Page 12

***

Your bungalow is situated on a hilltop beneath a canopy of trees, affording complete privacy.

The whole back wall is open to the vertiginous view of the cliffs below, with the ocean beyond that.

There’s an infinity pool and a glass-clad shower facing the open air, and an enormous canopy bed surrounded by pale gauze.

Other than birdsong, the air is blissfully quiet.

Even the maids who leave breakfast trays outside your door every morning seem to move silently.

Kai is spread out on that canopy bed, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs.

If you linger too long in the bathroom, he’s going to fall asleep.

You’ve never met a man who can doze off quicker, regardless of setting, and your plans for his birthday evening do not involve the kinds of dreams that happen when someone is unconscious.

“Ster?” Kai’s voice drifts from the other side of the door. Fuck. He sounds drowsy.

“Coming!” you call back. In the mirror, your reflected self squares his shoulders and bites his lip. Resists the urge to make a face.

Kai’s rolled on his side, facing the bathroom door. At first, he doesn’t seem to comprehend what he’s looking at. Anxiety, foolish and unaccustomed, fibrillates your heart. Oh, god. This is stupid. You are stupid.

“Oh, hi,” he says. And his voice doesn’t sound sleepy anymore.

The outfit can only be called a football uniform in the loosest sense.

It’s a slutty version of the real thing, like girls wear on Halloween.

Sexy nurse, sexy witch, sexy Little Red Riding Hood.

This is Sexy Generic Football Player: the shoulder pads, which are attached to a harness, leave your chest and stomach bare, and the skin-tight pants are cropped at mid-thigh and lace up at the crotch.

You weren’t able to custom-order it in Cyclones-issue green and gold, but the black-and-white uni does have a certain sleazy je ne sais quoi, especially when paired with the sweatbands at the wrists, the painted-on eye black, and the cleats, which are clicking on the wooden floor.

You’ve never dressed up for a lover before. As someone who plays dress-up for at least part of their living, this seemed, back home, like an oversight. Now, you are uncertain.

“Go team?” you quip.

Brow furrowed, Kai gets up off the bed and stands, facing you. His eyes drag up and down your body, lingering on the (multiple) places where the skimpy costume leaves you unclothed.

“For me?” he asks, finally.

“Yeah,” you reply.

He tilts his head. Kai is barefoot and your Nike cleats probably give you an extra inch of height, but he’s still much taller.

You feel every inch of that height difference as he makes a slow circle around you, examining the components of the uniform.

It’s almost enough to make you jump out of your skin when he brushes the bare skin of your upper arm, testing the weight of the shoulder pads.

“I don’t think this meets Association dress code standards, rookie,” he says gravely.

You can’t help sucking a deep breath when he stops behind you.

Even without seeing his face, you can feel the heavy weight of his stare against your back.

On your ass, which is straining against the seams of the cheap pants.

(You wanted them very tight, so you ordered a size down.

Instead of “tight,” they landed on “pornographic.”)

“Aww, shoot,” you hear yourself say. Your voice comes out higher than you intended. “Think Coach is going to be pissed at me? I don’t want to get in trouble.”

He’s not touching you, but his laughter rumbles through your back all the same.

“I’ll cover for you,” he says. “But you’re gonna have to change. You get tackled in that getup, you won’t be alive when they scrape you off the turf.”

His presence is making your skin prickle. You find yourself breathing a little harder. He’s hardly laid a finger on you. “You could show me,” you suggest.

“Show you what?”

When you gulp, your throat feels thick and hot. “How to tackle.”

Kai’s hands settle on your hips, his fingers splaying over the polyester and Spandex of the pants. His fingertips knead the long muscles of your flanks. His breath is hot in your ear.

“You got drafted, but you don’t know how to tackle?” he says, amused. “Someone in the front office really liked you, kid.”

Today, Kai is 27 years old, which makes him over three years younger than you. Something about that insouciant kid zings through your nervous system like a live wire in a raging storm, however. Outside, the falling evening is a soft, pink-and-purple thing.

“I guess you’ll have to show me,” you murmur.

Kai huffs. Grabs you by one of the wristbands and pulls you closer to the bed.

