Breakaway: A Coach’s Daughter College Sports Romance (Beyond the Play)

THE MOMENT we’re on the train, Cooper leads the way to a car like the one we were in last time. There’s a look in his eyes that is making my stomach twist up pleasantly; I don’t know what he has planned, but it’s not another hour of talking. Thank God, because I don’t want to think about, much less discuss, what happened in the store with the tripod.

He kisses me as we sit down—on the same side this time—and puts his hand on my thigh, underneath my skirt. Past Penny knew what she was doing when she opted for the skirt and tights today.

“Callahan,” I murmur as he traces a nonsense pattern into the tights. “What are you doing?”

“What number is public sex?”

The blush practically erupts on my face. This is perfect; we’re not the only ones on the train, but it’s not so crowded that we’re likely to be interrupted. An edge of danger, but not enough risk to make me hesitate. “Semi-public. And six.”

“Skipping ahead a little,” he says as he kisses my neck. “Still need to fuck your ass sometime soon, sweetheart. But not here.” He digs his nails into my tights—and then rips them to get at my panties.

“Those were my good tights,” I protest, my voice fading as he rubs his knuckles over the front of my thong.

“I’ll buy you new ones.” He keeps kissing my neck, unwinding my scarf and flinging it onto the seat across from us. “I’ll buy you ten new pairs. Whatever you want.”

He certainly didn’t bat an eye at buying me a hundred-and-fifty-dollar dildo, so I don’t doubt he’d take me to the mall to buy new tights. It’s easy to forget because he doesn’t seem like a rich boy—certainly nothing like Preston’s type of rich boy—but his family is loaded. He keeps teasing me over my panties as he rummages around in the bag from Dark Allure, and the underlying level of arousal I’ve been feeling whenever I’m around him gains steam. When he finds the remote-controlled vibrator, he curses at the packaging; I take it from his hands and rip it open at the exact moment he ruins my panties, too.

“Cooper!” I say, scandalized. The tights are one thing, but my underwear? He definitely owes me new ones. “You’re acting like a barbarian.”

“I’ve had a fucking hard on since the store,” he says against my ear. “Fuck, you’re wet too. You’re such a little slut.”

The words make me moan, tipping my head back against the seat. The train starts to move, the lights dimming as we head through the tunnel. For a couple of long minutes, I can’t see anything but the lamplights streaking by us in blurs of orange—and I can’t fucking focus on a thing but Cooper’s fingers teasing my clit.

“Wanna put my fingers in,” he murmurs against my ear. “Can I finger-fuck you right here, where anyone could see us the moment we’re out of the tunnel?”

I nod against his shoulder; I don’t trust myself with words right now. He presses in one of his long, thick fingers, deliciously slow, and I moan again, grabbing the air until I settle my hand on his arm. He kisses the side of my head as he adds another finger, scissoring them roughly. I cry out, but fortunately the sound gets swallowed up by the train whistle.

The world around us explodes into light again. Cooper keeps fingering me, angling his body so I’m hidden as much as possible. It’s like he doesn’t want anyone to see not only because it would be mortifying, but because he wants me all to himself. Right when I start rocking against him, squeezing tightly to keep his fingers inside, he eases out.

I look at him pleadingly, a protest already on my lips, but he grabs the little vibrator—which I now see is shaped, abstractly but still recognizably, like a fox, complete with a pointed nose perfect for nudging against a clit—and tucks it against my folds. He tugs my skirt down. I smooth out my wrinkled sweater. You’d be able to glance at us without finding anything out of the ordinary—other than the bulge in his pants and my flush, that is.

He grins as he holds up the remote. “Gotta be quiet for me, baby girl.”

I bite my lip as he turns on the vibrator. The sudden burst of motion has me gasping, but he kisses me to tamp down the noise, his hand stroking over my skirt. The remote is hidden in his palm; he presses another button and the rhythm changes. The tail part of the vibrator, just barely pushed into me, vibrates rapidly, while the head—and that nubby nose, bumping right up against my clit—pulses in long, slow strokes. I’m thinking it’s going to be hard not to come in approximately thirty seconds, never mind how loud I am, when the door to the car slides open.

I bite my lip so hard it hurts. Cooper doesn’t even blink; he just crosses his ankle over his knee and pulls out his phone as the conductor, an older woman with curly hair, approaches. We’re the only two in the car, so she makes a beeline right for us, smiling all the while.

“Tickets?” she asks.

“Here you go,” Cooper says, holding out his phone.

“Perfect,” she says as she scans the tickets. “What were you up to today? Something fun, I hope?”

