How am I supposed to concentrate on the development of human civilization in Ancient Greece when this man is looming in front of me? Why won't he sit down? He started to take a place beside me on the thin mattress, but made a sound and started pacing with clenched fists.
Yes, I really should have Googled him prior to this tutoring session. Or actually watched one of the division one football games on television. At least that way I would have been prepared for the god—speaking of Ancient Greece—that walked into my room. He's well over six foot five, bronzed and…thick. Everywhere. So muscular that his jeans and grey, long-sleeved T-shirt are struggling not to burst at the seams. His physique would have been enough to render him a distraction, but he had to be handsome on top of being strong, didn't he? His dark hair is windblown, eyes light brown, stubble gracing his jaw.
A man. A grown man.
The campus hero who will not play in the championship game unless I can get him to pass Western Civilization. That pressure has been weighing down on my shoulders since the dean asked me for the favor. Of course I said yes. I'm lucky just to be here. Lucky to be attending a university without paying a single dime. Tutoring the quarterback is the least I can do in exchange for my good fortune. So many people will never get this opportunity.
"Do you want to sit down?" I ask, opening the textbook and smoothing out the sheet tucked in between the pages. My notes for our first session.
When he hesitates, raking a hand through his hair, something humiliating occurs to me. What if he thinks I'm…I'm hitting on him? Asking him to sit on my bed? What was I thinking?
I shoot to my feet, fumbling the textbook in my hands. "I-I'm sorry. I should have asked you to meet me in the library."
"No, it's fine." He's staring at me with that strange intensity again. Like he's restraining himself. From what? "It's fine, I'm just…I'm trying to calm down first."
Calm down?
Confused, I lower myself back down to the mattress, noting that his jaw looks ready to pop free of its hinge. "You're not this mad over my roommate, are you?"
"I'm not mad." He tugs on the ends of his hair. "I'm always mad, Stella. Just not right now."
The textbook sits forgotten in my lap, his tortured energy holding me in thrall.
He stops pacing and shakes his head. "I'm not putting any more of that on you." I start to tell him it's okay. This larger-than-life man must have a million friends who would gladly lend him a shoulder to lean on or a listening ear, but if he wants to confide in me, a stranger, I would listen. Of course I would. But he speaks before I can make the offer. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
I have to slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the laugh.
"What?" He frowns, fingers curling into his palms. "You do, don't you?"
"No. I don't. I've never…" Why would I volunteer something so embarrassing? The beginning of my sentence dangles there between us, until I have no choice but to complete it. "I've never even been on a date." Fire engulfs my cheeks and I flip clumsily through the textbook. "Shouldn't we be s-studying?"
"Yeah. We probably should be." He plants his hands on his knees and leans down until our faces are even. "So. No boyfriend, Stella?"
Why is he asking? Maybe I'm such an anomaly in his world of television cameras and touchdowns, he's fascinated by my celibate lifestyle. I shake my head.
His eyelids grow heavy with relief, his shoulders relaxing. "Saves me some time," he mutters, straightening. Looking around the room. "I have an apartment off campus. You'll have a lot more space there." This time when he looks at me, his eyes seem a lot darker. "We will."
"Oh." I stand up again, holding the open textbook to my chest. That's when I notice how fast my heart is beating. And my knees are sort of wobbly. Because of Gage Weston? I've never had this kind of reaction to anything or anyone before. Why does the first time have to be with a nationally admired quarterback? "You want us to study at your apartment, instead?"
A line moves in his cheek and for a moment, he looks almost amused. But only for a moment. Then he's deadly serious. "I'm going to need a lot of tutoring, Stella. Day and night. For years. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
"No," I whisper, honestly. This happens a lot. I was raised in a quiet orphanage by a nun named Sister Mary Donovan who'd taken a vow of silence. I'm not great at interacting with people, let alone very tall, very good-looking men who smell like fresh rain. "I'm sorry."
He swallows. "Don't apologize. It's me. I'm going too fast, doing this all wrong. Jesus, you fucking fluster me, honey. You know that?" His laughter is strained. "Let's take this slower, okay?"
I don't know what else do but nod, sitting back down on the bed. As a matter of fact, I've stood up and sat down so many times since he arrived, I might as well be in mass. I duck my chin into my chest to suppress a laugh—and that's when Gage drops down beside me. Hard. All of his weight lands on the spot to my left and I go flying, catapulted straight into the air.
"Stella!"
He catches me in mid-air and jerks me down into his lap protectively.
Now, my mouth is right below his. His eyes search mine with a lot more worry than the situation warrants. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm—"
I break off on a moan when his hand lifts to cradle the side of my face. His palm touches my bare skin and…and every nerve ending in my body screams in delight. Screams. Powerful enough to shatter glass. Or me, rather. I'm shattering, shaking. Moaning again.
Mentally, I know I'm embarrassing myself.
I know that.
But physically, I can't stop rubbing my cheek into his palm, barely capable of keeping my eyes open, the rush of sensations is so large. Consuming.
