The Goal Read online

  “Come for me,” he mumbles. “Take what you need.”

  Inside of me, his cock pulses, and then his fingers find my clit, stroking and teasing it until I go off like a rocket, shaking so hard I can barely stay on top of him.

  Tucker rises part way to clasp me to his chest, pounding into me so hard that I have to raise trembling hands to the truck’s roof to prevent my head from slamming through it.

  He drives into me, over and over, until suddenly he’s the shaky, mindless mess who has a hard time maintaining any control. He collapses back against the seat, taking me with him.

  I allow myself a few selfish moments to catch my breath, luxuriating against the big chest beneath me. Tremors give way to contentment. A part of me wants to stretch this moment out endlessly, curled up in this guy’s lap while his hand runs soothingly up and down my spine.

  “You sure you don’t want to crash at my place?” he asks.

  For a second, I nearly say yes. Yes, to going back to his place. Yes, to another round of sex. Yes, to breakfast in the morning, skipping work, and spending the entire day in bed with him. The need surprises and scares me.

  I take a deep breath and gather up the pieces of my composure that he fucked into tiny bits. “No. I need to get home.”

  Just sex.

  Right. It’s just sex. John Tucker is good in bed. So good that he should be getting a trophy. But it’s not better than I’ve had before. It only feels that way because of the stress I’m under. Or even if it was the best I’ve had, that doesn’t mean anything other than he’s one more data point in the athletes make good lovers theory. Stamina. World-class fingers and tongue. A dick that could serve as the model for the large versions at a sex shop.

  I root around for my shirt and jacket. I throw them on, not even caring that they’re likely on backwards. I need to get out of this truck and into my car.

  “I’m ready,” I announce. “My car is only a couple blocks from here.”

  His handsome features soften. “You look a little shocky.”

  I twist in agitation, but his expression shows nothing but concern. “I’m good,” I assure him.

  Tucker sits up and removes the condom, tying it off and then dumping it into a nest of napkins. He fingers his keys for a moment and then starts the truck. “Where to?”

  I let out a breath of relief. “Over on Forest. Big Victorian.”

  “Got it.”

  We drive the short distance in silence. At the first glimpse of my car, the urge to flee is hard to resist. I have the door open before he comes to a complete stop.

  “See you around,” I say lightly.

  “I’m walking you to your car.”

  He lifts his hips to pull his jeans up, alerting me to the fact that he’s still half-naked. I try not to stare as he tucks his semi-hard dick away. He could go another round, easy.

  My body pleads for more contact, which I ignore by climbing out of the truck. When Tucker joins me, his T-shirt is back on and his jeans are riding on his trim hips, the zipper undone. He still has his boots on.

  A gurgle of hysteria shoots into my throat. He fucked me that good and he didn’t even take his boots off?

  “I’ll follow you home,” he says.

  “I told you, I live in Boston.”

  He shrugs. “So? Roads are shit and I want to make sure you get home okay.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve made this run dozens of times before.”

  “Then text me when you get home.”

  “No phone numbers,” I remind him, feeling weirdly panicked.

  “It’s either the text or I follow you.” Finality rings in his voice.

  Figures I’d have a one-night stand with the last remaining gentleman on this planet.

  “Fine.” I fish my phone out of my coat pocket. “But you’re killing off all the good feelings.”

  His light brown eyes twinkle. “Shouldn’t matter, right, because this isn’t going to be repeated?”

  He has a fucking answer for everything. “You should be pre-law,” I mutter. “Give me your number.”

  I tap it in as he reels it off, then unlock my car and practically hurl myself into the driver’s seat. Thankfully, the engine of my sometimes-unreliable Honda starts immediately.

  I crack my window down an inch and murmur a hasty, “Night, Tucker,” and he responds with a quick nod.

  I watch him in the rearview mirror for nearly a block, a lone figure against the moonlit backdrop, before forcing my gaze forward. That’s where my focus has to be.

  The drive home passes by in a blur, though, as my mind replays the hot sex scene on repeat. Stupid mind.

