Offsides - A Forbidden Summer novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Extra Time

She stops sitting still during the quarterfinal, and Nate watches from the screen door.

At three fifty-five on Monday, I came down the stairs in the shortest shorts I own.

Devin was already on the couch, and he had picked the far end this time, with a pillow in his lap.

He saw me, looked at the pillow, and put it on the floor.

"You left that off yesterday," he said.

"I wasn't planning to sit with a pillow in my way," I said.

He rubbed his face with one hand. "Katie. We should talk about yesterday."

"After the match."

"Before."

"Kickoff's in four minutes," I said, and I sat down on his lap again.

He made a low sound in his chest, and his hands came up and hovered, one on each side of my waist, not touching.

"Here's my rule," I said, without turning around. "Only while the match is on. When the whistle blows, I get up and none of this happened."

"That's a rule."

"It's mine."

"And if I say no?"

"Then say it," I said.

The announcers started their introductions, and neither of us said anything at all.

His hands settled on my hips, slowly.

The first half went by in a hum.

I kept still for twenty minutes, and then I stopped keeping still.

It started as a shift to get comfortable, and then it wasn't that.

I rolled my hips back an inch, and I felt exactly how hard he already was.

"Don't," he said, so softly I barely caught it.

I did it again anyway, slower this time.

His fingers pressed into my hips, and his breath came out of him in a ragged rush against the back of my neck.

"Katie."

"The match is on," I said.

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know what you meant."

On the screen a striker ran down the left side with the ball.

Devin's hand slid from my hip down to the top of my thigh, and I thought he was going to lift me off.

He didn't.

He pulled me back against him instead, hard, until there was no space between my body and his.

"Stay there," he said, rough.

I stayed there.

I could feel his hard cock through two layers of cloth, thick and hot, flexing against me every time I moved.

I rocked my hips in small, slow circles until my underwear was damp, and he let me.

His forehead dropped against my shoulder, and I heard his teeth click together.

At halftime the announcers talked about tactics, and neither of us heard a word.

His hand was under the hem of my shirt now, flat on my stomach, just under my ribs.

"We're going to regret this," he said into my skin.

"Probably," I said. "Not yet."

The second half started with a yellow card and a free kick.

I ground down on him in time to the crowd noise, and I felt his whole body go tight underneath me.

I had never done this with the lights on, in the daytime, with a man's hands holding me exactly where I wanted to be held.

The heat built low in my stomach, and I let it.

"Devin."

"I know."

"I'm going to."

"I know," he said, and he gripped me tighter, and the sound he made against my neck was half a curse.

In the seventy-ninth minute the red shirts took a shot from thirty yards.

It crashed into the top corner of the net, and the whole stadium on TV went mad.

I came apart on his lap at the same moment, and I heard my own breath break in the quiet room.

His arms locked around my waist.

He went rigid, his hips jerked up once under me, and he groaned into my shoulder, a low, wrecked sound I felt in my own ribs.

For a while neither of us moved.

The crowd roared. The commentators were screaming about a goal of the tournament.

Devin's breath slowed against my neck.

"Okay," he said at last, in a voice that was hardly a voice. "Okay."

I started to laugh, and then he started to laugh, helpless and silent, shaking against my back.

"I need to change my jeans," he said.

"The match isn't over."

"Katie."

"It's still on," I said. "Those are my rules."

"God help me," said Devin.

I turned my head to look at him, and his eyes were dark and soft and dazed.

I kissed him then, on the corner of his mouth, so quickly it barely counted.

He didn't stop me.

I was looking at his mouth when a shadow fell across the floor.

I turned.

Nate Dorsey was standing at the screen door at the back of the den.

He had a dog leash in one hand, and Biscuit at the end of it, wagging.

Nate is twenty-three and Devin's assistant coach.

He's also the boy I took to prom, and he was looking at the two of us on that couch with a face I had never seen on him.

"Coach," he said. "Your dog was down at my place again."

Devin had gone very still.

"I'll just leave him on the porch," said Nate. "I'll let myself out."

He didn't leave.

He stood there and looked at my shirt, and at Devin's hand, which was still under it.

Then he smiled.

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