“We’re McKee students,” Cooper says. He puts his arm around me casually—and then he must press the button on the remote again, because the vibrations ratchet up higher on both ends of the toy. It’s all I can do not to moan aloud, aching for relief. “We just had lunch with my brother and his fiancée.”

“Oh, how nice,” she says. “Are you familiar with the city?”

Cooper, the bastard, chats with the conductor for a few minutes as he changes the speeds and rhythms of the toy. I just smile tightly, trying desperately to avoid making it clear what’s going on through an ill-timed gasp or whimper. Not that I want him to stop—I don’t want that. I just want to come, and then get on my knees and suck his cock until he calls me a slut again.

When she finally moves on, he abruptly switches off the vibrator. My mouth drops open; I’m about ready to give him hell for being such a fucking tease—but before I can, he pulls the vibrator away, tosses it into the plastic bag from the store, and hauls me into the bathroom at the end of the car.

“What—”

“Need to taste you so fucking bad,” he says as he presses me against the door and slides the lock into place. The train rocks, and I nearly fall, but he holds me up. He looks as desperate as I feel, licking his lips, his backward baseball cap knocked askew. I swear his irises are several shades darker. He drops to his knees, onto a floor that has to be filthier than the closet we first hooked up in, and sticks his head right up my skirt.

Stars burst in my vision as his tongue swipes over my clit. He groans like he’s the one being pleasured, nuzzling his beard against my folds. “You’re my favorite taste in the whole goddamn world.”

I knock his baseball cap off his head so I can grab his hair, pushing his face right where I want it. The train sways again, and I nearly go with it; my legs are like jelly, but he saves me before I ruin the whole thing by concussing myself on the metal sink built into the wall. My pleasure reaches the peak it had been hovering at throughout the conversation with the conductor. If he pushes just a little harder, gives me a finger or a bite, I’ll come all over his face. Yet he continues to tease me, and his words echo in my mind like a pinball.

That’s just what boys say, right? Pleasure makes them ramble. You can never trust what a guy says in bed. Or a train bathroom, apparently.

The door rattles loudly. I freeze, but Cooper just keeps going. I stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from making noise, and good thing, because he works two fingers into me at once. I clench around him, and he moans, turning his face into my thigh and biting down. I dig my fingers into his hair in retaliation, tugging hard.

Whoever is on the other side tries the door again. I stifle a hysterical giggle. If the lock breaks and we’re banned from Metro-North forever, I’m making Cooper drive me into the city whenever I want.

“Fantastic,” a voice says. I listen hard for the sound of footsteps, and when it’s clear we’re not on the verge of being walked in on, I relax, but only for a moment, because Cooper seems determined to make me lose any scrap of decency I have left. As he pushes in a third finger, I plummet over the edge, dropping my fist so I can cry out.

He’s on his feet in an instant, cupping my face in his hands and leaning in to kiss me. I taste myself on his tongue as I work my hand into his pants, gripping him tightly. He moans into my mouth, pressing me against the door with enough of his weight that I feel deliciously trapped. The train slows to a stop, which I’m grateful for because I still feel wobbly but would very much like to be on my knees to return the favor. When he sees where I’m going with this, he braces himself against the wall with his hand, dropping the other to my hair.

When I went to the bathroom with Bex, she asked me if we were dating. I told her the truth—a big fat no—but now I imagine it more concretely. Would it look just like this? Day trips into the city, double dates with his brother? Mind-blowing sex and deep conversations about literature? Maybe a label would change the whole thing. Maybe it would force us into territory that neither of us is equipped to handle.

As I take him into my mouth, he sighs, like I really am offering him much needed, much anticipated relief, and strokes his hand through my hair. I look up at him through my lashes; his eyes are screwed shut, his mouth slack. He’s so beautiful it hurts. I’m too scared to name, even in my mind, the tendril of emotion running through me.

It would shift things inexorably. I could lose whatever relationship I’ve rebuilt with my father. I doubt I could handle it, anyway. Following The List gives us structure. We’re friends, but there are strings attached. An invisible expiration date. I need the strings to tether me down, and once he’s captain, this whole thing will probably fizzle out. The friendship and the hookups both.

But I can’t deny that I haven’t felt this happy or settled in a long time. Here, specifically, on my knees in a bathroom on a moving train, hoping that I can drink down the come of the guy who just told me I’m his favorite taste of all.

Am I everything Preston’s family said I am?

It didn’t hurt when Cooper called me a slut. I felt treasured. Special. I know he meant it the same way he calls me Red. But I’ve been called that before, and back then, it hurt worse than almost anything.

Maybe in between the two, there’s a way forward.

It just can’t be Cooper by my side when I figure it out.