Page 48 of The Challenger

And he is so into it.

Hands knitted behind his head, he boogies his way to the foot of the bed. I’ve dreamed in the darkness about my hungry hands and mouth free to wander over his skin, and having it all on display now, gyrating so fearlessly, is a singular pleasure so arousing, the indecency of my thoughts verge on crude.

“You have such a beautiful body,” I mumble.

“I need some help here, señorita,” he says. “These jeans won’t unzip themselves.”

He doesn’t make it easy for me. A slave to the music, his hips slowly circle as I fumble with the zipper.

“There’s something in the way,” I point out, laughing.

He runs his hands over my curls with a,You figure it out,look. “It’s only going to get bigger.”

“Dammit. Hold still foronesecond."

He actually obeys me, and what I’ve only fantasized about gets released with one spirited yank. Cut by Donatello and bouncing hard off his balls, the full glory of him is the very definition of a masterpiece. I stare at the satin smoothness, my mind calibrating length, width, depth. Angles.

Some women think blowjobs are demeaning. (And for the dudes who like to slap their meat across our faces, news flash: that is not helping your cause.) I would never share my toothbrush with someone, and yet have no qualms swallowing the most private part of a man into my unhinged jaw. Perhaps it’s about chasing intimacy that forever eludes me. By now, Dr. Bradford should have put it all together. Me in my mansion, my big car, surrounding my loneliness with space. But he can only work with what he’s given, and I’m guilty of holding back. I never mention the string of one-night wonders and how the high they produce gives way to the inevitable low. The fear of rejection and loss is crippling and never facing those things is the only way I can survive.

The only way I have survived until now.

I look up at Chavez, backlit by the sinking sun. Hopeless desire overwhelms me, and I feel all the way open for the first time in years.

“Flynn, baby,” he says, stroking himself in case I’ve forgotten what we came here for. “I’m all yours.”

ChapterEighteen

CHAVEZ

Before tennis became my calling,I did dream of boy band stardom and fine, judge me all you want. Everything is a stepping stone, and you gotta hop and jump from one to the next to figure out your path. According to Carmelita, a herd of yowling cats sounds better than my voice, but the lesson learned from dancing is that my body had to be in motion in whatever I pursued. Moving makes me feel alive.

And so does Flynn.

Now that my show is over, she is fingering my balls and driving me bananas with the wetness of her tongue. No one ever said Chavez hates control, and here I am trapped at the foot of the bed, jeans and briefs dropped halfway down my leg and praying to God for staying power.

She peeks up at me from under her sexy lashes and whispers, “This all right?”

“It’s perfect,” I grit out, five minutes a distant dream at this rate. “Just go.”

Some guys might be all weird about a woman sleeping with more than fifty dudes, but there is something to be said for experience. Flynn knows the angles to make it happen just right and kneels to give herself the proper leverage. And my fucking Christ, when she deep throats me without warning, the master puts all the imitators to shame. The tip of my dick smashes against the soft palette of her throat, and I could be in any country, on any planet—the details are meaningless when I’m devolving into something less than human.

“Fuuuck!”

Usually, I have to take over, steer the ship, and mouth-fuck my way to the end. But Flynn is a bona fide natural with this job description. Right on the money with the desperate ass-clutching of a lady appreciating every inch of me. I got nothing else to do but shut my eyes and give in to the pleasure of her deep, dark, and greedy mouth. Let the ache of need fill my brain so I can forget the arithmetic nightmare of ranking points, and sets won or lost, and tournaments to play, and instead revel in the true miracle that a woman exists who has a blowjob as item number one on her list. Her dedication to finding the perfect rhythm is like me serving two hundred balls a day into the deuce court.

Dyson vacuums, you got some competition.

Not even clearing the one-minute mark, the countdown begins. The earth moves and the cosmos starts to shift. I’m breathless and dumbed down to the most guttural, base need. My nuts start to tighten with a load I’m not sure she’s expecting.

And it’s always good manners to ask.

“I’m almost there,” I mutter. "You want me to—”

She wordlessly deep-sixes any more heresy flying out of my mouth by crushing my ass closer. And then … Houston, we have a problem. Her fingers slide deep into my great divide, but we never established that anything in the rear is in the no-fly zone for me.

My cheeks jam up, and now what?

Shutting a woman down in the home stretch is like shooting yourself in the foot, and I can’t even do that because I am frozen like a popsicle. She keeps working me over, pushing me to a place I have never been. The roar in my ears becomes deafening, and my lungs are on the verge of collapse. And then, if I needed any more proof that Flynn has the power to propels me outside of my comfort zone, I let it happen.

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