Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Greta

It was naïve of me to think that morning in the arena would be the last time I saw Eric. At least until I ran into him at a team function or maybe saw him on television during the season. The look of utter determination on his handsome face should have clued me into the fact that he wouldn’t give me up so easily. When I went to bed that night, he was sitting outside my apartment building, leaning up against his SUV. Watching my bedroom window like a hawk.

Closing the curtains didn’t help matters.

Roses started showing up at my apartment the next morning.

Dozens upon dozens of long-stem roses in every color. Boxes and boxes of designer activewear, which was so rude, because looking cute while dressing comfortable is totally my weakness. He sent me his championship ring from Denver—and knowing how much something so symbolic means to an athlete, that almost made me answer one of his hundreds of calls.

They are placed once an hour, on the dot, though he only leaves voicemails late at night, his voice having the opposite effect of a lullaby on my body. The notes of hunger arouse me to such a degree that I toss and turn until the sun rises in the sky, my eyes gritty, chest aching. I’m unfulfilled, restless. I…miss him. How can that be? After what he did? Why am I having such a hard time holding on to my anger?

It’s one such night a week later when I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in a towel that I start to slip. Eric was outside of my classes again today, looking outrageously hot, arm resting on the bottom frame of the driver’s window, eyes hidden behind mirrored black sunglasses. I thought the guys in my class were going to have heart attacks, running over and asking for autographs. He didn’t take his eyes off me once while signing them, his jaw in a permanent flex. So serious, so intense that the muscles below my belly button twisted up in a knot—and they have been that way ever since.

A couple of days ago, I tried touching myself in the shower, hoping to ease the mounting tension inside of me, but there is nothing…consuming about the act. Nothing momentous or life-affirming. Without Eric’s strong body pressed to mine, without his mouth on my neck, hands roaming, voice stroking my senses, everything is lackluster. Less than. He’s ruined me.

Pushing to my feet, I cross to the curtains and peek out from my bedroom down to the curb. Of course he’s there, staring back at me. Probably trying to decide what to send me next. The only sign that he sees me in the window is a line moving in his cheek, the upward slide of his Adam’s apple. And before I can guess my own intention, I’m letting the towel slide down to the floor, letting him see my naked body. Drawing his eye downward as I trail a finger from neck to belly button.

He’s striding to the door of my building before I reach any lower, the buzzer going off loudly in my living room. Adrenaline and anticipation nearly blind me, turning my legs so useless, I almost trip in my haste to reach the buzzer where I quickly press the button and unlock my door. Backing away from it. Waiting. Telling myself how very foolish I’m being, but too worked up to care.

As soon as Eric charges through the door like a bull and kicks it shut behind him, I say, “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

There is a flash of pain, disappointment, in his blue eyes, but he recovers quickly, advancing on me. Crashing his mouth down onto mine and backing me through the apartment toward my bedroom, his hands everywhere at once. My bottom, my breasts, roaming over my hips. “What do you need?”

The moment I stop trying to keep the physical hunger at bay, it roars in and attacks me from all sides, making me moan, trying to get my legs up around his waist. I’m shameful, naked, climbing him, whining and pulling at his hair. “You. I need you inside of me.”

“You need this big dick to have an orgasm now, don’t you?” He swats my ass with the flat of his hand. “Don’t you, angel?”

“Yes,” I pant, letting him molest my neck, my mouth. “Yes.”

He throws me down in the middle of my bed, his eyes boring into me as he unzips his jeans, shoving down the waistband of his briefs and pinning me with his full weight to the bed, ramming his shaft as deep as it’ll go. He slaps a hand over my mouth at the last second—and thank God, because it sounds like he’s murdering me. Maybe he is. With pleasure instead of pain. The first two times he made love to me were child’s play compared to this animal mating, this rabid fucking. He’s actually hurting me between the legs he’s entering me so roughly, with such possession, but the good outweighs the twinges of pain by a thousand miles. It’s so intense and glorious and long overdue that I rip my nails down his back, digging my heels into his thrusting buttocks, screaming, screaming into our kisses.

My climax is right there. Careening down on me.

And so is his lust-crazed peak.

That large appendage is already jerking inside of me, his sweating upper lip beginning to curl almost maliciously, even while his eyes are bright on me, brimming with obsession. And then he leans down and speaks right against my mouth, uttering words that, until now, I’m unaware have the power to break me.

“You can’t have my come this time, Greta.”

I suck in a great gulp of air, denial firing like a cannon in my breast. “What?” I try to wrap my thighs around his hips, to keep him there, to give him no choice but to spend inside of me, but he snarls and holds my knees open, disallowing it. “Stop it, Eric. Why?”

