Natalie shows up in Kluvberg on Saturday with five other girls in tow.
They all survey me with a hero worship I should probably be flattered by but mostly find to be annoying.
Except for one.
“Scott!” London Reynolds squeals as I walk into the café we agreed to meet at, giving me a quick hug. In a bid to spend as little time at home as possible, I’ve spent the past decade attending every skills clinic and soccer camp across the country I possibly could. I don’t think London had the same motivation, but we’ve overlapped at more clinics over the years than I could count. Outside of my Lancaster teammates, she’s one of the few people I’ve played with on a regular basis in recent years.
“I didn’t know you were going to Amnerallons, Reynolds,” I reply. It’s not on the same level at Scholenberg, but it’s still a competitive program. Worth bragging about.
“And of course you’re at Scholenberg.” She rolls her eyes. “I should have known you’d be here.”
“I didn’t have anything better to do for the next two months,” I reply with a grin.
Natalie cuts in, introducing the rest of the girls she’s with. Unlike Scholenberg, Amnerallons doesn’t limit how many players it accepts from a country. They’re all American; mostly from schools on the West Coast that Lancaster rarely plays.
“Where are we going first?” someone asks excitedly once we have made introductions. I already forgot her name, but I’m more concerned by how everyone’s suddenly looking at me.
“Guys, I barely know the city,” I admit. “I’ve been here less than a week. I’ve gone to the field and a couple restaurants, and that’s it.”
“You’ve been to Kluvberg’s stadium already?” Natalie asks eagerly. “How was it?”
“Yeah, we had a meeting there a couple days ago,” I divulge, opting not to share my trespassing earlier in the week.
“I still cannot believe you’ll be playing on the same field as Adler Beck has.”
Now would be the perfect opportunity to tell Natalie I met him. To share our electrifying, combative encounter; admit I’m probably on Adler Beck’s shit list.
But something stops me. I’m not sure what.
Normally, I revel in sharing stories. When Trey Johnson shifted his attention from Hannah Mason to me, he was so confident I’d be interested, he stripped in the girls’ locker room when he knew I came in for extra practice. Athletes tend to be a cocky bunch, but he was significantly less sure of himself when I left with his clothes, forcing him to walk-of-shame through the athletic complex with nothing but a small towel covering his goodies. That anecdote was heard so many times on campus it practically earned triple-platinum status.
Trey Johnson peaked during his years as Lancaster’s quarterback, fading to irrelevance as soon as he crossed the stage.
Adler Beck’s in an entirely different league. Natalie’s new friends— even London—might be looking at me with admiration right now. The revelation that I met Beck would do more than earn me deity status. It would prompt questions—lots of questions I don’t feel like answering.
So, I just shrug in response to Natalie’s statement. “Let’s go to a beer garden,” I suggest. “I’ll text Ellie and see if she has any recommendations.”
“Ellie?” London questions.
“Ellie Anderson. She’s the other American at Scholenberg with me.” “Oh, right. Her uncle’s a trainer for Kluvberg, right?”
“Right,” I confirm. I’ve uttered the same statement before, but having met Ellie, I feel a bit bad for concluding nepotism was the reason for her spot in the program. Probably has a little something to do with the fact that she’s the only person who hasn’t acted like my presence is an insult. “And
she’s visited here a bunch because of it, so she’ll probably know a good spot.”
Ellie recommends a place on the opposite side of the city, prompting my first encounter with public transportation. The tiny town in Georgia where I grew up most certainly didn’t have it, and I have a car at Lancaster. From what I’ve heard about transit systems, I wasn’t missing much.
However, there’s none of the horrors I’ve heard described when we find the correct entrance and head underground. No graffiti, no urine scent, no garbage. We buy our tickets from a machine that helpfully has an English selection and then hop on the first train that arrives; one that is hopefully heading to our destination.
The inside of the subway is just as clean as the station was, with spotless plastic chairs we settle in and a map of blinking dots that display where we are. With a quiet whoosh, the doors close, and we speed off into darkness.
Two stops later, we emerge from the cool underground back into the warm sunshine. This part of the city looks just like the section we came from, except it’s significantly more convoluted. Less residential and more commercial. Restaurants, gift shops, bookstores, coffee shops, and bars line the street, interspersed by tourist traps that boast windows filled with flouncy clothing and t-shirts bedazzled with snappy slogans.
