Chapter 11 ~ It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
She cried out my name.
I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering in my chest, wondering if it was real or a creation of my imagination. The house is quiet. Make that silent, the kind of silent you can only find in the middle of the night. The only sound I hear is the rustle of the sheets on Marc’s bed, her bed, across the hall.
Every muscle in my body is taught as I sit there, waiting, because I can’t go to her. If I go to her then Marc will have every right in the world to kill me, and I won’t have any right to raise a hand to stop him. If she comes to me, on the other hand, then at least I have some kind of deniability. Not that it will stop him or any of my brothers from tearing me apart. They always take his side, even Jared and it should, at the very least, be me and Jared against Marc and Eric. I mean, that would be fair but noooo, Jared always takes Marc’s side. It’s because they’re both carrot tops.
Besides I’m tired of hand me downs. If it didn’t mean getting my assed kicked, I think I might actually enjoy telling Marc I was there first. But for now, I just have to wait, and it’s agony to lie here, knowing she’s only across the hall.
I can still smell the sweet fruit scent in her hair, the expensive, heady perfume on her neck. I can still taste her skin on my tongue. I can still feel the rasp of the lace of her bra under my fingertips, the way her nipples hardened as I touched them, the way her body pressed back against mine, urging me on.
To make things worse, all I have to do is close my eyes to feel her moving under me, over me, against me, just like I’ve done a thousand times since that night in Vegas. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head, and it’s not like I haven’t fucked my fair share of chicks. I mean, there’s been puck fucks hanging around our place since Eric & Taylor Pyatt grew pubes not to mention all the pussy that’s just sort of been landing at my feet ever since I got to Pittsburgh. I mean, more than you can shake a stick at, seriously.
But her, there’s something about her that’s just…different. Like from the first moment I saw her at the club, the way she moved, the way she walked, the way she looked at me, like she was already seeing us together, naked. Not to mention the fact that she’s fucking amazing in the sack. The woman did things to me…I can’t even explain it. I haven’t been able to explain it to anyone.
All the guys on the team, they just laugh every time I bring her up. They keep telling me to get over it, fuck someone else and forget about her and it’s not like I haven’t tried but…they don’t compare. She just…won’t get out of my head.
And now she’s right across the hall and it’s all I can do not to walk across the hall, rip the door off its’ fucking hinges and grab her and….
And what? What if she blows me off like she did earlier? Then what, a cold shower before having to sit through Marc proposing to her?
That I can’t fucking watch. No fucking way.
Swinging my feet onto the cold floor, I grip the edge of the bed, wishing I had one of my loud techno cd’s to put on right now like I do on my way to a game, to pump myself up, to get ready, but I’ll just have to keep the picture of my brother holding out that ring to her in my mind to keep me focused, to motivate me, because that can’t fucking happen. If I can’t have her, than neither can Marc.
Despite the cool temperature in the room, I don’t even reach for my robe, remembering the hungry look in her eyes when she’d pushed up my shirt and got an eyeful of my abs that night, because right now, I’ll take any advantage I can get.
With a deep, steadying breath, I force myself to walk to the door of my room and open it, only to see her slipping out of the door of Marc’s room, wearing one of his rumbled old dress shirts, something cheap from Walmart, nothing like anything we’d wear now, but damn, it looks incredible on her.
She turns, her hand still on the door knob, standing on tip toe and then freezes when she sees me standing there behind her, watching her. I try to look like I’ve been standing there for a while, try to look unperturbed, cool, calm and most of all, unmoved by her beauty which at this moment, is the hardest challenge of all.
Her hair is tucked up at the nape of her neck, like she’s just curled it up there, like there’s nothing holding it there and the slightest touch of my fingers will send it spilling over her shoulders. Her long legs emerging, pale silver in the darkness of the hallway, from beneath the hem of the dress shirt, have me licking my lips. Worst is the peek-a-boo of lace and the swell of her pale white breasts that fit just right in my hands….
“I was just…the bathroom…,” she mumbles, looking up at me with wide eyes, but I notice she doesn’t make a move to continue down the hall. I open my mouth to lie to her, to say that I was heading in the same direction, but it’s like my mouth is too dry to form the words. It’s like I know that what will come out is something more along the lines of ‘I want you’ or something cruder. So I don’t say anything and she doesn’t move for the longest time, her eyes glued to the floor, like she doesn’t dare look at me.