He gives me a savage pump of his hard flesh into the soft wetness of mine. “You can cut me off, torture me by looking so fucking beautiful when I can’t touch, make me want to fucking die without you. I deserve it for making you cry, angel. But if you think I’m going to be your stud service without your heart as part of the deal, that’s not happening.” He slides a hand down my belly, petting my clit with his middle finger. “If you want Daddy’s come, you have to come home and get it.”

Oh God. Oh God.

The way he’s stroking that bud is so perfect, all filth and friction, his shaft slapping in and out of me, tapping some magical region deep, deep in my core. Throw in the positively ferocious way he’s looking down at me, like I’m a bunny rabbit and he’s a wolf, gives me no choice but to be mowed down by the bullet train of bliss. My whimper turns into a scream of his name, my sex clenching around him, the deepest recesses of my tummy straining with the force of the pleasure. I see nothing, my back arching off the bed like I’m tied to the ceiling with a rope—and Eric keeps up his attack, leaning down to suckle my nipples, heightening my climax to unimaginable bounds, growling as he takes each bud into his mouth, his shoulder muscles flexed so tight, surely they’re going to snap.

No, I won’t let him.

My body will relieve him.

And my orgasm must have wiped my memory clean, because until he pulls out and ejaculates in heavy white ropes on my stomach, groaning wildly at the ceiling, his hand moving in a blur on that trunk of flesh, I forget all about his vow to keep his climax from me. To pull out.

I don’t expect his actions to frustrate me so thoroughly, but they do. I’ve been robbed. I wanted all of him. I missed him finding satisfaction inside of me and I hate it, I hate it that any part of him is being kept away. It’s not fair.

I’m keeping a part of me away from him, too, though. Aren’t I?

Does giving him my body without my heart hurt as much as this?

What if it hurts more?

I sit up in bed, alarmed. Am I really worrying about how he feels after he tried to pull a fast one on me? Jeopardizing my freedom?

Our eyes lock from across the rumpled sheets, mine conflicted, Eric’s rapt and intense. Oh lord, if I sit this close to him much longer, I’m going to forgive him, aren’t I? I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt, make excuses for his behavior, give him a second chance. And I’ve witnessed far too many women regret giving second chances to their significant others.

Eric is just like them. Isn’t he?

I start to get out of the bed, intending to lock myself in the bathroom so I don’t forgive him, but Eric catches me around the waist and throws me down before I can gain my feet, climbing on top of me, flattening my body between him and the mattress. “I’m sorry for playing dirty, angel, but after a week without you, I’m losing my fucking mind. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat.” He leans down and exhales roughly into my neck, making my eyelashes flutter. “I’m in love with you. So punish me as long as you want, Greta. I’m not going anywhere.”

As fast as he blew into my apartment, he’s gone, the door closing behind him.

My heart is ten times its usual size and stuck in my throat, stuttering and aching. He loves me. A part of me knew there was nothing rational about our connection the night we met. It was instantaneous and heavy and unrestrained. But hearing the words repairs something inside me that was broken a long time ago. When my mother took the cash and abandoned me. When my father shelled out a payment so his reputation wouldn’t take a hit. Time after time of watching people in my life use money to make people they used to love go away. After all of that, I stopped believing in love, but I can’t help but doubt that conviction now.

I can’t help but believe Eric.

How can I do any less when he says those three words to me in that agonized tone? How can I doubt him when he looks at me with a wealth of feeling and truth in his eyes? He loves me.

And I love him, too.

It came on like a whirlwind, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

If anything, the swiftness increases the potency.

Oh my lord, I do. I love him. But can I forgive him?

My phone rings on the nightstand and I reach for it, finding my father’s name on the screen. Sighing, I hit talk. “Hi.”

“Hey, Greta.” He’s been cautious with me ever since the scene at the arena. We’ve never been close and because of that, I’ve never let him see me so upset. But over the last week or so, he’s been calling to check in on me, the way a father is supposed to. It’s almost like he’s started looking at me and seeing a real, live human being now, instead of a commodity. “How are you?”

I stare at the door Eric just left through, a jagged lump in my throat. “I’m…not that great, actually. Conflicted.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I consider it, but the relationship between me and Eric has such a wild physical element, I’m sure that conversation would get uncomfortable pretty fast. “Maybe some other time. How are you? Getting ready for your first pre-season game?”

“Tomorrow night!” I hear him rubbing his hands together in the background. “The offense is looking great, thanks to…” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“You can say his name. It’s okay.”

My father is silent for a moment. “I worry Eric is actually playing a little too hard lately. He has no sense of self-preservation during practice. It’s almost like he’s hoping to get hurt. He’s…possessed. Not himself. Short-tempered.”

“I hope you’re not calling to ask me to help with that.”

“I’m not. I’m just calling to see if you want tickets to tomorrow night’s game. Front row, opposite our bench. I can leave them at the box office.”

