Page 33 of Player Misconduct
He pushes in—slow, controlled, giving me time. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, my body yielding in increments. I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Okay?" His voice is tight, restrained.
"Yes. God, yes." My hips tilt on instinct, drawing him deeper.
He groans, ragged and raw, then sinks the rest of the way home.
For a moment we're both still, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. His left hand finds my right, fingers threading through mine, pinning my arm gently above my head. I feel the slight scratch of tape against my knuckles—grounding me even as everything else threatens to spiral.
"Kendall," he breathes. "You feel—"
"I know." Because I do. This isn't supposed to feel this right. This isn't supposed to feel like coming home to a place I've never been.
Then he moves.
The first stroke punches the air from my lungs. The second pulls a sound from my throat I didn't know I could make. By the third I'm wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him tighterto me, meeting him thrust for thrust, my short nails raking lines down his back.
"Harder," I hear myself say, barely recognizing the sound of my voice.
He complies—hips snapping faster, deeper—and the slap of skin on skin fills the small room along with our ragged breathing. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the sensitive spot behind my ear. Every touch feels like he's mapping me, memorizing me… marking me.
"Look at me," he says, and I do.
His pupils are blown wide, hair falling across his forehead damp from the hot tub and now with newfound effort. He looks wrecked and beautiful, like he's trying to see straight through to my soul.
"Aleksi—" His name comes out like a desperate prayer on my tongue.
"I've got you," he promises, and I believe him.
His hand slides between us, his index finger at my clit as he adds pressure, his mouth wrapping around my nipple. His tongue swirls over my aching nipple and I arch into his mouth, wanting more–so much more.
The orgasm builds fast, mutters of prayer spill from my mouth, coaxing him on further, and he takes my encouragement, thrusting deeper, his fingers swirling faster, his lips tightening around me.
Pleasure coils tight in my belly, electricity sparks up my spine. When it hits, it's white-hot and annihilating, my body clenching around him as I cry out. He follows seconds later with a guttural sound, face buried in the curve of my neck, hips stuttering.
For a long moment we stay tangled—trembling, gasping, hearts crashing against each other.
Then he lifts his head, eyes soft in a way that makes my throat tight.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
I can only nod, the rest of my body jelly to what he just did.
He presses a kiss to my temple before carefully withdrawing. I feel the loss immediately—my body already mourning the connection.
He disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, the snap of latex. When he returns he stretches out beside me, one arm sliding beneath my shoulders to pull me into his chest. I go willingly, draping myself across him, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat slow.
"That was—" he starts.
"I know."
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder blade. "We have all night."
We do. And for once, being quarantined in a motel just provided its only perk.
Three hours and four condoms later, I'm boneless and draped across Aleksi's chest like I might not move for a week. My body hums with the kind of exhaustion that feels earned, muscles deliciously sore, skin sensitized, every nerve ending still sparking.
I've lost count of the ways he's touched me. The ways I've touched him back.
