The Girlfriend Game by Sierra Hill
Eighteen
Kendall
“I want inside, Kendall. Just let me inside.”
I hum in pleasure as the tip of his erection presses at my entrance, his body towering over me, large and hot.
“Do you ache like I do? I can fix that, baby. Let me fix it with my cock. I can make that ache go away. You want that, baby?”
An urgent and fervent need overtakes me as my hands map the length of his torso, delighting in the flex of his masculinity and strength.
My body reacts with eagerness, the wet slickness between my legs a clear indication just how aroused I am. He strokes his cock through my folds, each time a strangled moan escaping my lips. He slides through my wet center, his eyes boring into mine with dark lust, a sensual smile crossing his mouth. I convulse in pure desire as he glides over my sensitive clit with his firm girth.
“Look how hard you made me, baby.”
My gaze darts between us and a moan rolls off my tongue. The same tongue that explored and laved his hard cock moments ago. I lick my lips, bucking upward in greedy haste, needing him to fill this empty, throbbing void inside me.
“Please…don’t tease me. I need it.” I sit up and support myself on one elbow. The other hand wraps around the back of his thick neck, pulling him forward so I can steal a kiss, sealing his mouth with mine.
My lips part and his tongue sweeps over mine, thrusting and probing, mimicking the way he owns my body. Sucking the air from my body as white-hot desire surges through me as he finally…finally breaches my entrance, thrusting inside my awaiting body. Claiming me as his.
A curse breaks free from his throat, his voice hoarse with arousal.
“You’re mine, Kendall. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. Damn the consequences.”
I wake up with a start, the material of my nightshirt clinging to my breasts, sweat dotting my forehead and upper lip. The remaining traces of an orgasm linger between my legs. I stare motionless up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what just happened in my dream-induced fog. I find my fingers inside my panties drenched with my release.
And then the remnants of the dream come rushing back to me and my belly tightens. Zeke’s face as he hovered over me, his expression languid yet eager. His arousal-drugged gaze staring down at me as he entered my body. The delicious drag of his cock over my swollen clit. The intensity of the sensation.
I shake my head and throw off the sheet, grumbling to myself as I pad into the bathroom, working to deny what I know to be true. The psychological impacts of this dream and the link between my subconscious state of mind and my conscious desires.
Being with Zeke would be a mistake.
Lies.
Splashing cold water on my face to rid myself of the flush that spread across my skin from the intensity of the dream and the wake of the orgasm, I stare in horror at my reflection in the mirror.
The conversation I had with my sister last week continues to pop up, like a mantra on repeat.
“The connection between you and Zeke happened outside of the boundaries of the patient-therapist relationship. It didn’t happen within it. So why are you resisting this?” she asked, scolding me in that way only a sister can do.
“I disagree. I think it’s classic erotic transference brought on by the Florence Nightingale Effect,” I argued, with very little conviction. I wasn’t sure even I believed my psychobabble.
Maybe my sister is right. Regardless of how we got here, Zeke’s and my relationship developed online when there was no indication of who we were talking to, without any ties to our patient/therapist association. Our intimacy was created outside the strange familiarity that naturally occurs between a patient and his or her psychologist.
But it still doesn’t make this thing easy and the very reason I’ve neglected responding to Zeke’s messages to me on Heart and Soul.
He’s been in Atlanta over the past week, volunteering at a charitable basketball camp for underprivileged kids. We’d talked about it during one of our sessions, when I proposed my philosophy on kindness. There is evidence to link the benefits an individual can receive when actively helping others. Showing human kindness produces a boomerang effect on mental health and well-being, which is why I’ve incorporated the work with the homeless and prisons in my Rush Method theory.
Hearing that Zeke got involved with this charity through his former teammates and friend, Rashad, makes me extremely proud to know he applied that lesson in his own life.
I wanted so badly to reach out and tell him how much I admired his servant spirit and appreciated the work he was putting into helping others. Whether he knew it or not, it will bring him a meaningful sense of purpose to his life and leave indelible impacts on the lives of those children.
But I know if I texted or messaged Zeke after I told him I needed time to figure this out, it would only confuse matters between us. I don’t want to lead him on.
