Page 10 of Sexting the Coach
I wake with a start to a knock on my door, so faint I think I’ve almost imagined it. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed, I realize that somehow, mercifully, the pain from my hip is gone. I stand and cross the room, and it doesn’t twinge even once.
Elsie is in the doorway, her long blond hair loose, falling gently over a little nightgown that falls halfway down her thighs. She’s tall enough that it’s practically risqué, and from the way she’s looking at me, I know what she’s here for.
I know that she sent that text for a reason.
Reaching out, I hook my arm around her back and draw her into my room, pressing her against the wall and shutting the door at the same time. I don’t want anyone to see her in here with me as I bring my mouth to hers and kiss her.
Even as I know this is a bad idea—all the same reasons why still apply, the scandal, this coaching job being important to me—it’s like all at once, they don’t matter. The only thing that matters is getting my hands on her, touching her, pulling this nightgown up and off her body.
And so, I do, the fabric soft and silky, impossibly light in my hands. It comes off instantly, easily, and I walk her backward toward my bed, kissing her the entire time.
I’m hard. It feels like I’ve been hard since the moment she left my room earlier, like my body isn’t going to be satisfied until I have her.
“Weston,” she rasps, when I push her down into the mattress, crawling up between her legs, mind already spinning with the possibilities of having her here, like this. Over the past few weeks, I hadn’t allowed myself to think about how much I wanted this. How much time Elsie Montgomery has spent occupying space in my head.
“Yeah?” I ask, roughly, hoping she doesn’t, for some reason, change her mind about this now.
She doesn’t answer for a second, and when I look up at her, her lips are pressed together in a pitying sort of look. “Wake up.”
“What?”
But she doesn’t have to say it again. I’m already coming to the surface, the sun hot and red against my eyelids. I open my eyes and find myself alone in the bed, sunshine coming in a straight beam through my window.
The only thing that’s carried over from the dream is how hard I am, laying face down in the bed.
“Wolfe!” a voice comes through the door, and I realize it must be what woke me up in the first place. The person on the other side jiggles the handle, and I’m glad I thought to lock the thing last night, after the incident with Montgomery.
“What?” I call back, already getting a headache at the knowledge of that grating voice on the other side.
“You coming?” Fincher asks, his voice tight, impatient, and annoying. “We start in five.”
“I am aware,” I call back, trying not to sound as pissed off as I feel. Not only was that dream a fucking tease, but the text itselfhas been playing through my mind again and again. I hardly got any sleep, and when I did, Elsie Montgomery was right there, toying with me.
I’d like to do a lot more than just check you out next time.
It came from an unknown number, but all it took was a very fast look at the staff directory for me to know who it came from. At first, I thought it must have been some sort of mistake—it didn’t seem like Elsie at all, to send something so bold. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would sext you after an encounter like that. Especially considering the fact that she practically sprinted out after.
I decided I would forget all about it, even though I couldn’t bring myself to delete it from my phone.
Then, no matter how hard I tried to forget about it, the words kept playing through my head, and in her voice. My mind kept supplying me with images of her walking into my room, her eyes as they hungrily moved over my body.
The way she had touched me.
Outside the door, I hear Fincher huff out a noise and turn to walk away, and I haul myself up and out of bed, grumbling to myself as I walk to the bathroom and crank the water to cold.
This is her fault. How hard I am. The fact that I didn’t get any sleep last night.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
I won’t doanythingabout it. I’ll pretend like I never got it—maybe I’ll go out and change my number, just to have plausible deniability.
Maybe the entire thing was a joke.
As I step into the freezing cold water, hoping it will do the trick to cool me down, I grit my teeth and try not to think about Elsie.
But I can’t stop myself.
I can’t stop myself from thinking about the way she walks into the arena during practice, looking impossibly chipper. How her badge swings from a lanyard adorned with little pins. The way she braids her hair back from her face, or how fucking excited the guys get when they find out they get to work with her.
