The Trouble With Quarterbacks

I’m dying! He can’t do this. We were going at it in the front seat and I was so close, but now he’s slowing it down, torturing me.

The air in the car is starting to get humid from our breath, and I feel sticky with sweat when his hips roll over mine. He spreads my thighs again and brushes against me. I moan and he does it once more, not pressing into me even when I beg him to.

My panties are still on, and I hate that they shield me from his thrusts.

I move my hands to take them off, but with whip-fast reflexes, he forces my hands back to the door handle.

“I said, hold that.”

His tone has gone dark and possessive, and I’m left complying like an eager student. My fingers tighten around the door handle like my life depends on it, and then he takes the pink silk between his fingers and starts to slide it down my thighs. It gets caught on my knees, but instead of ripping like a brute, he gently fixes it and continues tugging until the material falls off onto the floor of the SUV.

Then his eyes fall between my thighs and his fingers follow, parting me for him.

I arch up off the seat when the pad of his finger brushes against sensitive nerves, and when he does it again, my insides clench.

“Logan,” I plead, but he doesn’t listen. He withdraws his touch and reaches for his length. He wraps his hand around himself, slowly pumping up and down while he watches me. He’s in no hurry to end this, but I am. I AM!

He hears my impatient whimper, and it must finally get through to him because he positions himself between my thighs and presses back into me. Finally. This. Again. His weight, his fullness, his hard length seeming to completely fill me and then some.

“Candace,” he says, tracing his mouth along my chin and letting his body press flush against mine. It’s suffocating and wonderful, nearly too much. He covers me completely, but my hands stay on that handle as he starts to rock his hips like gentle waves, pulling out of me and then slowly pressing back in. “You feel…”

His words get lost as he buries himself to the hilt and a deep moan escapes him.

I know how I must feel. Tight. Warm. Wet.

I know how he feels. Hard. Rigid. Huge.

“Logan,” I say, turning my head to capture his mouth.

Once we kiss again, his hips start to pick up speed, and the shackles of restraint are suddenly thrown off. It’s like he’s finally having me the way he wants me, pinned underneath him, at his mercy.

We’re moaning and arching and thrusting together. My legs lock around his waist as if I’m trying to pin him in place and then I’m lost, totally, as my body starts to quake and I squeeze him inside me in a viselike grip. I come apart and he follows right after me with such force that I have to bite back a cry of pain. As soon as it feels like too much, the wave recedes, replaced with calm oceans.

We’re panting and collecting our breath slowly. He props himself up on his elbows and looks down at me with a soul-crushing expression. It’s like he’s not quite sure I’m real and he has to assure himself I’m here by tracing the line of my jaw.

His lips part and I think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t.

The words aren’t said, but we both know they’re there, lurking just under the surface.

We both know.Chapter Twenty-ThreeCandace“Pass that spatula, will you?” I ask Logan.

“Here,” he says, handing it over. “Is the salt over by you?”

“Yeah, catch.”

“The eggs are almost done.”

“My pancakes need another few minutes. I swear yours cooked faster than mine. Have you given me the bad pan or something?”

I lift it up off the gas burner to look for marks of sabotage.

“They’re the exact same pans. Don’t try to come up with excuses for why your food is going to suck.”

“It won’t! You’ll be eating your words once you take a bite of my fluffy pancakes!”

“I’m sure.”

It’s Sunday morning and Logan and I are having a breakfast-off. It’s a very mature competition in which we each make the same foods—eggs and pancakes and bacon—and then we sample some of everything to decide who is the Champion Chef of Breakfast, or something like that. I’ve used my preschool teacher craft skills to assemble a trophy out of recycling rubbish. On it, I’ve drawn a stick figure hoisting a spatula into the air. I want that trophy—and so does Logan. He really thinks he’s the world’s best chef, but he’s in for a rude awakening. When he wasn’t looking, I over-peppered his eggs and dumped loads more flour into his pancake mix. Poor sod. Some might call it cheating, but I say it’s just my competitive nature coming out to play. He really needs to keep his head in the game. Is this how he behaves on the football field? I’d better give him a few pointers.