  But…the sex was so good. Would it really hurt to see him again?

  I park on the cracked asphalt of the carport behind my house and just sit there for a moment. Then I rake a hand through my tousled sex-hair and reach for my phone.

  Me: I’m here.

  The response is immediate.

  Him: Good. Glad to hear it. Feel free to use this number again.

  Do I want to use it—him—again? It’s so tempting. John Tucker was hot as hell, fucked like a god, and was so laidback nothing seemed to faze him. He didn’t ask me any difficult questions and didn’t seem interested in wanting more than I could offer. How often does a guy like that come along?

  Me: I’ll keep that in mind.

  Him: U do that, darlin’.

  I run a thumb over my lip, remembering how good it felt when he kissed me. Argh. Maybe I will use that number again.

  Exhaustion hits me the moment I step out of the car. I need some sleep, STAT. Tomorrow’s going to be as long and tiring as today was, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.

  When I stumble through the door, Nana is sitting in the same spot I left her. I suspect the only time she moved in the four or so hours I’ve been gone was to pee out the empty two-liter Coke bottle on the kitchen table. The bottle was full before I left. There’s a different magazine in front of her, though. I think it’s the Enquirer.

  She takes in my disheveled appearance. “Thought you had a cocktail party.” A smirk forms. “Looks like you were on the menu.”

  Heat floods my face. Yup. Nothing like a word from Nana to set the world back in order.

  I ignore the jab and head for the doorway. “’Night,” I mumble.

  “Goodnight,” she replies, her chuckles following me into the bedroom.

  After I’ve closed and locked the door, I pull out my phone and bring up Tucker’s name. For one long moment, I stare at it. I’m tempted to text him something. Anything.

  Instead, I go to the info screen and press “BLOCK.”

  Because no matter how sexy he is or how many orgasms he can wring out of me, there’s no place in my life for a second round with him.

  4

  Tucker

  The sound of a car engine revving jerks me awake. It’s still dark out, but I can make out the tiniest sliver of light on the horizon, a grayish stripe in a black background. I flip the lever of my seat and allow the mechanism to push me upright, just in time to see a small Honda Civic pulling out of Sabrina James’s drive.

  Blearily, I check the time on the dash. Four a.m. As her car drives past, I catch a glimpse of dark hair, and before I know it, I’ve pulled out in traffic behind her.

  I followed her to Boston last night because the roads were still icy and I was worried about her. And I wasn’t convinced she was going to text me. After she’d come that last time, she’d totally shut down. It was obvious that being intimate isn’t something she feels comfortable with. I got the sense I could say about any filthy thing I wanted to her and she’d be completely fine, but a tender, caring word and she’d jackrabbit out of there.

  Hell, she almost jumped out of my truck in her haste to get away. I didn’t take it personally, though.

  I stretch my back as best as I can. I haven’t slept in my truck for a long time, and my body’s reminding me the exact reason why. But it was either catch a few zzzs or
take a chance driving back on the slick roads. I chose to sleep in my cab.

  Sabrina’s car zips through a yellow light and then takes a sharp left. By the time I catch up, she’s pulling into the employee parking lot of a south Boston post office. A second later, she stumbles out of the driver’s seat wearing a work uniform, her long hair tied back in a ponytail.

  A smile curves across my face. Smoking hot, bright as the sun, and a hard worker? Damn. My mom would love this girl.

  *

  I drive back to Hastings with a silly-ass grin on my face and throw myself on my bed to sleep for three measly hours. Then I hop right back in the truck and drive to campus to meet up with my study group, because we’ve got a big marketing test tomorrow. Though I’m not sure this nine a.m. cram session is going to help me much in my groggy state. Two cups of coffee succeed in waking me up a bit, and I feel much more alert when the session breaks up around eleven.

  Rather than head home right away, I grab a third coffee and pull out my phone. It’s time to do a little digging, and I’d rather do it at the coffeehouse than at home where my nosy roommates might ask questions.