Natalie drags us all into the third gift store we pass. It’s small and narrow, but what it lacks in width, it more than makes up for in height. Soaring shelves cover every inch of available wall space, packed with every souvenir imaginable. There are cuckoo clocks, Hummel figurines, leather- bound books of Grimms’ fairy tales, outfits with full skirts and suspenders, ornaments, bits of rubble claiming to be pieces of the Berlin Wall, beer steins, fedoras, mustard, and more gummy bears than I’ve ever seen in my life. All filling the tall shelves in an explosion of culture and color.
We all disperse to peruse the store on our own. I’m flipping through the postcard selection to find ones to send to Emma, Cressida, and Anne when Natalie bounces over to me holding two t-shirts. “Which one for the Theta kegger?”
I glance between the gray option that reads I’m Just Here for the Beer
and the pink Life is Brewtiful one. “Pink,” I decide.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Natalie replies. “But I think Gamma’s colors are pink and white, and I don’t want people thinking I’m part of that shitshow. Or is it Kappa that’s pink?”
“I associate pink with Alpha Sigma I-don’t-give-a-shit,” I respond, grabbing three postcards. “Just get whatever shirt you like better.”
Natalie deliberates for a minute. “Okay, I’ll get both.”
She heads for the cashier, and I move farther into the store. The back wall is entirely dedicated to clothing. I spot both the shirts Natalie found, along with a variety displaying the German flag; faded, as a heart, as a soccer ball. The last iteration is located next to the top displayed front and center.
An Adler Beck jersey.
The sight of it prompts a strange reaction, reminding me of our outré encounter. Thanks to his breakout performance on the world stage as soon as he was eligible to play, he was living the life of a professional athlete back when I was a freshman in high school, despite being just eighteen months older than me.
Ever since then, I’ve admired his athleticism and appearance—along with the rest of the world. Our interaction both exceeded my expectations and fell short. I want to relive it and also pretend it never happened.
“Are you going to get one?” London asks, appearing next to me. I startle. She nods to the Beck jersey I’m staring at. Busted. “You could wear it to practice in Kluvberg’s stadium.”
The mere suggestion makes me cringe. My impression is Scholenberg does everything it can to separate its female attendees from FC Kluvberg players because: hello, distractions. It’s part of the reason Kluvberg supposedly spends the summer months training elsewhere. Although, I have to say, my experience so far has suggested that’s some pretty spectacular false advertising.
FC Kluvberg’s official season doesn’t span the summer months, but professional athletes don’t really have an offseason, as evidenced by Beck’s presence at the field just the other day. The thought of Adler Beck seeing me practicing in his jersey is rebarbative. I’ve always been the type to push back just to show I can. Falling in line as an Adler Beck fangirl feels like capitulating, lessening my small victory against him.
“Nope, just grabbing this,” I reply, taking a baby onesie with a German flag on it off the shelf.
London eyes me speculatively. “Something you need to tell me?” I roll my eyes. “It’s for my sister. She just had a baby.”
“Look at you being a doting aunt.”
That adjective seems like a stretch considering I’ve never even met the kid, but I don’t argue. “Are you getting anything?” I ask.
“No, I’ve bought way too much at Amnerallons already. Thank God there’s only a week left, or I’d have to get a new suitcase, too.”
“It’s that short?” I ask, surprised. “Yeah, just the two weeks.”
“So, what are you going to do for the rest of summer?”
“Lounge on the beach.” London grins. “Hook up with a hot lifeguard.
Eat ice cream. Who knows?” I snort. “Sounds lovely.”
“What are you doing after Scholenberg? It’s what—six weeks?”
“Eight. I’ll head back to Lancaster to start training for preseason as soon as it ends.”
London shakes her head. “I don’t know how you do it. My teammates think my training is crazy.”
I shrug as I plop the onesie on the checkout counter and dig some euros from my pocket. “If you’re doing the same as everyone else, you’re not going to be the best.”
“That’s a better t-shirt slogan than Life is Brewtiful,” Natalie comments to my right.
I smirk as I pay for the onesie. “I’ll tell Nike when I sign my endorsement deal.”
