Tyson looks impressed. “I come hard. I’ll have to fuck you hard in order to come hard. You had me close, earlier, in your mouth, but for me to come I’d need to go harder. Trust me, Anna— you aren’t ready. Not yet. I want to have you, not hurt you.”
I frown, and Tyson raps me on the bottom lightly. I love it, and when I sigh with pleasure, Tyson groans. “God, you’re everything I hoped you’d be.” He kicks his legs off the desk and swings down, sinking into the leather chair. I immediately join him, sitting in his lap, biting my lip at the feeling of his cock— still hard— beneath me. He shifts his hips as I whimper in desire.
“Everything you hoped I’d be?” I ask curiously. “Because I’m a virgin?”
“I do like that. I like knowing my cock will be the first one you ever have,” he murmurs against my shoulder. “But that’s not the whole of it. You’re real— you didn’t know who I was in the gym that day. You didn’t even know who I was when you made that crack about my father, did you?”
“Not a clue,” I admit.
He nods. “You’re strong, Anna— you stood up to senior football players for your friend. When someone that’s strong lets you be in control…that’s so much better than when someone who’s just eager to fuck a football star does.”
“And that happens a lot?” I ask.
“I’m not sleeping with anyone else but you right now,” Tyson says cautiously, answering a question I hadn’t had the guts to ask.
I find myself smiling as he traces his fingers over my skin.
“What are these scars are from?” he asks suddenly.
I startle and instinctively reach to cover the scars on my waist. They’re so much a part of my body that I hadn’t even considered them before he brought them up— especially since there’d never been another man to see me naked and note them. Tyson shakes his head though, and moves my hands away.
“It was a question,” he says, “Not a judgment. I told you, Anna: You’re perfect.”
“I just forget they’re there, I guess. I’ve always had them. I’ve never worn clothes that shown them, and no one has ever seen them—“
“I like them. I like every part of you,” he says in a deep, almost hungry voice. His hands slide up my waist, across my breasts. He tips my head to one side and kisses my neck— I can tell he’s leaving a mark. “We’ve been up here for almost an hour and a half though. Someone is going to notice we’re gone.”
I reluctantly agree, and we get dressed, my body aching from the pleasure. There’s a small tray with a reflective back that I use to fix my hair; there’s no fixing my makeup, so I wipe what’s left of my eyeliner away entirely.
Tyson leaves first; fifteen minutes later, I slip down. I’m starved, so I make my way over to the bar and try not to gorge myself on the chips and nuts set out.
“There you are, Anna!” a voice calls— I spin around. It’s Trishelle. Her mouth drops open when she sees my face. “You need to get to the bathroom and touch up your lipstick.”
“I’ll just head out soon,” I say.
“Where’ve you been? I was worried,” she says, sliding into the seat beside me. I’m touched, until she adds, “I thought you might be sitting outside alone again.”
“I was around,” I say with a shrug, pulling my hair over Tyson’s bruise on my neck.
“Well, have you seen Tyson Slate anywhere? I think he crept out without saying anything. I was hoping I could get him alone for a while,” she says, pouting.
I shake my head. “No. I guess he got away from you again.”
“Guess so,” she says, and sighs heavily.
Chapter 11
I watch the football game the following Saturday on television, and this time, I don’t even kid myself about the reason— it’s because I want to see Tyson play. I watched a few YouTube videos on football, trying to figure out how exactly the game works, and I have to admit that it makes the whole thing way more exciting. Tyson is playing better than last time, I think, and I feel vindicated when the commentators say the same thing.
“It’s clear he’s playing with some real soul this time around. I feel like for the last few weeks, we’ve been watching him almost play at being a football player. Doing all the right things, hitting all the marks, but never really getting into it. Now, though…well, look at him! The kid’s playing like he’s in the Super Bowl,” one says.
“Absolutely. Let’s hope this lasts— and if it does, maybe he’ll actually be playing in the Super Bowl next year,” the other adds. “We’ve got a time out for Charlotte, looks like they’re doing a little shuffling.” The camera pans across the marching band. I look down at my computer, where I’ve been reading up on Dennis Slate’s case.