playful, happy, and I laughed at him.
The crowd thinned. Reporters, happy with their stories, departed. Some players hit the showers, others left without cleaning up. Eventually, near midnight, it was Bryan’s turn. He sat on the physio table in the locker room, a hungry, unsmiling glare trained on me. My skin buzzed at his nearness, at the raw intensity of his gaze. I felt a little intoxicated by both.
“Hey,” I said quietly, my own gaze moving over him. His knuckles were split on one hand and a nasty bruise was forming on the right side of his jaw. Other than that, and being covered in dirt and sweat, he was perfect.
I cleared my throat, my senses coming alive under his perusal. His silence, paired with the concentration of his stare, agitated me, made my hands shake.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered, using a cool disinfecting compress to remove the grime from the back of his fingers.
“Meet me in the therapy room.”
I lifted my eyes from his hand, frowning at him. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “Meet me when you’re finished.”
Bryan gripped my wrist, turned it toward him, and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the skin. His tongue traced a light circle over my veins, and then he stood, forcing me to back up. His height dwarfed me, his powerful body and rugged features would have been intimidating if I didn’t know better.
Actually, no.
Tonight, he was intimidating.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered darkly, stepping forward, crowding me, and brushing his chest against mine as he turned and left.
I leaned heavily against the counter at my back, chasing my breath.
“I think we’re done.” Coach Brian’s voice met my ears, pulling my attention back to the room and reminding me that Bryan and I were not the only two people in the world. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Great job tonight.”
I nodded dumbly, giving my boss a small smile. “I’ll just—I’ll just grab my things.”
Leaving the locker room, I glanced behind me, ensuring the hall was clear of spectators, then hurried to the physio room. Once there, I knocked gently, again looking over my shoulder. Before I could speak or try the knob, the door opened and a hand reached out, pulling me inside.
And then my back was against the closed door, his hands were everywhere, and his mouth was moving over mine. His kiss was hungry, punishing, demanding, and my head swam with the feel of him. He smelled of clean earth and sweat, his skin still slick with it.
Needing to breathe, I turned my head to the side, gasping, “Bryan . . .”
Saying nothing, he picked me up, his hands on my arse, encouraging my legs to wrap around his torso, and his mouth bit and sucked my neck. I was so turned on, ready for him. How does he do this?
He carried me to the physio table and dropped me in an inelegant, hurried movement. His fingers were in my pants, pulling them down my legs without my assistance, my knickers and tennis shoes, too. Then he bent, his mouth hungry, biting my breast.
A sharp cry of pleasure and pain slipped past my lips and I arched, offering myself more fully.
Before I could comprehend his intent, Bryan was kneeling on the mat between my legs, widening my thighs, tonguing my slit. I gasped, leaning back and catching myself on the edge of the table, movement behind him snagging my attention.
The mirror.
I saw the reflection, our reflection. Bryan kneeling before me, his head bent between my legs, his arms wrapped around me. He was still fully dressed in his uniform, the only items he’d removed were his shoes and socks. And I saw myself, naked, spread open, my mouth parted in surprise, a flush high on my cheeks.
He lifted his hand, palming and squeezing my breast, pinching and twisting my nipple between his thumb and finger, forcing my attention to his eyes. He was studying me, my face, and I watched as he tongued my clit. He wanted my eyes on him, on what he was doing. I moaned. Trembled.
Heat spread up my neck to the base of my skull, but I couldn’t help it. My attention was drawn back to our reflection. I witnessed him lift his head, turning over his shoulder, asking, “What are you looking . . .?”
Meanwhile, I slid my teeth to the side and tried not to roll my eyes.
Too much testosterone. I’d seen the fellas hyped on its effect before—after they’d had a particularly rough practice—but never like this. The locker room reeked of it—of the violence of sport, of winning and losing and testing limits. Of giving and taking punches.
Boys.
I spent the second half with Daly, taking him through gentle exercises, icing, and rubbing down his legs. We watched the remainder of the match on a TV mounted to the wall. Ireland won. It wasn’t even close. But still, when the last minute drew to a close, I could see Daly’s features relax.