Instinctively, I start to decline. How painful would it be to sit across from Eric for two to three hours? To watch him play and miss him up close? But I sense my father is trying to repair some of the damage between us and I don’t want to turn him down outright. “Sure, that would be nice.”

We say our goodbyes, we’re about to hang up, when a curiosity pops into my head. I’m not sure why. I hadn’t even thought about this before, but… “Dad. Um…just wondering. What phony name did Eric sign on the contract?”

A beat passes.

When he answers, there is a grudging smile in his voice. “He signed it Mr. Greta Welding.”

I end the call in a daze, my pulse flapping at the base of my throat.

My feet move on their own and carry me to the window where I look down at Eric where he has resumed his post outside my building. His hair is mussed from my fingers, his mouth swollen from the vigor of our kisses, arms crossed. Absolutely gorgeous. But not just on the outside.

In my anger, I’ve forgotten how he came to my rescue at the club.

How he carries the responsibility for the loss of his friend.

How he allowed me to restrain him so I’d be in charge of my first time.

I’ve been so focused on his trickery, I haven’t stopped to think about how fiercely he is fighting for me. And that…that is something I haven’t witnessed throughout my life. Nor have I experienced. Not with my family. Not with anyone.

He’s not like everyone else.

My heart beats with that truth and I can’t deny it anymore.

I know what I have to do.

* * *

Eric

I just want to be unconscious.

No matter how many risks I take, no matter how many times I drive the lane at men seven feet tall and built like tanks, I can’t seem to catch that blessed elbow to the face that will finally knock me out. I don’t want to be awake because the pain is too sharp. My heartbeat is beginning to flag, my head full of sand. To call this the worst eight days of my life wouldn’t even begin to cover it—and now I’m expected to win a basketball game. To prove the worth of the investment made in me when all I want is to be outside her window. Waiting outside her classes. When I’m close to her, at least I know she wasn’t a dream.

The arena is packed to the gills, fans wanting to see the new point guard in action. It’s loud and bright. My skull is a prison for an incessant buzzing sound that has only gotten louder over the last eight days. Pain beats in all areas of my body. My head, chest, stomach. I’m passed the ball during warm-ups and it feels like a foreign object in my hands. I wish I was touching her skin. I wish I’d come inside of her.

How did I stop myself?

How did I pull out of that tight perfection?

I’m still not sure. I just couldn’t allow myself to become an easy hookup to her, because, Jesus, that would end me. For good. I hoped that by leaving that one thing undone, she might be tempted to find her way home. What else do I have to work with? None of the gifts I’ve sent have worked. None of my apologies have been good enough. I’m running out of ideas and I’m scared about what I’ll do when my options are gone. How many times have I dreamed of kicking down the door of her apartment, throwing her over my shoulder, bringing her home and locking her up?

Too many times to count.

And it is beginning to look like my only viable choice.

She’ll hate me. But at least she’ll be with me.

This distance is torture. Not hearing her voice is driving me insane.

I go through the motions of a lay-up, passing off the ball to the next player in line. Some fans call my name from the sidelines and I glance over, planning to give them a perfunctory wave—and that’s when I see her.

Greta.

On the sidelines by herself, watching me with…is that affection in her eyes?

Do I even have the audacity to hope?

I stop dead in my tracks, my heart booming deafeningly in my ears. “Greta?”

A smile spreads across her mouth, her eyes luminous. And when she stands up, I notice for the first time what she’s wearing. It’s an LA jersey. I know before she even turns around that my name is on the back and Christ, I go to her, weaving through photographers and a sideline reporter, the buzzing sound growing dimmer in my head the closer I get to my girl. Please don’t let her be a mirage. A figment of my imagination after eight nights without sleep.

But no.

She’s real.

When I reach Greta and she opens her arms, I scoop her up and hold her, breathing like I’ve just run eighteen miles, my pulse speeding fast enough to make me dizzy. Oh God, she feels so perfect against me. My missing piece. “Have you come back to me, angel?”

Please please please.

“Yes,” she whispers into my neck.

Relief floods me, so heavy I almost drop to a kneel. “You’re wearing my jersey. Does that mean I won the bet? I made you love basketball?”

“No.” She pulls back and looks me in the eye—and I can see our future there, endless and rich. “It means you made me love you, Mr. Greta Welding.”

My heart soars up into my throat.

This girl…despite everything…loves me.

With wonder, disbelief and gratitude, I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her until she’s writhing against me, the crowd going wild around us. “I love you so much,” I rasp at her lips, just as the buzzer sounds. “Build a life with me. Starting now. Be my life, Greta.”

“Be mine, too,” she breathes, dragging her fingers through my hair. “I want that more than anything.”

“I was yours from the first second.”

The buzzer blares again and the audience begins to chant my name, making Greta giggle and shove me playfully toward the bench. “Go conquer the court, Silent Assassin. You’ll conquer me afterward.”

And I do.

Over and over again.

Forever.