Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“Scared you can’t get it up in the cold?” she asks, standing on the step and looking down on me for once.

“Oh, it’s already up.” I spread my legs so she can see the erection in my trunks through the water. “But for real, babe. You don’t just jump into this. It takes a long time to acclima . . .”

I trail off when she tests the water with one small foot before climbing in and sitting on the opposite side, facing me with her breasts bobbing on the water’s surface.

“Oh, this is sooo cold.”

She fakes a shiver. “I don’t know how you big boys stand it.”

“You’re not human.” I laugh. “Maybe you are a witch.” I extend my arms toward her, and she takes the two steps through the water to reach me. “My witch.”

I kiss her, and the first taste of my sweet girl does things to me. Of course, my dick goes even harder despite the freezing water, but everything else melts. There’s a wall I erect when the season starts—a firewall of sorts to insulate me from the constant scrutiny, the pressure that never lets up, and all the drama that has nothing to do with ball. It’s what allows me to focus so completely, almost to the exclusion of all else.

Against Lotus, that wall doesn’t stand a chance.

It’s down and she’s storming the gates, inside, invading, marauding all my defenses. My attention, my thoughts are her willing captives.

“God, baby.” I can’t get enough, pulling her mouth open wider, spearing both hands into her hair to hold her head still so I can eat my fill. “What you do to me.”

Her hunger rises to match mine, her small hands gripping my head and her eager tongue delving in aggressively, devouring me back. She spreads her thighs over mine, rubs her breasts into my chest, mewling like a little cat in heat, scalding me in arctic water. She tugs at the string on my trunks. With her hands shaking, she jerks them down over my hips.

Damn, that’s cold.

“I don’t have a condom,” I mutter into the wet, searing heat of our kiss.

“Good,” she says, turning her back on me, catching my eyes over her shoulder, positioning herself over me. “You don’t need one.”

In one swift move, she takes me into her body, offering sanctuary, and we share a gasp. The contrast between the freezing water and the wet heat of her pussy squeezing me, the muscles contracting to keep me, steals my breath and most of my sanity.

“You okay?” I ask into the damp silk of her neck.

“You tell me,” she says, laughing as she starts to move.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She clamps her internal muscles and they drag on me every time she propels herself up and down. And the view.

The motherfucking view from back here is breathtaking.

She pulls her hair away from her neck. Does she have any idea how she looks? A handful of tattooed stars trickle down her nape. The flowered zipper embroiders the sexy length of her spine and undulates with our every thrust.

And her ass.

Those two round, plump globes riding my dick. She reaches back to spread the cheeks, taking me even deeper. I reach one hand around to cup her breast and slide the other hand down to caress her clit, spreading my whole hand over it, rubbing my palm over her until it’s a hard, tight nub.

“Oh, my God, Kenan.”

We create a rhythm of shared sighs, breaths we draw together, a copulating choreography. The pace turns furious, the vigor of our bodies churning the icy water into a riptide. We ebb and flow like a wave, turbulent waters climbing, rising. Even submerged in the cold, sweat glazes my forehead, her neck. We are wild and hot beneath the frigid water. I lay my hand flat against her heart, which roars in her chest like a beast trapped in a cave. My heartbeat answers, clamoring to get out. To find its other beating half locked inside of her.

My beloved is mine and I am his.

She turns her head and I bend to take her mouth, slide my hand down the tight plane of her belly and find her clit, pinching, twisting rubbing until her lips break free of mine on a whimper, then a moan, then a scream that yanks an answering cry from me—a call, a response. Our voices and our bodies twist, mating until we’re both hoarse and spent.

And finally, we’re silent.

36

Lotus