Page 86 of The Challenger

“Cógeme,” I whisper into his ear.

He pulls back with a chuckle. “Figured you would know Spanish swear words. How hard does my girl want to be fucked? On a scale of one to ten?”

“Ten.”

“You sure?”

His body draws taut against mine, and his cock thrusts against my flat belly with little pulses that match my racing heart. I am ripe and swollen and hungry, so hungry for him.

“Someone once told me they like even numbers.”

Even or odd, it makes no difference in the end. I lose track of time, my brain is mush, all of me becoming a gelatinous mass of conflicting and colluding sensations from the insistent pressure on my clit. I feel dizzy like I’m chasing, losing ground, happy, and he slides between my legs fucking me with his tongue next, that opulently nasty beast that feels like a whip cracking wildly in a dark tunnel. I hold him tight with my thighs and move against his mouth, higher and higher until the world splinters into patterns of light. The walls of his room start to shake, and I am so hot I think I must be burning. Or it's just my nipples on fire as he turns them into bullets with his supple fingers.

“Chavez, please,” I moan. “I want you inside me.”

What I want is end-of-the-world sex. A stone-hard knight to plunder me so we can close rank and slam the castle door shut, forgetting about everything and everyone, safe knowing the crowns we need to bear are the ones we give each other.

“Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Hold on.”

He does what he needs to do, and the thick, tangy smell of him rises as he sinks inside me. With slow, pulsing strokes and wearing the smile of a conqueror, he’s overjoyed to watch his captive squirm and moan. I can smell myself, salty and sweet, the scent of wanting something badly. My fingertips dig into the solid flesh of his back. I pull him closer like I plan to do a thousand times in the future, and we rise higher and higher again.

Sweet Jesus, he is the best afternoon lover, a demigod of lust, if such a thing exists. And because he’s also Chavez, give him a target and away he goes.

So he doesn’t just fuck me.

He transports me to the depths of an emerald erotic jungle tangled with palm trees and wet dirt and wild-eyed savages desperate for sacrifice. In heavy, dark silence and slippery, thick bliss, he leaves me howling, aching, and clawing at nothing.

MAY

ChapterThirty-Three

FLYNN

Jesus once said:The truth will set you free. Whether he is my savior remains to be seen, but full credit to him for memorable quotes that ring true centuries later. And truth be told, I might be thinking about higher powers this morning. Something in me has changed. I read all the transcripts from the March and April depositions, and Jerry filled in so many blanks about Ava and her tragic life.

But one question remains.

I hopped on an early flight to Portland today and drove to the Jefferson Country courthouse in Madras, determined to get my answer. If Chavez knew I made this trip alone, he would blow a gasket, so there is some small mercy he is busy in Italy. Only one more tournament in Rome before we reunite in Paris next week for the French Open. He hates that we are apart, as do I, but I needed time to process everything and get my head in order, just like he said.

And if all goes as planned today, my heart will also be at peace.

I arrive early at the courthouse and freshen up in the restroom to kill some time. My face is bare, with zero make-up, and I look like a gangster in an oversized hoodie borrowed from Chavez. The point is not to draw attention to myself. This afternoon, a judge will decide on upping the temporary restraining order served on Jerry a few weeks ago to a permanent one. During the hearing, Jerry gets the opportunity to defend himself, and if he does so successfully, the chances of a jail sentence become slim. I plan to slip into the hearing a few minutes after the proceedings begin and observe Jerry from a distance. After I get a feel for him, I will figure out how to get my answer.

I have it all organized in my head, but fate has other plans.

On a warm morning in May, I am face-to-face with Mr. Linkley in a hallway painted a very uninspiring beige. I exit the restroom just as he finishes drinking at the water fountain. Although I have never laid eyes on him, instinctively, I know who he is. He cuffs water from his chin and we stare at each for a good five seconds before he smiles. He has a pleasant smile for someone with very few teeth.

“Flynn,” he says, in a spellbound voice I imagined would sound foreboding.

Nothing about him is what I expect.

Instead of a twitchy computer nerd with calculating eyes, he could double as a lumberjack. Barrell-chested and tall with meaty hands. His big, square face would do well on television if he had his harelip operated on, and it seems that in Shaniko, mullets never go out of style. After a year of worrying about what would happen if we ever crossed paths, safety is not an immediate concern. Not because a restraining order is in place or because the courthouse is crawling with law enforcement types. Jerry Linkley, in the flesh and standing before me, loses all his power.

But my stomach somersaults as a reminder not to get too close. His brown eyes are lively and inquisitive but also carry a sheen of madness.

“You look just like her,” he says.

At his last deposition, Jerry described the moment of seeing me on TV as though God was speaking to him. The way he looks at me right now is evidence we both have ghosts haunting us. Jerry had begged Ava to consider adoption over abortion in the hopes a full-term pregnancy would change her mind. He had always dreamed of having children—a monkey of his own, were his exact words.

---