"I'm s-sorry," I stammer. "I'm just not used to…I haven't been touched by anyone. I can't remember the last time. Sister might have given me a hug on my fifteenth birthday…"
Gage's breath accelerates, his dark brows slashing together. "I don't understand. You haven't been touched at all since you were fifteen?" His thumb brushes my cheekbone and I go limp with a sob, but his strong arms tighten and hold me up easily. "Ah honey. What about your parents?"
My brain is so muddled by the warmth of his hand, the tingles his touch spreads all the way to my belly, I can barely explain. "I was put up for adoption when I was eleven. They needed someone to help out at the monastery and I was adopted. By the church."
He processes that with a deep look of concentration, his rough knuckle trailing along the curve of my jaw, down the side of my neck, making me gasp. "How did you end up here? You're a freshman, right? You have to be. I would have seen you. Known you were here…somehow."
I'm trying to grasp what he's saying to me, but his knuckle is in the hollow of my throat now, then it's traveling lower. Looking me in the eye, Gage pops open the buttons of my cardigan, one by one. But when he starts to spread it open, I regain my senses and grab his wrist to stop him. "I-I'm not wearing anything underneath this."
"That's okay, Stella. That's good. From now on, I'm the one who gets to look. I'm the only one who is allowed. Understood?" I nod, barely cognizant of what I'm agreeing to, only that looking into this man's eyes while he's touching me feels infinitely right. Like it was inevitable long before he walked through the door tonight. "If my hand feels good on your face, think of how nice it'll feel on your tits, honey."
Tits.
I've never heard that word out loud before.
Some of the language around campus is "salty" as Sister would call it in those rare times she wasn't living in silence, but I've yet to hear any sexual references being tossed around. To be fair, I normally put my head down and power walk between classes, because I'm so overwhelmed by the size of the university. The multitude of people. It's so much bigger and busier than anywhere I've ever seen or been. It's safer to stick to my books and assignments. "I…I don't know."
Something hard is pressing to my bottom. I wiggle around on the large object, trying to discern its exact shape. When Gage grits his teeth and curses, it dawns on me. It's his hard penis. He's…aroused? I've read about male sexual response in my health class, though I admit I skimmed a little, it made my private parts feel uncomfortably warm. "Is that permission, Stella?" he pants. "Is that tight ass telling me yes, Gage, play with my tits?"
The temperature in the room is a million degrees, right?
What was I thinking, wearing a sweater? Sure, it's a cold fall night, but I'm in flames. And I have that odd, melting sensation between my thighs again, about a hundred times worse than when I read about male arousal in health class. Because this is real. This man is real and he's erect for me, for some strange reason. I'm scrawny and quiet and unpolished. I can't possibly be what he's used to.
Still, his touch feels so startlingly amazing, I find myself whispering, "Yes."
In a split second, the textbook has been knocked onto the floor and my back is being pressed to the mattress. His eyes are glittering, hands unsteady as he shoves open the sides of my cardigan. "Holy…fuck." He drops his face down between my breasts, making a sound that's a cross between an inhale and a snarl. "Ah, honey. They're so fucking pretty. Going to come just looking at them. Sweet Jesus."
I don't know when it happens because I'm reeling from his words, from the pleasure they give me, but both of my wrists are in his left hand and pinned over my head, his tongue licking up and over one of my nipples, stiffening it instantly, painfully, his right hand squeezing the opposite mound in a possessive grip.
And…I implode. I lose the ability to think. The region between my legs, which I've never explored or spared a lot of thought for, gathers up so forcefully it makes me whimper, then scream, my legs thrashing…and I…is this an orgasm? I see nothing. I feel only ripple after wave after torrent of pleasure burn through my belly, my femininity, my back arching up off the bed, wrists straining in his grip. All the while, he looks down at me in pained awe. Lustful shock.
"Gage."
"Good girl. Call for me," he rasps, still teasing my nipples with his fingers, prolonging the roil of harsh tugs and mighty twists beneath my belly button. Release. It's never-ending and it's so deep, so wild, so necessary. "Call for your man."
My man. Yes.
In that moment, I commit blasphemy.
Because I pray to him. I pray to this man, recognizing him as my new savior. The one whose touch holds me in such a deep thrall that I can't reason or breathe. "…thy kingdom come…thy will be done…"
I'm halfway through the Our Father, having replaced God's name with Gage's. Sister would be so disappointed in me. She'd wring her hands and lock me in the confessional. As long as this man visits me there, I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.
I must lose consciousness for a moment.
Or an hour. The passage of time has no meaning anymore. My legs are still shaking.
I turn my head and watch Gage pack my things into the suitcase that I keep under my bed. It doesn't take him long, because I don't own much. When he's finished, he picks me up like a child and I wrap my legs around his waist, bury my face in his neck and let him carry me out of the dorm full of gaping students, the wheels of my suitcase squeaking behind us.
"Let's go home, honey."