The Best Defense: A Sports Romance

Tillie/Devon

It was barely a whisper, but I said it. That one syllable slipped from my mouth before I could really stop it. Maybe I didn't want to though.

It's too soon, what if he hears. He'd kill me. A wave of paralyzing fear courses through me, making me visibly shiver and screw my eyes shut.
He's gone. This is the longest he's disappeared.
Yet, I can't stop my body from replaying a series of sensations. Phantom pain from wounds that have healed.

I force myself to take a few deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

It's not like I'm planning on having sex with Devon, even if that thought sends a small jolt to my core. It's been so long since I have been touched.

A small creaking noise beams me back into reality as my eyes open. Devon is now sat on the edge of the bed watching me with a gentle, almost understanding gaze.

It washes over me, warming my skin like a soft blanket would.

Comfort. That's the only word I can think to describe the sudden slowing of my heart rate and how I can feel my breath steady in my lungs. Every breath bringing me back from the edge of insanity.

Everything logical inside me is telling me to make him leave, to put distance between us, to protect him as much as I would be protecting myself.

Then I find that small part of me, the brave part, the part that still has hope for my future forcing my body away from the wall.

"I'm going to change." I whisper. "So, uh, don't look." I climb off the bed with a slight wobble, remembering the still lingering feeling of drunkness.

A grin stretches across his perfectly shaped face, his jaw is lined with the perfect amount of stubble. I find myself wanting to drag my fingers along his jaw, to feel the sharp contrast between my soft fingers and his prickly five o'clock shadow.

I expect a cheeky reply, or for him to flat out refuse to turn around. But no, no yet again he shocks the hell out of me by turning without complaint to face my wall.

I pad over to my dresser and whip around to check that he's still not watching. I open the drawer to take out my usual over sized t-shirt. I close the drawer still watching him.
I kick off my shoes before reaching behind me to grab the zipper and drag it down slowly. He tenses but doesn't turn around.

Am I testing him? Yes. It's bad and it's immature but let's be real what twenty year old hot blooded hockey player, who's bound for the big times is going to sit like a gentleman while I strip down behind him? Clearly, Devon Taylor.

Devon

Jesus ever loving Christ. How am I hear right now? How the fuck did I wind up on her bed, facing her blank wall while she strips down behind me?

I must be a masochist because this is pure torture. Her dress was like a second skin, left little to the imagination about her incredibly attractive curves.

She is a constant surprise. I pegged her for a vodka cran kind of girl but she was throwing back Jager bombs like nothing. She kept doing this little wiggle dance when she finished her shot, almost like a power up move from a video game. It had me smiling and watching her more closely every time she did it. Her fists would clench, he nose would wrinkle, then she'd wiggle her hips.

I hear the tell tale noise of a zipper and my entire body stiffens, and I mean my entire body. My cock is now pressing against the zipper of my jeans. Fuck.

Find something, anything to look at and focus. My eyes are darting everywhere in my line of site. Nothing. How does she have nothing on her walls. Not even a hang in there poster. Fuck me.