Page 49 of The Way We Fight

He stroked himself as he spoke to me. “Touch yourself. Show me how you pleasure yourself when I’m not around.”

I slid my hand down my stomach and opened my folds, allowing my fingers to access the wetness that had already started dripping from my body. I pulled the moisture to my clit and started rubbing, watching as Levi’s eyes took in my motions.

“Ever since New York,” he started, “I’m the only thing you think of to get yourself off, aren't I?”

I nodded even though he knew the answer.

“Baby, my dick doesn't even work for anyone else but you. I’ve tried so hard to fuck your memory away, but my dick only wants you.”

I nodded again, agreeing with him that my pussy only showed any interest when he was around or when I thought about him. That was why this was so messed up, so hard to turn away from. That was why no matter how wrong it was, I allowed myself to open for him. I was being controlled by something stronger than my brain. I told him he was a danger to my heart, and I meant it. My heart was now controlling my body.

Levi and I didn’t do a lot of talking when we were together, and definitely never too deep. Keeping things on the surface, and calling it a fight, was how we rationalized our disobedience to our jobs, but those walls were falling faster than the penalty flag I threw at his feet all those weeks ago.

Not only did I want him to fuck me and make me scream, but then I wanted to fall into his couch and ask him why he had so many shoes by the door, who the woman was in the pictures, and if I could see one of his super bowl rings.

I had to let that all go, so I pressed harder to my clit, knowing he was watching and wanting to connect to him the only way we would allow ourselves to do. I moaned, and my knees started to get weak as I got myself closer and closer.

The view of him stroking himself in front of me–in front of the world–was erotic. I was pressed with my back to the window, aware of the small lights that were on and allowing anyone with a view, access to our private moment. It was a small taste and a huge risk that anyone could see Coach Peyton and the new NFL referee were sexually entangled.

And the idea of being caught was freeing.

After a few more strokes to our own bodies, Levi closed the gap and spun me around, pressing my tits to the glass. He placed my hands above my head and my cheek pressed into the window, keeping me steady as he pulled my ass up.

“Oh fuck, Ref. Every time I’m behind you on the field I think about pulling this ass to me. I think about how under those black, straight pants are curves that make me weak. Sometimes I even think about bending you over, right there in front of all one-hundred thousand fans and showing them who you belong to.”

I moaned at the thought, and I knew I would never be able to be on that field again without the image of what he just described.

“When you throw that flag, it makes me want to spank your ass and fuck you until you tell me you’re wrong. I think about it every single time. The way your mouth closes around the whistle makes me wish it was my dick, lucky ass whistle.”

While he spoke, his fingers roamed my body, squeezed, and caressed every part of me he deemed necessary for his attention. When he lined himself up to me, I moaned once again, unable to form any words. I just wanted him to fuck me. To make the vision of us on the field to feel real even though I knew it would ruin me forever.

“Ready baby?” He asked quietly.

“Yessss,” I managed to get out. “Please.”

“Say it, Charleigh. Tell me to fuck you.”

His thumb started to press onto my tight, back hole, making my eyes widen and words even harder to form.

“Tell me to fuck you,” he demanded again.

My chest started to heave in nerves as he continued to touch me where no one else ever had. It felt salacious, crude, and so good I wanted to cry for more.

“One day I will,” he said as if reading my mind. “But right now, tell me to fuck you.” He punctuated each word with a grit of his teeth and a nudge of his dick to my opening.

“Fuck me,” I finally cried, “Fuck me hard, Coach.”

He barely let me finish before he thrusted into me. He knew I liked it hard, and he wasted no time burying himself as deep as he could. In and out with a force so strong my tits and cheek started to ache against the window. Still, I begged for more.

“Harder, harder.”

Levi growled, giving me what I asked for. Pain and pleasure started to overlap, pleasure winning out as I got closer and closer to coming. Right when I thought I was about to let myself go over the edge, Levi pulled out and drug me away from the wall.

Using his hand in my hair, he bent me over the couch and drove back into me. He moved his hands to my hips, keeping me in place as he continued fucking me hard. He brought me back to the edge, getting me close to coming again and I was ready for it, wanting it more than anything.

But once again, he pulled out of me, stopping before I could find my release. “Fuck you!” I yelled because he knew what he was doing. He was bringing me so close to the edge and denying me the euphoria. He knew I could come a hundred times by his hands–or dick–but he wasn't wanting that. He wanted me to suffer.

“Oh baby, I’ll let you come. I swear I will. But when you do, I want you squeezing and convulsing on my dick so hard that I feel the same pain you do.”

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