My Coach, My Stalker

My fingers act of their own accord. I’m desperate now to give her what she needs, that’s why. Wild in my eagerness for her to climax. She needs it. I give her what she needs, goddammit. So I keep the vibrator humming against her clit with my left hand. And I push the middle finger of my right hand up inside her snug pussy, kissing her sweet mouth while I work the digit in and out. “I’m inside you now, sweetheart. Make my fingers drip.”

“Th-this isn’t what I meant.” Her teeth are beginning to chatter, her pussy giving off tiny pulsations. She’s on the edge. “Oh! Everett.”

Something comes over me. Something dark that’s been boiling just beneath my surface. She’s so tight and perfect around my finger that my control slips. “You call me Daddy while that little-ass cunt is clenching around my knuckle, understand?”

Her gasp drags me out of the darkness.

I find Margot blinking up at me, confused and curious and…horrified?

I can’t tell. She should be horrified. Did I really just say that out loud.

Before I can find a way to smooth over my mistake, she’s pushing away my hand. Stumbling out from between me and the wall. “I want to go home,” she says, breathing hard, her cheeks painted red. “N-now, please.”

What choice do I have?

This is why I’ve kept my distance.

This exact reaction. Whatever bond was between us has been tarnished and it’s one hundred percent my fault. I should have stayed in the shadows. I knew my sickness would turn her off. Send her packing. Head throbbing with the agony of upsetting my sweet girl, I shove the vibrator into my pocket, turn and escort her out of the club. If I can’t do anything else right, I’ll make sure she gets home safely. Back underneath my watchful eye where, unfortunately for her, she will remain for the rest of her life, whether she wants it or not.

There’s no soil on earth deep enough to bury this infatuation.

Or to keep it from flourishing now that it’s been given water and sunlight in the form of Margot’s kiss. Margot’s body. Margot’s voice and touch and taste.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Chapter 4

Margot

Diving is not going well this morning.

I’m hot…everywhere.

As I climb the ladder of the high dive, I have to clamp my back teeth together to keep them from chattering. Very slightly, the skin of my knee grazes one of the steps and sensation rushes through my middle, my intimate muscles clamping down on nothing, making me gasp. I’m wet from the pool, but the moisture is noticeably warmer between my thighs. And it takes all of my willpower to keep climbing with my legs shaking so hard. It takes every ounce of my focus not to look down at Everett where he stands at the pool’s edge with a clipboard in his hand, shiny silver whistle around his neck.

You call me Daddy while that little-ass cunt is clenching around my knuckle, understand?

Those words have been echoing in my head since last night. Every time I go back to that moment and think of my coach’s big, blunt finger pushing up inside of me, those harsh words growled into my hair, my heart starts to pound in an uncontrollable way. My nipples tingle and turn into painful peaks that are extremely noticeable in my bathing suit. I’m not at home in my skin. I’m restless and agitated and burning up. If I didn’t know better, I would think I’m sick.

But that’s not it. I’m just hovering right on the edge of something…consuming. Relieving. My mind tells me I could have reached that summit last night. In the darkness of the club with the vibrations coursing through my sensitive flesh, that wild, intangible feeling bubbling to the surface, I was almost free. The break I’ve been chasing for two years without success could have been mine…but Everett wouldn’t have been.

Yes, he admitted an attraction to me, but his touch last night—in the therapy room and in the club—was all about priming his athlete. Grooming me for greatness. That’s all it was. That’s all it ever is. He doesn’t share my feelings. Doesn’t love me in the way that I love him. He probably thinks of me as too young, too inexperienced, too immature.

There’s only one way to get experience, though.

And I’m not getting it with anyone but Everett.

I reach the high dive and walk to the very edge, my toes curling over the edge of the board. Unerringly, my gaze falls to my coach and finds him staring a hole in me, his jaw brittle as dry bark. If I’d let myself take that orgasm last night, he wouldn’t be looking at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Like he’s two seconds away from snapping the clipboard in half.

If he’s aching half as badly as me, he’s being burned alive.