I can feel them dissolving in the slow grind of our hips. This is a prelude to something, something horizontal and sweaty. I inch back, which is hard to do with a hand at your ass and the other in your hair.
“I’m not having sex with you. Your virgin line won’t work on me.” I wish I had more conviction in my voice.
“I know,” he murmurs into my hair and pulls me back until again there’s no space between us.
My God. Every denial that comes out of his mouth makes me want to prove him wrong. He presses his face into my hair and I feel his chest move against mine as he inhales deeply. Vainly, I’m happy I showered with my mango-scented shampoo before I came out, even though I swear I had no plans to have Masters sniff me.
His unattainable status works overtime on me. I’ve become the girl I described to Jack. The one who wants to show Masters how amazing sex is.
“Masters, this won’t go anywhere.”
He draws back slightly and frowns. “Is that how you think of me? As Masters? I’m not your teammate.”
“I’m not anything to you.”
The side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what you think.” His arms go around me again. He leans down. “You're too beautiful for words.”
I stumble but his arms hold me upright. I wish I had some resistance left, but my willpower seems to have abandoned me.
He massages my scalp as he uses a muscled thigh to part my legs. I lean into him, drunk off the beat that pulses from the soles of my feet up into my belly. His hands tighten against me, pressing my soft flesh into his harder frame. I feel everything—the jut of his hard-on against my stomach, the ridged abdomen barely disguised by his tight T-shirt, the bands of steel that clutch me close. Against my better judgment, I move against him and his thigh slips farther between my legs. The denim of my skirt rides up and the worn cotton of his shorts rubs against the newly exposed skin.
His big hand drops from my ass the tops of my legs and a tremor unmoors me.
“What are you doing to me?” I croak.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my temple in a feather-light caress. “We’re just dancing.”
Only we’re not just dancing. We’re pressed as close as two people can get. His leg is so far between mine that I don’t think my feet touch the floor anymore.
“Masters, we can’t…We shouldn’t…” I can’t even finish my sentences because what are we doing? I don’t even know anymore.
“I know,” he groans. The guttural moan travels through his body, reverberating against me. At least I’m not the only one caught in this strange thrall. He releases me abruptly, swinging me around toward the edge of the dance floor. All around us people do their own versions of upright sex on the dance floor, and no one notices as we sidle down that dark hall. I don’t know where we’re headed, but I’m going with him.
The deep bass of the common room fades, but as we reach the end of the hall, a new noise greets us. Masters nudges a door open and my eyes blink at the brightness of the room. Inside, a bunch of athletes hunch over controllers attempting to beat the hell out of each other in a video game. Despite practicing all day, they’re competing to be the best video game football player. The bright light, the congregating jocks, the removal from the heat and sensation on the dance floor is exactly what I need to snap me back to my senses. This is the last place I want to be, and Masters is the last person I should be fooling around with. So much for my declaration of not doing any football player ever again.
I spin and give Masters a bright smile. “I’m grabbing another Coke.”
“There’s beverages inside. Plus, your brother is over there.” Masters pushes me into the room, and sure enough Jack sits on the wide sectional, tapping furiously on his buttons. “I’ll go take a piss and then I’ll grab you a Coke. Jack, don’t let your sister leave. We’re arguing over the best athlete of all time and I’m not done making my case for Bo Jackson.”
“Oh, man, she’s a Jim Thorpe fan.” Jack pats the sofa without taking his eyes off the television screen. “Come sit down, El. Watch me waste this motherfucker.”
Gee, can I? I plop down on the sofa. I figure that Masters will leave, Jack will forget I’m here, and I’ll be able to make my escape.
“Don’t go anywhere.” Masters points at me and then jogs away.
I wait for about thirty seconds and then stand, but before I can walk out, other members of the team stop me.
“What’d you need?” one asks me.
“Yeah, Masters said not to go anywhere.”
Jack looks up. “You going somewhere, El? You can’t leave by yourself. Give me a minute. We’ve got a quarter left, and I’ll walk you home.”
“Wait for Masters,” someone advises.
I drop back by Jack, because clearly I’m not leaving until the oh-so-great Masters returns. The good thing is that any lingering desire or interest gets entirely eroded by his absence. In fact, the longer he’s gone and the more I’m forced to watch Jack have his onscreen Andrew Luck throw downfield, the less I care about ever seeing Masters again. I certainly don’t want to dance with him, pressed against his broad frame, or have his rough hands work me over.
Absolutely not.
So I focus on Jack and the fact he’s getting his ass handed to him.
“Try an angle route,” I tell him. “Don’t go long every time.”