Page 15 of Striking Heat
He moves dangerously slow down my thong before pushing it aside. Danny’s eyes are locked on mine the whole time. I want to look away, but I can’t; his stare is too intense. The pace he’s working at is killing me. I need hard and fast right now, but he seems fully intent on torturing me before he gives me pleasure.
Fingertips run along the side of my thong, up and down. I wait for him to dive in, whimpering. I’m so wet, and he hasn’t even touched me yet. A finger lifts the seam of my thong. Continuingat his slow pace, he runs his finger along my folds. He arches an eyebrow as he hovers over my entrance.
“Yes,” I breathe out. I’m barely able to get the word from my lips before he pushes in. I cry out as he inserts two more fingers. The pumping begins, and at this rate, I’m not going to last long. I close my eyes as I take in the sensations he’s creating.
A loud beeping sound startles me, and my eyes snap open.
He’s gone.
I’m alone in my bed. And I’m sweaty.
It was a dream. He managed to invade my dreams.
“Son of a bitch,” I say as I work to get my breathing back to normal. “It was just a dream. He was touching me, and I liked it. He was here in my bed.” I’m trying to make sense of it.
I didn’t even see him yesterday. It was Sunday and I spent the whole day lounging around doing nothing. When I left the bar on Saturday night, I didn’t even look in his direction. I felt him watching me, but I made a point not to acknowledge him.
“Fuck, what in the hell was that?” I ask myself.
There was definitely something there that night. It was weird. I liked his attention, but it was probably just because it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any. And now I’m alone in my bed, frustrated and turned on from my dream.
I look over at the clock. I have some time before I actually have to get up. I reach into my bedside table and grab my BOB. It’s pink and has a lovely pulsating tentacle that hits the right spot on my clit. I slip it under the covers, twist it so it’s pulsating, and insert it slowly.
“Mmm,” I moan as it invades my wetness. It feels so good, and as I get ready to hit the button that makes the head spin, his face flashes in my mind. He tells me again that I will beg him to touch me. It irritates me. The feeling of arousal that lingered after my dream is gone, and now I’m just frustrated. I hate that he got into my head.
I pull BOB from my pussy and toss it onto the bedside table. That motherfucker managed to ruin masturbation for me.
Getting up, I ready myself for practice. Might as well take advantage of the extra time and get to the practice field early so that I can get some extra work in.
When I pull up at the field, I’m the only person there. The rest of the team probably won’t arrive for another half hour. Our practice field is separate from the game field. It’s fenced off by a black eight-foot wrought-iron fence. I put my four-digit code in, then make my way over to a bench. Lacing up my cleats, I sigh.
I’m home.
The soccer field has always calmed me. I love being out here, just me and the ball. I feel a strange sense of home when I’m on the turf.
I juggle the ball on each foot twenty times, switching and repeating the movement. I set up cones and dribble through them at different paces and patterns. Once that’s done, I move to the goal and smack a couple of shots in from various angles.
I feel a set of eyes on me and instantly know he’s there. My body recognizes him instantly, and it shouldn’t. I refuse to turn around and acknowledge him. I keep on running my own private practice until my teammates show up.
Coach approaches me when I take a break for water.
“Did you wanna wait for the rest of us?” he jokes.
I smile brightly at him. “Sorry, I just wanted to get some extra touches in before the rest of the team gets here.”
“You had a great game. There isn’t a reason to punish yourself, you know.”
“Oh, don’t look at it as punishment. I feel at home out here on the field,” I explain and flush at my own words. “You must think I’m sucking up to you or something.”
“No, I don’t.” He takes a step closer, and his voice gets quieter. “I think you’re playing like you have something to prove. I justwanted to make sure you know that you don’t. You earned your spot on this team. You work harder than most. Don’t beat yourself up over something some arrogant reporter who’s never kicked a ball in his life said. He’s not worth it.”
I look over my shoulder and see Danny’s talking to August Cromwell.
“Figures they would know each other,” I mutter.
“Certainly does, doesn’t it?” Coach Watts replies. “He does this to get a rise out of you. I wouldn’t let him get under your skin.”
“I’ll try.”
