Chapter 6 Dangerous affair
CHAPTER SIX
Dangerous Affair
SAINT LARUE
“Who was Emily Dickinson?”
I bite my tongue.
Three days in this school and every class has been the same recycled shit. Teachers reading off slides like none of us have Google. I already know what I’m supposed to know.
“Emily Dickinson was an American poet born in Massachusetts…”
I zone out and dig a stick of gum from my bag.
Reid sits in the front row. He’s been ignoring me all week. He won’t look at me, not when I flicked a lit cigar into the garden, not when I blasted music loud enough to rattle the windows. He’s not just pissed about Monday. He’s sulking about losing.
I chew slowly, eyes locked on the back of his head.
He’s never alone with his teammates and her.
It is hard not to notice the girlfriend, with her red hair, blue eyes, and the kind of body people write songs about.
Does he fuck her? Does he think about me when he does? Do I want him to?
I spit the gum into my palm and roll it into a tight ball. Maybe it ends up in his hair. Or hers.
“Reid, you’re with Saint.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
Reid is already on his feet, all easy charm. “Actually, Ms Cara, we have to get to practice. Big match with Crownhill coming up. Mind if we head out?”
The teacher melts. “Of course. Anything for you, Captain.”
He’s inventing an early practice just to avoid being paired with me. Cute.
I drag my headphones on and follow them out.
“See you after, baby.” The girlfriend kisses him full on the mouth.
Something ugly burns through my chest. I scoff and keep walking. At the last second, I let my shoulder clip his.
“Does she know what a sloppy kisser her boyfriend is?”
He freezes. I’m already gone.
---
“You’re benched.”
The first words he’s said to me in days.
Heat rips up my spine. “What?”
“You’re benched. Sit there. Watch the real players work. Learn something. Or do us all a favor and quit. You don’t belong here.”
He storms off.
I clench my jaw until it aches and drop onto the bench, foot tapping hard. Who the fuck does he think he is? I came here to play, not to sit and watch.
He’s the quarterback. His word is law.
A few days ago he was putty in my hands. Maybe he needs a reminder how fast power tips.
“Throw harder, Buck!” he yells. The center nods, sweating. “Got it, Cap.”
I should be out there. Wide receiver. Fast. Open. Catching everything he throws. Instead I’m parked on the sideline because Reid Beaumont is having a tantrum.
Rage simmers under my skin. My hands start to shake with the effort of holding it in. I pull out a cigar, light it, and let the burn settle into my lungs. The usual calm rolls through me. I lean back and watch.
The bell eventually cuts practice short. They start packing up. Reid is still lost in it—panting, soaked, barking orders. Satisfaction curls low in my gut when I catch the faint marks on his back. My fingers. Faded now, but there. A brand.
My dick twitches.
He glances over, looks away, then does a double-take at the cigar.
In three strides he’s in front of me. He rips it from my mouth and grinds it under his cleat.
“There’s something deeply wrong with you. Do that again and you’re off the fucking team.”
Then he’s gone, calling over his shoulder to the others. “Goodnight, boys. Good game. See you tonight.”
Tonight?
I pretend to leave. Wait until the field empties. Then I double back to the private locker room.
Reid is exactly where I knew he’d be.
Water still runs down the ridges of his stomach. His cock is hard—flushed, glistening, angry. Heavy. Something darker than want slides through me as I step inside.
He doesn’t look away.
“Hi, Cap.”
“What the fuck do you want?” He hisses it, but he shuts the door behind me. Not kicking me out. Pulling me in.
My pulse slows and thickens. I reach down and wrap my hand around him.
He groans, low and furious.
I stroke once, firm, and drag him flush against me. I’ve been thinking about him all week. His silence drove me insane. Now I need him wrecked. Even.
My other hand finds his throat. I flatten my tongue against his Adam’s apple and taste salt.
His cock kicks in my fist. A broken sound slips out of him.
I smile and work him properly—tight strokes, thumb smearing over the swollen head, fingers rolling his balls. He curses between his teeth.
“S—fuck—Saint. I’m going to kill—shit—”
He comes hard, spilling over my hand, mouth crashing into mine like he can’t help it. I hold him through it while his whole body shudders. His tongue slides against mine and heat floods my stomach. My own dick throbs, neglected and aching.
This isn’t about me.
I step back.
He stares, chest heaving, eyes narrowed.
“I win.” I lick his cum off my palm, slow, and let him watch.
Salt and heat burst across my tongue. His nostrils flare when he understands exactly what just happened.
I turn and walk out before either of us can ruin it.
This is dangerous.
I don’t care.
