Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“I didn’t want to wake Zo,” she says by way of explanation.

We stare at one another, absorbing any changes the last two months have wrought. She’s not pulled together. Not the boss I’m used to seeing with her suits and stilettos, but she’s still Banner. I’ve seen several incarnations of this woman, but there is this steadfast strength to her, this obstinate light that refuses to dim. It’s still easily detected under a messy bun, slightly stained tank top, and yoga pants. She’s still my badass girl.

A gust of Northern California wind whips stray strands of dark hair across her face, and she shivers, crosses her arms against the cool breeze.

“Come on in.” She steps back and I follow her into a living room outfitted with a large sectional, low tables, throw rugs, and a mammoth mounted television.

“We have it month-to-month,” she says, licking her pretty lips and looking around the room. “It came furnished.”

“Oh yeah?” Don’t give a shit.

“Yeah.” She nods, rubs at the back of her neck and points a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s ideal because there’s an office down here and a bedroom. The stairs would be hard for Zo some days. I sleep in the office down here so I’m close if he needs anything.”

A shadow passes over her face, and I wonder what he has needed at night to cause that look. This separation has been hard on me, but I wonder, not for the first time, how hard this has all been for her. And I suspect it’s worse than I imagined.

“So I work out of one of the upstairs bedrooms,” she continues, her voice thinned with nerves. “It works. And I—”

“This isn’t what I came for,” I interrupt. “This banal thing you’re doing. This small talk. All this conversation. It’s not what I came for.”

She blinks at me, her skin free of makeup, my freckles dusting her nose.

“It’s not?” She slides her hands to where back pockets would be, only to grimace when she realizes she’s wearing yoga pants. “Um, okay. What-what, then?”

I scope the layout of the room, spot a door leading to what might be a kitchen. I grab her hand and drag her in that direction. The door swings open and closed behind us. A pantry door is cracked enough to show a few shelves of food. I head there, still gripping her hand tightly in mine.

As soon as the pantry door shuts, I’m pressing her into a shelf, one hand at her ass, the other at her neck, holding her steady so I can get inside. I’m literally trembling like an untried boy, like an addict tasting his demon-drug. I’ll take Banner any way I can get her. Snorted, smoked, shot in my veins. I want her with marrow-level hunger, the kind you have to dig inside your bones to satisfy. I suck her tongue too hard. I grip her waist too tightly. Every part of me fears this won’t last. Knows it can’t. And this kiss is not enough. These clothes are in my way. I growl, frustrated to finally have what I want and not be able to get it down fast enough. I shove her tank top up and push my hand under her bra, squeezing her breast, pinching her nipple, reminding her body how this works. How we feel together. I drag the yoga pants and her panties down over the delicious curve of her ass.

Skin. I need it.

I sink to my knees, turn her around, and bite one firm globe, spread h

er cheeks and swipe my tongue along the puckered ridge.

“Jared,” she gasps, bangs her forehead to the shelf. “Jesus.”

I follow the line of her ass with my fingers until I reach her pussy, wet and empty. Waiting. My mouth waters when I stroke her clit, when it grows plump and slick under my attention. Her muffled moans spur me on. She spreads her legs, silently begging me to penetrate. One finger. Two fingers. Three fingers pushing in, caressing her pussy walls while she humps my hand.

“Oh, God,” she cries out. “We have to stop.”

“No.” I want to take her with him just yards away.

“Jared, please.” Tears fill her voice. “I don’t want to do this again. I can’t lie to him. I can’t hurt him. Not now.”

Her words trail off, break.

“Please.”

My fingers go still inside of her, and with his usual bad timing, August’s voice speaks in my head.

The things you love about her—the good, the compassion, the sense of right and wrong–will all be deconstructed and set aside for you.

And I can’t do it. As much as the animal inside of me wants to fuck her right under his nose, wants to punish Zo for keeping her from me, I can’t to do it. Because to do it to him is to do it to her, and I can’t.

I rest my forehead against the bare curve of her ass and release a heavy sigh. Resignation. Deprivation. With one last kiss on her butt, my fingers slip out of her. She leans against the shelf, looking down at me with wet eyes, with spiky lashes.

“Thank you,” she whispers, brushing away her tears.

I nod, but unable to resist one more sensual act of defiance, I shove three fingers, shiny and wet and pussy-scented, into my mouth and lick every drop of her from them, holding her eyes with mine the whole time until she closes hers, shuddering and biting her lip.