Soon the room was full of players and reporters, coaches and support staff. I was tasked with administering massages, applying stitch strips to cuts, and disinfecting wounds. Everyone was high on victory, the room vibrated with celebratory male energy. Their eyes were a little wild, looking at me like untamed marauders instead of professional athletes. No one seemed to mind their abrasions or bruises. Quite the opposite.
As an example, Ronan had a black eye, but he seemed pleased as punch about it.
“Isn’t it painful?” I asked, handing over an icepack.
“It’s not bad.” He shrugged, then winced as the pack made contact with his swollen brow. “I’m getting too old for this shite, but it’ll all be worth it when my Annie gets hold of me.”
I grinned at this. “She’ll take good care of you?”
“The best.” His grin turned playful, happy, and I laughed at him.
The crowd thinned. Reporters, happy with their stories, departed. Some players hit the showers, others left without cleaning up. Eventually, near midnight, it was Bryan’s turn. He sat on the physio table in the locker room, a hungry, unsmiling glare trained on me. My skin buzzed at his nearness, at the raw intensity of his gaze. I felt a little intoxicated by both.
“Hey,” I said quietly, my own gaze moving over him. His knuckles were split on one hand and a nasty bruise was forming on the right side of his jaw. Other than that, and being covered in dirt and sweat, he was perfect.
I cleared my throat, my senses coming alive under his perusal. His silence, paired with the concentration of his stare, agitated me, made my hands shake.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered, using a cool disinfecting compress to remove the grime from the back of his fingers.
“Meet me in the therapy room.”
I lifted my eyes from his hand, frowning at him. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “Meet me when you’re finished.”
Bryan gripped my wrist, turned it toward him, and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the skin. His tongue traced a light circle over my veins, and then he stood, forcing me to back up. His height dwarfed me, his powerful body and rugged features would have been intimidating if I didn’t know better.
Actually, no.
Tonight, he was intimidating.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered darkly, stepping forward, crowding me, and brushing his chest against mine as he turned and left.
I leaned heavily against the counter at my back, chasing my breath.
“I think we’re done.” Coach Brian’s voice met my ears, pulling my attention back to the room and reminding me that Bryan and I were not the only two people in the world. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? Great job tonight.”
I nodded dumbly, giving my boss a small smile. “I’ll just—I’ll just grab my things.”
Leaving the locker room, I glanced behind me, ensuring the hall was clear of spectators, then hurried to the physio room. Once there, I knocked gently, again looking over my shoulder. Before I could speak or try the knob, the door opened and a hand reached out, pulling me inside.
And then my back was against the closed door, his hands were everywhere, and his mouth was moving over mine. His kiss was hungry, punishing, demanding, and my head swam with the feel of him. He smelled of clean earth and sweat, his skin still slick with it.
Needing to breathe, I turned my head to the side, gasping, “Bryan . . .”
Saying nothing, he picked me up, his hands on my arse, encouraging my legs to wrap around his torso, and his mouth bit and sucked my neck. I was so turned on, ready for him. How does he do this?
He carried me to the physio table and dropped me in an inelegant, hurried movement. His fingers were in my pants, pulling them down my legs without my assistance, my knickers and tennis shoes, too. Then he bent, his mouth hungry, biting my breast.
A sharp cry of pleasure and pain slipped past my lips and I arched, offering myself more fully.
Before I could comprehend his intent, Bryan was kneeling on the mat between my legs, widening my thighs, tonguing my slit. I gasped, leaning back and catching myself on the edge of the table, movement behind him snagging my attention.
The mirror.
I saw the reflection, our reflection. Bryan kneeling before me, his head bent between my legs, his arms wrapped around me. He was still fully dressed in his uniform, the only items he’d removed were his shoes and socks. And I saw myself, naked, spread open, my mouth parted in surprise, a flush high on my cheeks.
He lifted his hand, palming and squeezing my breast, pinching and twisting my nipple between his thumb and finger, forcing my attention to his eyes. He was studying me, my face, and I watched as he tongued my clit. He wanted my eyes on him, on what he was doing. I moaned. Trembled.
Heat spread up my neck to the base of my skull, but I couldn’t help it. My attention was drawn back to our reflection. I witnessed him lift his head, turning over his shoulder, asking, “What are you looking . . .?”