“Feet shoulder-width apart. Shoulders back. Head up,” he tells you briskly. “Eyes on your target. Buzz those feet.”

“Buzz?” you repeat, confused.

He does the quick, light step-in-place that you’ve seen guys do on the field. Feeling unwieldy and heavy besides your 255-pound boyfriend, you try to match his movements.

“You’re gonna accelerate towards the ball carrier,” he explains.

“Then you’re gonna shoot-and-rip. In and up against his body.

Eyes on the sky, face-mask up. You’re gonna disrupt his momentum and make him lose his footing.

Your legs are gonna do most of the work for you.

Get him off his feet and into the ground. ”

You haven’t been able to make sense of one word he’s saying. Lust is making your brain soupy and causing your heart to beat in your ears. (Generally, you are very good at following instructions.)

“I think I need a demonstration,” you say sheepishly.

The wolfish grin on Kai’s face is the last thing you see before you’re flying backwards onto the bed, him atop you.

You’re pretty sure that football players—even those who learned how to tackle before they knew their multiplication tables, like Kai—don’t have a proper form for tackling up onto mattresses, but he executes it all the same.

He’s gentle enough, which you know from watching him absolutely demolish men twice your size on the field, but it still takes the wind out of you a little bit, the way he effortlessly sweeps you off your feet.

“You okay?” he asks affectionately, his big self pushing you down into the bedding.

“Put me in, Coach,” you say, gasping a little.

Kai’s laughing when he leans down to kiss you.

You surge up when your lips meet, opening your mouth eagerly against his.

He pushes himself up on his arms to give you some room to breathe, and frames your thighs with his knees.

He’s all around you like this, and it’s more than a little heady.

The cheap material of your pants slide against the high-thread count duvet cover, and your stupid, chintzy shoulder pads are riding up around your neck, tugging at the harness strapped under your arms.

“Can I take this off?” you mumble into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He’s got one hand holding himself up, and the other playing with the end of your ponytail. Your neck is covered in goosebumps with the anticipation of him pulling it any second.

“No way,” he insists, the stubble on his chin scraping your neck as he angles his head to mouth at your jaw. “I want you wearing the whole uniform when you fuck me.”

Surprised, you pull away a bit. “That what you want? I figured you’d want to split your rookie in half.”

Kai groans against your skin. “Very hot,” he agrees. “If you want me to, I won’t complain.”

You shake your head, just knowing it’s going to mess up the back of your hair. “Captain’s choice. I’m not the birthday boy.”

In the blink of an eye, Kai has bodied you again. One big hand under your hips is apparently all he needs to flip you both over. Then he’s on his back on the bed with you astride him. It’s dizzying, honestly.

“Well, the birthday boy is all yours, rookie,” he says. “Better show me those moves.”

It takes you a second to get your bearings, but it’s a quick second.

Nimbly, you kick off the cleats and socks.

You can’t help taking a moment to run your hands over Kai’s gorgeous, broad chest. It’s built like a brick wall.

He’s not a hairy guy, but you love the tight curls of sparse black hair over his pectorals, the same way that you love the denuded smoothness of your own skin.

The contrast is absolutely delicious… there’s no other word for it.

Under your ass, he’s already hard for you.

The feeling of his big cock stiff against the seat of your pants is distracting, but you are on a mission.

Kai wants to be topped. It’s Kai’s birthday.

Gotta blow his mind. Just for a quick second, you let yourself fall against his chest. The stupid pads get in the way of the friction you want between his skin and yours, but his mouth is still better than even the sweetest wine when you steal two, three more kisses from his eager lips.

Then you’re fidgeting atop him, trying not to unseat yourself as you stretch over towards the bedside drawer for the items you stashed in there when you both were unpacking.

“I don’t think we need a Gideon’s Bible right now,” Kai mutters, grabbing your thighs to keep you from falling off the mass of his body.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen a Gideon’s Bible, especially not at a place like the Four Seasons, but that’s beside the point. You come up with the three items you were looking for, and set them next to you and Kai on the bed.

“What’re you planning on doing with that?” Kai asks, tilting his chin at the wand vibrator and bulbous attachment on the bed alongside the half-used bottle of lube.

“Driving you crazy, hopefully,” you tell him.