I nipped her lower lip again. “Don’t be a bitch.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“Mmmmm, too easy to resort to the hate, am I right?”
“I could do dryer hate sex.” She pressed a very unhopeful-like kiss to my lips, almost so soft it felt like it didn’t happen, and then she guided me between her thighs, and the last thing I was thinking was, wow, I used to really hate this girl.
Then all I kept thinking was, is this heaven? Can I stay? If I die, can I be buried here and job? What job?
I pumped into her, fully aware that we were being immature, dumb, twenty-two-year-olds with no condom, no inhibitions, and nothing but sweat between our bodies and it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last.
I’d always cared.
With her?
All I could focus on was claiming her.
And making sure she knew whose name to scream when she found her pleasure: mine, only mine.
Her nails dug into my back, heels into my ass as she climaxed.
I tried to stay strong.
And lost that battle quite quickly and pathetically as I orgasmed on the spot. All we had left was the sound of the dryer.
The feel of the sex between our bodies.
Sweat.
And a fairly accurate score of the master bedroom, bathroom, and laundry room, which led me to finally whisper against her mouth. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to say a nine point five for the dryer, you?”
“Six,” she said quickly and then laughed. “But the man? Eh, he’s getting better; I’ll give him an eight.”
You’d think she had just told me I was a sex god sent down to earth.
“Ass.” I pinched her butt again.
She just smiled and shrugged, but this time? This time she didn’t draw another line in the sand; this time…I could have sworn I was all she saw.
Terrifying when the one thing you don’t want to lose but finally get—is finally close but so far away.
“Come on.” I set her on her feet. “Let’s clean up.”
“Yes, wouldn’t want to be late for the Emory Games,” she mumbled.
“Especially when ours are so much better.” I shrugged, then laughed as she shoved me into the wall and ran toward the shower.
Chapter Fourteen
Olivia
What the hell was wrong with me?
I went from what felt like a comfortable sex goddess and hateful enemy to this nervous school girl as I stood next to him, waiting for Max to make his appearance.
So far? All I felt was a bit of fear.
A huge banner stood out above the field we were standing in that read, “I am Sparta.”
There were people in the stands, at least two hundred friends and family members of Max, and a dozen cameras that we were told were filming the proceedings for company morale for the many employees around the world who couldn’t be here.
Made sense.
But still intimidating.
And to make everything worse?
Mark smelled like hot sex guy.
And if there was one thing I had trouble saying no to? It was hot sex guy. He went from this guy I wanted to strangle despite his good looks to this funny partner in crime that gave orgasms out like candy during a parade.
Wait, horrible example.
The way he held me, kissed, teased—I’d never had sex the way he had sex and was now starting to realize just how addicting being in the same space as Mark was. Which again, huge problem, because I found myself smiling, thinking about him, wanting to touch him, only to wonder when the other shoe would drop, when he’d say, “Ha ha, leading you on. I WIN.”
And wondering if he was thinking the same thing about me.
See? I should be thinking about winning the game, whatever the hell that was going to be, and instead, I was worried about him!
I stomped my foot.
“Everything okay up there?” Mark pointed at my head. He wore a sexy red bandana tied around his head, his longer hair spilling over and falling across his forehead. And his lips… of course, they had to be swollen from punishing mine!
“Yeah, yeah, sure, just, nervous…” I rocked back on my black Nike tennis shoes and tried not to panic at the fact that we were told by the judges our outfits needed to be tight in order to not get caught in the race.
Race being the keyword.
“We shall die here,” Mark said under his breath as a group of six employees came out paired into twos. They looked like they ate small children for breakfast, never missed leg day, and carb-loaded just because they could.
“No body fat,” I whispered. “Is that a twelve-pack?”
“Avert your eyes!” Mark put a hand over my face. “He’s too old for you!”
“He has gray hair!” I pulled his hand away. “Can’t I at least be impressed that he’s so big? Wait, he works here?”
The girl standing next to him was like this tall Amazonian woman with sleek black hair, a black sports bra, tiny shorts, and tennis shoes that made me think of the Jolly Green Giant!