STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“Alright,” I say, looking down at the empty field, at the rows and rows and rows of empty bleachers. “I’ll come to the next one. How could I turn this place down? I wish I had a picture— I forgot my phone.”

“Wouldn’t do it justice anyway,” he says, and walks up behind me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest, so we’re both looking out the window together.

“Does it make you nervous? All those bleachers full of people?” I ask.

He shakes his head above me. “I think it’s more intimidating like this. It seems bigger right now. When it’s full, it’s just a crowd. When it’s empty, you start thinking about how a crowd is really thousands and thousands of people.” He steps aside and slides open the doors that lead to wide balcony, and the cool fall breeze sweeps through the room. The air smells like cinnamon and sunlight, and I take a deep breath, happy to be here with Tyson.

“However,” he says slowly, a coy spark in his eyes, “there’s a price, you know. For the luxury box.”

“Is there?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

“It’s a very, very nice place to watch the game from,” he goes on, voice lowering. He steps toward me, and I bite my lip in anticipation of where this is heading. “You’ll need to pay me back for the effort.” My core stirs as he closes the door to the room, then looks back to me. He takes a long, steadying breath, forcing himself to maintain control. “Anna, undress for me.”

I take a breath, looking at the room, at the enormous windows. There’s no one out there, but they’re still so expansive and…well…they’re windows. Tyson clears his throat, though, and so I do as he says, sliding my shoes off, pulling my sweater over my head, and finally wiggling out of my jeans. He watches me the entire time, and when I’m completely naked, I stand before him, enjoying the feeling of him surveying me. I can see his erection, already pressing at his pants.

“Go to the couch. I want you to sit down, and spread your legs. Let me see your pussy.”

I flush a little, but it’s excitement, not embarrassment, then do as he says. The leather of the couch immediately clings to my skin when I sit down and prop my legs open, first a little, then farther when I see the stern look in Tyson’s eyes. He’s still fully dressed, while I’m here exposing my most private parts to him. I rest my wrists over my knees so as not to obstruct his view.

“That pussy,” he says, the word almost a hum. “That sweet, tight pussy. Touch it, Anna.”

I’m surprised by his words, but place one hand across my pussy, rubbing it lightly.

“Touch it like you mean it, sweetheart,” Tyson says, looking entertained by my easy caress. I look down, bite my lip, and spread my pussy lips a bit, bringing my other hand down against my clit. It’s already swollen from just being here, nude, with Tyson. When my fingers roll over it, I shiver in pleasure. My eyes drift shut, and I begin to push a finger into my pussy, wishing it was his cock instead of my own hand.

Soon, the pleasure builds and builds, as Tyson talks dirty to me.

And then I’m calling his name as I come for him and he watches me, and it’s so hot and dirty and wrong…and right.

It’s everything at once.

I can’t believe that he’s gotten me to actually enjoy pleasuring myself while he watches. I never thought I could be so bold.

After I come, and after I get dressed, Tyson takes out his phone.

“I want a picture of you.”

I bite my lip, and then offer a compromise. “Only if you’re in it too.”

We take a quick selfie together, and when he shows it to me, I can’t believe how normal we look.

Like a real couple.

Except, we’re not a real couple. Nobody even knows about us. It makes me sad, but then I remember that I agreed to all of this sneaking around and secrecy.

There’s no one in the stadium so we walk with unusual confidence, our hands clasped together. Holding his hand is such a simple act, so first-base, and yet it feels almost as powerful as having sex with him— though in a very different way, of course. We part ways once we’re outside— Tyson has his own practice to get to— and my palm is left warm and wanting from where it was pressed to his.

“Wait,” I say, remembering, and turn to call out to him before he’s out of earshot. “The picture.”

“You want me to delete it?” he asks genuinely.

I bite my lip and smile. “No. I want you to send it to me.”

“Of course.”