Page 21 of The Challenger

“Yes and no.” His thigh starts jittering imperceptibly against mine. “I’m starting over from scratch, in a way. But on the flip side, this time I can do it right.”

“What wasn’t right before?”

The question is a roundabout way of addressing the thirty-odd YouTube videos of his now infamous first-round debacle at the French Open last year. I watched three of them this morning, different angles of a visibly agitated Chavez losing it on the umpire after an overrule and accidentally hitting a young fan in the chest when he drilled a ball into the stands. The ump defaulted him immediately. He left the court in a hail ofboos,incurred a fine for skipping the press conference, and went dark for seven months. Whatever happened on the court is something he hasn’t shared with me yet.

“What are you doing for the next little while?” he asks. Trying, like he did last night, to make the conversation about me.

“I’ve decided to take some time off. Not sure what the next step is.”

He glances over. “You don’t want to write anymore?”

“Oh no, I do, but…” I pause, unsure how to describe my vastly uncertain future. But I believe Chavez might understand part of my struggle in the long dark hours. “Do you ever get tired of the pressure? That it’s only you out there?”

“Yeah,” he admits, picking a piece of fluff off the daybed and flicking it away. “It can be a drag. But I got into tennis because team sports never appealed to me—relying on others for my success. This is what I wanted, and I still want it. I know I have a Grand Slam in me. Several.”

“You sound very motivated. Maybe a couple of months on your own might do you good,” I say, trying the Vandana approach and finding a positive spin. “Gain some perspective without input.”

“I need someone,” he counters. “But a regular coach might not cut it. My problem is I get way too deep into my head. Shit gets squirrely, and there goes my game. I thought Smythe might step up to the plate and help out, but he's not down with remote sessions.”

“For a small monthly fee, you can call me.”

The words spill out before I can stop them, and my face clouds a fraction. Now is not the time to be flippant or glib, not when he’s opening up. Chavez hijacks my apology while it’s still forming by reaching for my water bottle with a smile curling on his lips. He sets it on the ground next to his and faces me. Looking into the endless blue of his eyes is like being in a fever dream.

“I hope your kisses are free, Miss Flynn,” he says softly. “Or else I’m going bankrupt.”

He lifts my chin with a gentle push of his finger, and everything I’d told myself on the drive over—the logic, how I decided I’d act and what I’d say—melts away as his mouth finds mine. He smells like soap and sin and makes a case for never wanting a kiss to end. That’s how damn good it feels. Never breaking the kiss, he nudges us lower, slowly becoming horizontal. His skillful fingers ply my tense back muscles, working them into submission. Each deep stroke dissolves my willpower until a warm liquid light funnels into my sweet spot. I arch against him, a helpless pin drawn to the magnet of his irresistible body. Sensing surrender, he pushes his erection against my dampness, and the ache of wanting spills out in a low, desperate whimper.

“God, that feels amazing.”

“I want to do everything with you,” he whispers back, lips humming on mine.

His hand roams north, seeking unchartered territory. The exquisite burn of my nipple tweaking between his fingers floods the part of my brain that is supposed to think straight with a rush of arousal. Later this afternoon, when I’m sitting across from Dr. Bradford and telling more lies, I’ll rethink why I do what I do now.

But sometimes, there is no good reason other than pure need.

“Wait,” I say and wedge my hand between us, my hand flat and pressing back on his chest.

He chases after my mouth with a mewling sound. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I, I want to kiss you with me on top.”

He searches my face. And yes, I want to say, this is what you get with a woman who has slept with fifty-five men (give or take, I’m not in there with a calculator like he is) incapable of getting her off. Being on top gives me an advantage. I can finger myself more easily and clock if he’s getting weird about it. And I need to be more careful with him. He’s trained to read the body language of opponents across the net—all the little things that give someone away.

He’ll know if I’m faking it.

Chavez stretches flat onto his back and says, “No complaints here.” Maybe he thought I would sit on his thighs or his belly, not plunk myself down onto his stiff jewels. He jerks beneath me as a startled laugh slips out of his mouth. “Woah, woah, woah. Go slow, mamacita. I’m already struggling here.”

Hands steady and holding my hips still, it makes no difference because he swells like a balloon into my spreading thighs. His glistening satin tip pops out from the waistband of his shorts a second later and my mind trips all over itself. Do I plunge and go? Ride that beast bareback into the sunset with a yippee ki-yay? No, we need a condom. But…

“Flynn, baby,” he whispers. “Don’t think about it. I’m with you. Just go. Hold onto my hands.”

His fingers flower open, and when mine intertwine with them, he locks us together like tent stakes hammered into granite. Oh, no. No, no, no. I need my hands. One of them, at least. But it’s too late. There is no chance for backward, not as we slip into a sweet, bucking rhythm that Chavez dictates with every upward drive of his cock.

“Ride me,” he mutters, a command if there ever was one. “All the fucking way.”

His eyes are dilated, wet and ready for it all. And forget about removing clothes. Who has time for that pesky step? We move together until the world shrinks, the sun disappears, and only darkness exists. In a warm haven where the line between exquisite pain and pleasure blurs into infinity, I feel my control breaking and lust burning through me like wildfire, the blood thumping in my ears. Tension funnels lower and lower, my back arching in anticipation.

Holy shit, is this happening? We’re not even having real sex. The kind that involves penetration.

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