  I know Sabrina has classes with Dean, but Dean’s not exactly reliable when it comes to her, so I hit up the only other poli sci major I know—Sheena Drake. She’s an ex but still a good friend of mine. Actually, I can’t think of a single ex I’m not friends with.

  Me: What do u know about Sabrina James?

  Sheena answers right away, which tells me she either didn’t party too hard last night, or she partied so hard she never went to bed.

  Her: Ugh. Hate her.

  I frown at the screen.

  Me: Why?

  Her: b/c she’s hotter than me. Bitch.

  My loud snort draws the attention of the trio of students at the neighboring table. Another text from Sheena pops up.

  Her: But she’s hotter than EVERYONE. So I guess I can’t b mad? Why r u asking about her?

  Me: Ran into her last night. She seemed cool.

  Her: I wouldn’t know. Got 2 classes w/ her but she’s not too chatty. Super smart, tho. Rumor is she only hooks up w/ jocks.

  I sip my coffee as I ponder that. Guess it makes sense, seeing as she hooked up with me last night. My phone buzzes with another message from Sheena.

  U crushing on her?

  Considering I had my tongue, mouth, fingers and dick all over her last night, I think I might be past crushing. But I just type, Maybe.

  Her: U so are!!! Tell me everything!!!

  Me: Nothing 2 tell. CU in Econ tmrw?

  Her: Yup.

  Me: K. Thx, babe.

  Her: <3

  I scroll through my contact list in search of anyone else who might know Sabrina, but only one name pops out at me. Hell, it’s probably the person I should’ve spoken to first.

  I gulp down the rest of my coffee, then head for the door. I shoot off a quick text, but there’s no insta-response, so instead of waiting I send another message, this time to Ollie Jankowitz, the roommate of the guy I’m trying to track down.

  Me: U with Beau?

  Him: Negative.

  Me: Know where he’s at?

  Him: Gym.

  Well, that was easy.

  I leave my truck in the student lot and decide to make the trek on foot, since the football stadium is only a short walk from the coffeehouse. My Briar hockey ID doesn’t give me access to the training facility, but luckily I reach the door at the same time as a sophomore lineman, who lets me in.

  I find Beau Maxwell in the weight room, working on his chest and arms. Beau is Briar’s beloved quarterback, and, as far as I know, the last guy who’d held Sabrina’s interest for any significant period of time.

  He’s a friend of mine, closer to Dean than any of us, but we’re still buddies and I’d rather he hear that I’m chasing after Sabrina from me than the gossip mill. Athletes spend as much time as anyone talking about hookups, girlfriends, and future lays.

  “Maxwell,” I call as I cross the room, which smells like sweat and industrial cleaning supplies. “Got a minute?”

  Beau doesn’t look away from the mirror. “Sure. I’m gonna do bench presses in a sec. You can spot me.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I take a seat on the bench next to him and mentally count his reps as he does them. At ten, he drops the fifty-pound kettle bell and turns to me.

  “I’m doing light weights, double reps,” he explains, feeling the need to justify the two-fifty weight on the barbell.

  “Should you even be lifting anything at all?” I don’t know much about the quarterback position, but it seems to me that any extra muscle could affect his throwing arm.

  “Light weights only,” he reiterates.

  As he lies back and reaches above him, I move to the head of the bench. With these weights, I doubt he could hurt himself, so the spotter position is sort of unnecessary. But it gives me something to do while we talk.

  “Heard you hooked up with Sabrina James this fall,” I start awkwardly. “You still holding a torch for her?”

  Beau tilts his head backward so he can stare at me. He’s got vivid blue eyes that I’m pretty sure half the chicks at Briar have gotten lost in. Or have dreamed about getting lost in.

  “Naah, no torch here,” he finally answers. “Why? You aiming to tap that?”

  Already have, dude. But I repeat what I told Sheena. “Maybe.”

