Page 38 of Crossing the Top Line

“Fuck, Victoria, you feel…so good,” Eli gasps, setting a steady pace, hips snapping hard and deep against me.

I moan, nails dragging along his back and shoulders as I try to hang on. The work he did on the couch made me slick and sensitive, and I’m back at the edge of orgasm before I know what’s happened. We’re just a sweaty mass of limbs and pleasure, lips and teeth and nails shredding each other down to our most base forms. Skin on skin, my peaked nipples brush against the granite planes of his chest and abs. His fingers are in my hair, tugging a little, but I don’t care. He could rip out every strand on my head, so as long as he doesn’t stop fucking me.

When I come this time, it’s a slow fire that spreads out from my core to the tips of my toes and fingers, goosebumps rising on my arms and back.

“Yes, fuck, come on my cock again,” Eli moans, releasing the back of my head to slip a hand between us to rub my clit.

I scream, his touch too much and not enough. It only takes a few seconds before I’m doing what he asked, my channel clamping down on his thick length over and over.

“Fuck. Yes. I’m—Victoria!”

He shouts my name to the heavens as he surges forward, pressing every inch up to his knot inside of me as he explodes. His cock twitches and pulses inside of me, the sensation dulled slightly by the condom, but still potent enough to make me moan deep in my chest with primal satisfaction.

After what feels like a full minute, he finally collapses forward, resting his forehead on my sternum. I play with his hair, my body still thrumming from what might have been the best orgasms I’ve ever had in my life.

“So, what do you think, Coach?” Eli asks into the silence, making me jump.

I look down at him, my brow low over my eyes in full confusion. But I find him grinning up at me, his cheek resting on my right breast like a pillow.

“How was my tryout? Do I make the team?” he asks, barely holding back laughter.

I scoff and roll my eyes, shoving his shoulder. He sits back and pulls his softened cock from my core, laughing to himself. But he’s still staring at me, and I realize he’s waiting for a response.

“Yeah, I suppose you make the roster. Good job, kid,” I throw back with a sarcastic roll of my eyes.

“Yes!” He pumps his fist and jumps off the bed, heading toward the open bathroom door.

Shaking my head, I smile to myself as I watch his very shapely ass flex. I almost consider taking back the statement, but then Elijah turns and smiles at me, and I stop myself. And once we’ve cleaned up and he’s behind me under the covers, his body curved around mine perfectly, I tell myself that a repeat performance of tonight won’t be the end of the world.

I’d expected Elijah to stick around like a bad penny the morning after his “tryout,” but he didn’t even stay long enough for a cup of coffee. Before I could finish my first mug, he was showered, dressed in his slightly wrinkled clothes from the night before, and out the door with a simple kiss on my cheek to remember him by. Well, that and the ache between my thighs from the thorough fucking he gave me before sunrise.

Myguthasbeentwisted into knots for the last nine hours, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to choke down a protein-packed breakfast and my pre-workout shake. Every second that passes without Eli showing face drags on my nerves like rusty, dull blades, my memories of last night replaying behind my eyes every time I close them.

I’d told Tori that I was going home, and at first, I planned on doing so. I’d even told Oliver not to wait for me if he wanted to head out. But that part of my brain that won’t let me forget her stopped me from following through. Instead, I’d found a shadowy spot and waited, a masochistic need to watch her rooting me to the spot even as I saw her march her perfect ass up to the bar and throw back half a dozen shots with Eli before pulling him out to the dancefloor. I’d finally had enough self-imposed torture when I saw the gleam of his bright blonde hair disappearing behind her through the exit and onto the street.

Oliver sighs heavily from beside me at the kitchen island, and I glance over to see him checking his phone. The screen goes black before I can get a proper peek, and I look up to meet his amber gaze.

“Eli’s going to make his own way to S&C. If you’re all set, we can head out,” he says, sounding half-annoyed, half-amused.

My jaw clenches as I swallow back the questions burning the back of my throat like bile. He knows something, and the alpha part of my mind wants to grab him by the throat and force him to confirm my suspicions. But the rational part, the one honed through years of off-the-clock therapy with my mother, wins out, letting me nod and push back from the island and grab my gym bag off the end of the living room sectional. Oliver leads the way down to the garage and I slide into the front seat for the second time since I’d met him.

We’re quiet for a while, and I watch the passing buildings, one of my knees bouncing uncontrollably. I’m trying to sort through my thoughts and emotions, putting them into neat piles in my mind to be considered one at a time. The surface ones are easy to peel back so I can get to the core of what’s bothering me so much. But the writhing mass below the surface is not so easily tamed.

“We can listen to something else, if this is bothering you,” Oliver says suddenly, derailing my train of thought.

I jump slightly before turning a curious look toward him. Truthfully, I didn’t even notice that anything was playing on the radio, but now I hear the guitar riffs and strong drums along with the haunting melody.

“No, this is good. I was just…” I trail off, motioning vaguely at my head.

“My dad raised me on mostly classic rock, but some grunge and hair metal. Took me to tons of concerts thanks to our Habs season tickets. Eli says that’s why I can’t hear him half the time,” Oliver goes on, laughing at his own joke.

I chuckle, relaxing slightly into the seat as we go back and forth about music. He’s way more opinionated than I am, though we both share the sentiment that country music has never been the same since the early 2000s. We’re so deep into our conversation that I don’t notice as we cross the river, and I’ve almost forgotten my worries by the time we’re parked and heading into the Mystic training facility.

But all of that relaxation flies right out the window when we enter the strength training room, and I see Eli holding court around the leg press machines.

My steps falter for a moment, all sound disappearing as my heartbeat kicks into high gear and the noise of rushing blood fills my ears. When he looks up at me, a low growl rumbles in my chest, my instincts taking over hard and fast. But then Oliver slaps a hand on my shoulder, fingers digging painfully enough to draw me back from the edge of rage.

“Back off,” he snaps in my ear, the two simple words full to the brim with authority.

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