We exit the store and continue down the street. The beer garden Ellie recommended is supposedly only a couple blocks farther, and the first hint that we’re drawing near is the sudden change in our surroundings. Dense greenery appears on the right rather than more storefronts. There’s a wrought iron archway halfway down the block and a wooden sign affixed to the center carved with a few German words. The last one says Biergarten, which I take as an encouraging sign we’ve navigated the city correctly. Then again, I’m pretty sure Kluvberg has more than just the one beer garden.
I lead the way down a stone pathway that cuts through the foliage. We emerge onto a wooden terrace. Verdure is draped over and twisting through it, sheltering the picnic tables below and dripping down the sides in tendrils
of leaves. A wooden hut is situated to the left, with a line of customers waiting to place their orders snaking around the side. Others are already enjoying refreshments at the tables, dipping pretzels in an array of mustards and drinking beer.
It takes me a moment to realize, but the beer garden also overlooks most of Kluvberg. We’re in a newer part of the city, one that’s on higher ground, evidently. I can see the canal in the distance. The steeples of the cathedral. And the stadium, of course.
“You guys grab a table. I’ll get in line,” I offer.
“I’ll come with you,” Natalie says. “Text me your orders, ladies.”
Our group splits. Natalie and I join the end of the line, and thankfully, it’s moving pretty fast. We’re close enough to see the menu within minutes, and I realize there’s a lot more than just beer and pretzels being offered.
My relationship with German cuisine has been antagonistic so far. The restaurant I went to earlier in the week with Ellie and a few other Scholenberg attendees was offering a wide variety of foods that did not sound appealing at all: rolls soaked in milk, beef with raisins, and potatoes prepared in more ways than I imagined possible. But all the German dishes here have English descriptions written underneath, and bratwurst on a pretzel bun or fried pork doesn’t sound terrible.
We reach the counter, and Natalie relays everyone else’s orders to the young blonde woman behind it as I continue to survey the menu. I’ve always been indecisive when it comes to food. Some might call me a picky eater.
Finally, I settle on just a pretzel to go with my beer.
We move to the side to let the next group order and take up positions along the wrought-iron fence that circles the perimeter of the eating area to wait. I stare out at the city for a couple of minutes and then turn my gaze back to the terrace, just in time to watch a brown-haired guy saunter over to us. The cocky grin he’s sporting tells me all I need to know about why he’s approaching us. Or approaching me, rather. He ignores Natalie, focusing his attention exclusively on me.
“Hello.” He addresses me in English, but there’s a thick accent underlying the greeting. I say nothing, just raise an eyebrow. “I know you speak English—I heard you ordering,” he adds.
“So?” I ask, raising both brows now.
“I was wondering if you’d like to sit with me and my mates.” He jerks his head toward a table filled with a boisterous group I’m not the least bit surprised to learn are his companions.
“We’ve already got a table,” I inform him.
His smile only grows. Men; they love the chase. “That’s not why I was inviting you.”
He’s persistent I’ll give him that. I’d smile if I didn’t think it would encourage him. “We’re good.”
“If you change your mind…” He nods toward the same table, as if I might have forgotten where he is sitting in the past ten seconds.
I nod once to acknowledge I do in fact recall the location he just shared with me.
Natalie turns to me as soon as he leaves. “Fuck, he was hot.”
“He was?” I reply, genuinely surprised. He wasn’t unattractive, but I found nothing particularly remarkable about him.
Natalie gives me a weird look. “Yeah, he was.” I shrug. “Not my type, I guess.”
She makes a small sound of incredulity. “You’re hard to please, then.”
Uninvited, blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones flash before my eyes. A face women everywhere lust after.
Not that hard to please.
I definitely don’t improve anyone’s opinion of me when I drag six tipsy strangers into the Scholenberg house. Ellie’s still out with her extended family, so I don’t have so much as a single ally. “Stay here,” I instruct them all when we enter the living room. “I’m just going to change real quick.”
I rush toward the stairs past Sydney, the fittingly named Australian who’s scrolling through her phone on the couch.
Another Scholenberg attendee blocks the first step. “Seriously?” Olivia asks. She’s Norwegian. Maybe Swedish? We’ve yet to step on the field together, but she’s preemptively taken an aggressive stance, glaring at me every chance she gets. This is our first verbal encounter, however.