  “Gotcha. Well, if you’re looking for more than a hookup, she’s not your girl.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. Seriously, Tuck, she’s closed tighter than a clam. She doesn’t have time.” Beau wrinkles his forehead. “She’s got like four or five jobs and you have to fit in on her schedule. Like a doctor on call.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  He finishes out his reps in silence. When he’s done, he pushes upright, and I toss him a bottle of water I find next to the bench.

  “Need any more help?” I ask.

  “Naah, I got it.”

  “See you around then.” I take a step, then glance over at him again. “Do me a favor and keep this convo between us?”

  He nods. “Gotcha.”

  I’m at the exit door when Beau calls out to me.

  “Hey, what if I said I was still interested?”

  I turn around to meet his eyes. “That’d be too bad.”

  Beau chuckles. “I thought so. Well, more power to you, dude, but I’m warning you—there are easier women than Sabrina.”

  “Why would I want someone easy?” I flash him a grin. “That doesn’t sound like any fun.”

  5

  Sabrina

  I’m having one of those days. The kind of day where I’m living in a cartoon and I’m the Road Runner, speeding from one place to another without a single opportunity to sit down or breathe.

  Well, technically I do a lot of sitting in my morning classes, but it’s not relaxing at all, because we’re gearing up for our con law papers which make up the entirety of my grade, and I stupidly chose one of the hardest topics—the differing legal standards applied to examine the constitutionality of laws.

  Breakfast consists of a cheese croissant that I scarf down on the way from Advanced Political Theory to Media and Government. And I don’t even get to finish it, because in my haste I trip on the cobblestone path that winds through campus and end up dropping the croissant in a puddle of slush.

  My stomach growls angrily during the Media lecture, then gets louder and angrier when I meet with my advisor to talk finances. I didn’t find any acceptance letters in my mailbox this morning, but I have to believe that I at least got into one of the programs I applied to. And even the second tier schools will cost a pretty penny, which means I need a scholarship. If I don’t get into a top law school, there’ll be no BigLaw job offer with its BigLaw paycheck, and that means crushing, demoralizing, endless debt.

  After the meeting, I have a one-hour tutorial for my Game Theory class. It’s run by the TA, a skinny guy with Albert Eins
tein hair and the annoying, pretentious habit of incorporating REALLY BIG WORDS in every sentence he utters.

  I’m an intelligent person, but every time I’m around this guy, I’m secretly looking up words on my phone’s dictionary app under the table. There’s really no reason for a person to use the word parsimonious when they can just say frugal—unless they’re a total douche, of course. But Steve thinks of himself as a big shot. Though rumor has it, he’s still a TA because he’s failed—twice—to defend his dissertation and can’t get an associate professorship anywhere.

  Once the meeting wraps up, I shove my laptop and notebook in my messenger bag and make a beeline for the door.

  I’m so hungry that I’m feeling light-headed. Fortunately, there’s a sandwich place in the lobby of the building. I fly out the door, only to skid to a stop when a familiar face greets me.

  My heart somersaults so hard it’s embarrassing. I’ve spent the last day and a half forcing myself not to think about this guy, and now he’s standing here, in the flesh.

  My gaze eats him up eagerly. He’s wearing his hockey jacket again. His auburn hair is windblown, cheeks ruddy as if he’d just come in from the cold. Faded blue jeans encase his impossibly long legs, and he’s got his hands hooked lightly in the tops of his pockets.

  “Tucker,” I squeak.

  His lips quirk up. “Sabrina.”

  “W-what are you doing here?” Oh my God. I’m stuttering. What’s wrong with me?

  Someone jostles me from behind. I hastily step away from the doorway to let the other students out. I’m not sure what to say, but I know what I want to do. I want to throw myself at this guy, wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and maul him with my mouth.

  But I don’t.

  “You’re ignoring my texts,” he says frankly.

  Guilt tickles my throat. I’m not ignoring his texts—I haven’t gotten them. Because I blocked his number.

  Still, my heart does another silly flip at the knowledge that he’s been texting. I suddenly wish I knew what he’d said, but I’m not going to ask him. That’s just looking for trouble.