For my own sanity, I’m also avoiding social media and keeping myself busy. If I even got a glimpse of or image of Zeke working with kids, I would inevitably melt. There is nothing more powerful to a woman’s ovaries than seeing a man with a child. So, I vowed not to check his Twitter account or search his hashtag to avoid succumbing to any mention of his big heart.
The outlet I didn’t account for was the news media.
After showering and eating breakfast, I turn on the news to catch up on national and world events as I get dressed and finish drying my hair.
Standing in the closet half-naked, trying to figure out what to wear, I hear his name mentioned by the TV announcer. My breath stalls in my chest and I whirl around to face the television.
“Local Seattle resident and Puget Sound Pilots forward, Zeke Forester, a national champion and two-time All-Star NBA player, was in Atlanta recently volunteering at a youth basketball camp for underprivileged children. We had an opportunity to catch up with the athlete to talk about how he’s been doing since the incident that resulted in his game-ending collapse this past May. Here’s our correspondent, Janet Wells.”
The screen flashes from the studio to an indoor arena, where a very short, middle-aged reporter with a bad haircut stands next to Zeke, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, holding the microphone in front of her as the camera pans out to capture both in the frame.
My heart flutters at the sight of him. Gone is the beard he’s worn since I’ve known him to display a strong cut jawline and sculpted chin, full lips that tip up into a broad and beautiful smile. His eyes twinkle their mischievous brown.
The man is so gorgeous it hurts.
On instinct, I touch my finger to my lips, gliding them in a circular motion as if to trace the ghost of a memory of where his lips sealed over mine.
“Zeke, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is the first time in your ten-year history in professional basketball that you’ve done any sort of volunteer outreach. Why is it important to you now? Is it because of what happened to you on the court back in May?”
He looks thoughtfully at the reporter for a moment and then to the camera, his eyes flashing an emotion I’ve not seen before in our conversations. Charmingly bashful with a hint of self-consciousness.
“You’re absolutely right, Janet. I guess you could say I had to hit rock bottom or, in this case, the hardwood to realize what was going on with me. I’m not the only one who is affected by mental health issues. Regardless of socio economic, race, wealth, or education, it’s a problem that many of us, like me, try to hide. There’s a stigma associated with being diagnosed with depression. I’m here this week to ensure these children”—he motions behind him where a group of youth are playing ball—“get a shot at learning techniques on how to play the game, but also learn a bit about themselves and how to express their emotions.”
Janet nods in agreement. “Definitely an important cause. And what about you? Have you sought out help for your own depression?”
I gasp in trepidation, uncertain whether Zeke had any intention of sharing the knowledge that he attends therapy with the public. It’s a brave thing for anyone to do. It’s not easy to be open about or confess a hidden part of themselves that so many people inaccurately describe as a weakness. We’d spoken a lot about this in our sessions together. That seeking help and getting treatment for any illness, whether physical or mental, is the only answer to living an authentic life.
Zeke gives a self-deprecating chuckle, scratching his forehead with a finger.
“I have and it’s been the best thing for me. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned after my on-court breakdown is that we can’t hide from ourselves. Every single one of us deals with pain in our lives. Without a release, or a way of transforming that pain into something productive, it will eat away at us over time. So, to answer your question, yes, I’ve been working with a counselor and life coach who has helped in ways I never knew I needed.”
“That’s wonderful, Zeke. You’re like the new poster boy for mental health awareness in pro basketball.”
He chuckles good-naturedly. “I don’t know about that, Janet, but I do want viewers to know that there is help and hope. They don’t have to go it alone or pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t want there to be a stigma associated with mental health. I also realize that there may also be financial barriers preventing some from seeking treatment. Because of that, I’ve started a foundation to help those who need it.”
An organization’s name and number scroll up on the bottom of the TV screen and I stand in complete and utter shock.
The Forester Foundation. Because life is worth taking the shot.
I blink several times, tears filling my eyes as my heart pounds wildly inside my chest. Holy shit. Zeke Forester is using his own personal mental health crisis to help others who are also struggling.
Something breaks loose inside me. I place my palm over my heart, noting the erratic beats.
It’s no use. There’s no sense fighting my heart any longer. I know what I want. I know what I need in my life.
And it’s Zeke Forester.