I don’t know if I should take it as a compliment, but I do.
“The bathroom’s that way,” I point out when she turns to head towards the stairs, my heart constricting so hard in my chest that it’s suddenly almost impossible to breathe as I imagine her climbing the stairs and climbing into bed with Marc, shooing Jared out of the room and forcing me to lie in bed, beneath them, listening to the creak and groan of the floor as she rides him….
“Yeah…of course, right,” she mumbles again, turning back but only taking a step or two before stopping and turning back to me, her gaze searching mine.
It’s a risk, I know, but it looks like the best invitation I’m going to get. So with a deep breath and a silent ‘here goes nothing’, I step forward, hoping like hell I’m right.
I watch as his hand comes closer and closer to my face and then he slips his hand around to the nape of my neck and the elastic band holding my hair in place. He looses it in one smooth motion, letting my hair drop around my shoulders, dragging his fingers through it before cupping my chin in his long fingers and drawing my lips up to his.
My lips part beneath his as I feel the solidity of the wall meet my shoulders at the same time as his other hand winds around my rib cage, pulling my body against his. I feel the scratch of beard stubble against my chin, my jaw and then my throat as I turn my head aside and let him kiss his way down to the thin skin where the shirt opens at my shoulder blades. My own lips brush the delicate rim of bone near his eye as my fingers tangle in that wheaten horsetail stiffness of his hair, holding him close as his teeth tug at my neck, making me cry out.
His lips are suddenly on mine, urgent and bruising as his body presses against mine, as my hands dig into the corded muscle of his shoulders.
God if it’s so wrong, why does it feel so damn right?
Reaching back to grab his hand, I pull him behind me towards the door to the room behind me and as I push it open I turn back to him and, seeing his lips open to give voice to the question in his eyes, I just smile and tug at his arm.
Kicking the door closed behind him, he turns to me and without a word, grabs me up in his arms and kisses me until neither of us can breathe and then he lowers me down onto the bed and crawls in after me, his body molding to mine as he kisses his way back down my neck while his fingers make short work of the few buttons I’d done up on the crisp cotton shirt. When his lips move away from my skin, I look up to find him looking down at me, an amused smile on his face.
“What?” I hiss, my gaze following his down to the black lace and fringe which he flips with his fingers, making it dance against my pale skin.
“You were sleeping…in this?” he chuckles, shaking his head and grinning like he’s heard a good joke. I open my mouth to argue the point, to tell him that I’d been wearing this for Marc, but then shut my mouth again and pull him down over me. After all, what would be the point to arguing about that now? At best it would only be semantics. At worst, it would just delay the inevitable, and at this very moment, I have no patience for delays of any kind. “I think you wore these for me,” he whispers, his lips brushing over the swell of my breast as his hand slips down over my stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic. Arching my back to force his hand where I want it, I try to force back the groan that barely escapes between my clenched teeth.
“I think I remember saying this to you last time,” I hiss, biting down on my bottom lip when his fingers press on that button that makes me shudder and shake beneath him, “so can you just shut up and fuck me, please?”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say another word, but instead, gets up on his knees, tugging my panties down and off, tossing them over his shoulder before pushing his pajama bottoms down; revealing his long, thick and very angry looking erection. Grabbing a pillow, I force the corner of it into my mouth and bite down as his fingers dig into the softer flesh of my hips as he pulls me onto him.
It isn’t enough though, to silence me as he pulls my hips off of the bed and screws himself into me, pushing himself deeper. I bite down on my hand and then the corner of the quilt and still I can barely muffle the long drawn out moans and whimpers as his cock finds the places inside of me that make me see stars and make it impossible not to cry out.
I’m almost grateful when he flips me over and pushes my head down into the pillow, even if I’m almost certain that I’m never going to be able to breathe again. At least then I can give voice to the screams when his thrusts come hard and fast.
But just like in Vegas, it doesn’t end there either, and when he pushes me up against the wall, his chest pressed to my back and my hands scrambling for purchase, for any hand hold, framed pictures begin to fall to the floor and I think I hear the sound of smashing glass but only faintly, because all I can hear is the roaring of blood in my veins and Jordan’s voice, husky in my ear, saying over and over again:
“Mine, you’re mine, you’re fucking mine.”