Rushed(18)

"It's been a long time," I whisper, my hands coming up around his neck. "There had to have been some in between."

"That doesn't make it right," Tyler says, pulling me closer. "But I'm going to make up for it now."

His lips find mine, and I'm lost in the warmth of his hands, his lips strong and seeking. His tongue touches my lips and I open up, our kiss deepening until we're sharing breath, his tongue reaching deep inside before he kisses down my throat, hot electric trails as he pulls the straps of my dress to the side, baring my body to him.

Naked, I feel soft and vulnerable, but Tyler reassures me. I turn back around, and I realize that Tyler's naked now too, his suit having disappeared. I don't care, the feeling of his skin under my fingertips wiping away any worries. Instead, Tyler pushes me back, until I'm pressed against the wall next to the fireplace, the warmth seeping through as he lifts my leg.

"This is a fantasy," I whisper, even as I feel the head of Tyler's cock nestle between my thighs. "This can't be real."

"Fantasies can sometimes become real," he whispers in my ear, and suddenly he thrusts, filling me perfectly, his body pinning me against the wall.

Maybe it is a fantasy, but the feeling of him sliding in and out of me is more than I can imagine, and I lift my other leg, wrapping my feet around to hold him tight as he drives himself over and over into me, each thrust perfect and amazing.

"Tyler . . . so many years . . ."

"There's never been anyone to fully replace you," Tyler grunts as he f*cks me, hard and strong, my body crying out in waves of pleasure. "Nobody has ever been in that secret place in my heart."

"You . . . you either," I groan as my body builds. Words fall aside, and we're caught up, jolt after jolt of ecstasy shooting through my body. Tyler's lips are on my neck, his kisses adding to the amazing sensation, the two of us going higher and higher, toward what I've needed for too long.

Tyler clenches, his breath catching, and with a final thrust he explodes, triggering my orgasm along with him. "Oh Tyler . . ."

"Fantasies can come true . . ."

I blink, realizing that my words were my own whisper, and that the warm fireplace wall that I'd been leaning against was actually the wall of my apartment, where the sun and water heater combine to make the plasterboard great in winter, and hot in summer.

"Fantasies . . ." I whisper again, sighing. "Fantasies don't come true for a girl like me."

I peel my dress the rest of the way off and kick it toward my closet. There's enough time that I can take a shower, and maybe not feel so damn pathetic when I go to bed tonight.





Chapter 7





Tyler





I feel weird, that's the only way to describe it. Part of it is the uniform. After wearing the green and white of the Western Bulldogs for five years, the black and gold of the Fighters seems different. Twice now I've had to recheck throws as I first look for a green helmet, and see nothing but gold instead.

Then there's the ball. It's supposedly the same as an American ball, but the stripes going all the way around are different, and to be honest, the ball just feels a bit . . . different.

There's no center in this drill, just me and the receivers, so I drop back, taking my five steps before looking. I look down field, where I see DeAndre Ballard, the top wideout on the team, running a fifteen yard out pattern. There's no defenders, this is just the first day of practice for me and I'm just getting my feet underneath me again, which is good as my throw falls far too short, DeAndre having to stop and actually go back a step to grab the pass.

"Shit!"

"What was that?" Coach Blanchard asks. He's been watching the drill this whole time, and so far he hasn't had too many good things to say. "That's a high school level throw!"

"I know," I say, upset. Coach is being nice, I haven't f*cked up a simple no defense throw like that since my flag football days in elementary school. "My bad."

"Yeah, well, take a minute and get your head right, Tyler. I need to check on how the linemen are coming along."

Coach Blanchard walks over to the other end of the stadium, where the big men are starting to work on some light pad drills. I'm in shorts and shoulder pads myself, the big red 'no touch' tank top over my white practice jersey. The receivers come over, less concerned than I thought they'd be.

"Sorry about that last one," I say, trying to be casual. Still, I'm frustrated, this has not been the start to my pro career that I was looking for. If I want to earn a shot down in the States again, I'm going to have to look a lot better than I have been.

"Don't sweat it," DeAndre says. Another American, he's been with the team for nearly ten years, and was with Calgary before that. He's coming to the end of his pro career, and from what I read quickly about him, he might stay in Canada. He met his wife while he played in Calgary, and is eligible for Canadian citizenship if he wants it. "It took me a while to adjust too."

"How long? I mean, I threw it just like I did before."

"That's your problem," Paul Manson, another one of the wide receivers, says. Paul's Canadian, and has been playing for about three years. I was surprised to learn that one of the rules of the Canadian League is that half of the players must be Canadian citizens or permanent residents, which creates some friction between the different groups. The Canadians feel upset that the guys like me are brought in, when there's a lot of guys who grew up under what they call "Canadian Code," playing the game.