“I hope to be banging something.”
Fuck. This man is going to be the death of me. I lead him out the door and hang on the frame as he backs away toward the elevators.
“I’ll be back in say, an hour for dinner? Do you want to go out somewhere or we can eat in the restaurant downstairs?”
“Dinner. Right. Downstairs is fine.”
His answering smirk sets my panties ablaze and I shut the door before I do anything stupid.
I need to loosen up before my nerves get the best of me. I head into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to fill the oversized tub. I pour in some soap and wait for the suds to take over. Undressing, I toss my clothes on the floor and dip my toe into the steaming water. I sigh at the contact and with my hair piled atop my head, I submerge myself into the tub. This is absolute heaven.
I soak for what feels like ages. When I glance at my phone, I see it’s only been about fifteen minutes. My mind is racing with thoughts of Tatum and dinner tonight and the weekend I’m going to spend with him. I need to do more to relax.
I’m in a luxury suite with my hot-as-sin coach right upstairs who I occasionally make out with and I’m still jittery.
Speaking of Tatum…I know of one surefire way to relax me…
I slide my hands up and down my thighs, feeling my silky, slippery skin under my fingertips. I haven’t had sex in months and each time I kissed Tatum has made me hornier than a straight man leaving prison for the first time in thirty years.
My fingers flutter over the mound at the apex of my thighs. I gasp as I hit the sensitive bud and moan as I apply the slightest bit of pressure. I’m a ticking time bomb and it’s only a matter of time before I explode under my fingertips.
I glide lower, slipping a finger inside my pussy and hooking it, hitting the magic spot and crying out in ecstasy. I fuck myself, humping my hand hard enough for the water to slosh around me.
With my other hand, I rub vicious circles on my clit. All I can think about is Tatum doing this to me. I want to look down and see the hand connected to his tattooed arm finger-fucking me into oblivion.
In an instant, I detonate, calling out with his name on my lips. The shock waves rolling through me calm me from the inside out. I feel ten times lighter, but now I need to get dressed for dinner.
I pull the plug and drain the water. I step out, wrapping myself in a ridiculously soft hotel robe. Once I pad out of the bathroom, I rip open my suitcase and search for anything acceptable to wear.
It’s just dinner in a hotel with my soccer coach. Who I masturbated to a mere five minutes ago. What is an appropriate outfit for this scenario?
I only brought one nice outfit and I’m saving it for when I meet his friends. I’m desperate to impress them, to get them to like me. It’s as if I’m meeting my boyfriend’s friends, not my coach’s.
Tonight is not a date. It’s just a meal. I don’t need to wear anything fancy.
I throw on skinny jeans with an off-the-shoulder top and call it a day. Slipping on my go-to converse, I plop on the bed while I wait for Tatum.
Wait…am I being presumptuous? What if he wants me to meet him downstairs at the restaurant? It’s not 1950. It’s not like I need a male escort to hold my hand down the hallway. I can manage just fine on my own.
The second I grab my cross-body, there’s a knock at my door. Cracking it open I see Tatum on the other side.
Oh, thank God. I didn’t want to look like an idiot waiting for him or for him to think I blew him off by going downstairs alone.
“Perfect timing,” I say, as if the fact my clutch is in my hand is a mere coincidence.
I close the door behind me and step into the hall with my tall, dark, and disgustingly handsome coach. It’s unfair how good looking he is. One look at him has my clit buzzing for another orgasm.
He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but he may as well be naked with how my body is reacting to him.
And God, his cologne. It’s somehow both woodsy and citrusy.
“You look nice.” A smile pulls at my lips and my cheeks heat at his words.
“Thank you. So you do. I mean, so do you.” I’m such a fucking idiot.
He chuckles as he punches the button for the elevator. We stand together in awkward tension and why is it awkward? Who cares if we kissed a few times? Morgan and I used to get drunk and kiss each other all the time and we’re not weird about it.
I want to say something, anything to break the tension, but the only words rolling around in my head right now are about the weather or sports. I’m not going to start up small talk with my coach.
We climb in the elevator and he hits the button for the lobby while I rack my brain for any possible topic of conversation.
“Are you excited to see your teammates tomorrow?” The question may technically fall under sports talk, but it doesn’t count as small talk.
“Yes and no.” He’s thoughtful for a moment and I wait for him to continue. “It’s hard, you know? They’re living out my dream while I’m stuck—”
“—Coaching a bunch of bitchy college coeds?” I finish the sentence for him and he cracks a smile.
“Not what I was going to say, but in a sense, yes. This thing…I’m stuck in a shitty situation and I don’t see a way out right now and in part, it’s one of my teammate’s faults. I’m pretty pissed at him because he gets no repercussions for his part in it all.”
“You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about, right? Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”
We step out of the elevator and I watch as his eyes slide around, surveying the room. I don’t know what or who he’s looking for, but I can see he’s on edge.
“Not tonight.” His tone says not ever, but I’m not going to push him right now, not with how tense he is.
“Okay, well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding and will get swept under the rug.”
“Not in today’s world it won’t.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. I switch topics before my heads starts to spin from his riddles.
“If you don’t want to see your teammates, why did we drive all the way up here?”
“I do want to see them. It’s just the one guy, Mitch.”
“Holy shit, Mitch Keegan? He’s a legend.”
“He’s an asshole,” he responds through gritted teeth.
I won’t mention that he, too, has a tendency to be an asshole.
We get to the restaurant and the hostess seats us right away. I look around, seeing men in suits and women in cocktail dresses, strutting around on heels with martini glasses in their hands.
I stand on my tiptoes to whisper in Tatum’s ear. “I feel severely underdressed.” He gives me a once over lasting a few seconds too long.
“I think you look perfect.”
We take our seats and I immediately reach for the drinks menu.
“I guess I can’t get a drink, can I?” I could really use the liquor to calm me down, but since I’m sitting across from the man who instigated a dry season for me, it’s probably not appropriate.
“There are a lot of things we shouldn’t be doing. Why stop now?” The man makes a good argument.
I order a vodka soda and he opts for a beer while I focus my attention on the menu. The lighting in here gives off a seductive level of ambiance. Each time I turn my head I see more people, sitting close or kissing or on obvious dates. Then here I am in my jeans with a man who is—according to Google—six years older than me, worth a disgusting amount of money, and my college soccer coach.