“We won’t be here long,” I assure her. “Meaning you’re going out.”
“Yes.”
She sniffs disdainfully. “Interesting training routine you have.”
My temper flares at the absurdity of someone accusing me of not training hard enough. “Tomorrow is Sunday, also known as our day off. And we’ll see what you have to say about my training routine next week.” I brush past her, heading into my room. I change in record time, swap my cross-body bag for a clutch, and hurry back downstairs.
Natalie lets out a long wolf-whistle when I appear.
“Damnit, we should have made you come in your t-shirt and shorts,” London says from the couch, giggling as she surveys the dress and leather jacket I changed into. “How do you manage to just look like that?”
I roll my eyes. “Get up. Let’s go.”
Our next stop is the hotel they’re all staying at. The exterior blends with the local architecture, but as soon as we enter, I feel as though I’ve stepped back into the States. There’s the same generic carpeting and bland art as every hotel I’ve stayed in.
The girls have adjoining rooms with twin beds and cots set up. I don’t ask who’s getting stuck with the cots, but pity whoever the two are when I take a seat on one. They’re just as uncomfortable as one would expect sitting on a canvas-and-wood construction to be. At least they’re free of whatever questionable fluids are preserved in the comforters covering the beds.
You’d think the fact that they’re only staying for one night would mean my companions would have all packed just one outfit, but no. I’m definitely guilty of traveling with twice the amount I actually need, but I lose patience after the fourth outfit Natalie parades around in, especially since it’s the same short-skirt-lacy-tank-top combo as the last three.
Emma calls halfway through the fashion show. “Hello?” I answer grumpily.
“Lovely to talk to you too, dear,” she replies, laughing. “Did I wake you up or something? I thought it was only—”
“You didn’t wake me up. You interrupted Natalie’s fourth outfit option.” “Oh, I forgot Natalie was coming this weekend! Are you guys going
out?” The sounds of seagulls and surf echo in the background. Emma’s from New York City but spends every summer in the Hamptons.
“That was the plan,” I respond. “We’ll see if we ever leave the hotel.”
Emma giggles. “Not everyone can throw on a dress and look like a runway model, Saylor.” I don’t answer. “So, how is it?” she asks eagerly.
Filling her in on an Adler Beck-less version of Scholenberg so far takes up the rest of the time the girls need to get ready. By the time we’re hanging up, everyone’s ready to go.
We traipse down to the lobby and out onto the street. “So, where are we going?” London asks.
I prepare for everyone to turn to me. I’ll have to text Ellie again. But Natalie’s the one who answers. “I know the perfect place.”
I don’t have a suggestion and she sounds confident, so I climb in one cab already waiting outside the hotel with everyone else. It’s a sedan, definitely not designed to seat seven, but the driver doesn’t seem to mind. He deposits us in a neighborhood I wouldn’t expect to contain a trendy club and cheerfully collects his fare.
“How did you hear about this place?” I ask Natalie when we’ve all tumbled out of the cab, critically studying the bland concrete exterior in front of us.
“Extensive research,” she replies, grinning. “It was the most consistent hit for a Kluvberg player hangout. According to TravelAdvisor, there’s always this long of a line for just that reason.” She nods to the line curving around the exterior of the building. To her credit, they’re all trendily dressed people about our age.
“You’re joking,” I say flatly. The last thing I want to do is to spend the night fending off a bunch of Adler Beck-wannabes.
“Nope, totally serious.”
“Sounds like a rumor they might have started themselves,” I mutter.
“Come on,” London declares, striding toward the front of the line. Everyone else follows, me included. “Hi, we’d like to go in,” she tells the beefy man clad in all black. Protests sound behind us, but a raised hand from the bouncer quiets them.
“Name?” he asks gruffly.
“Wh-what do you need a name for?” Natalie asks, losing a bit of her bravado. Guess this requirement wasn’t included in her homework.
“This is a private club, miss. No entry unless you’re on the list,” the man responds. None of the other girls speak. Natalie looks crestfallen. I may not want to be at this particular club, but I’m not great about being told I can’t do something.
I step forward. “My name is on the list.” Natalie gapes at me.
“What is it?” the bouncer asks, tapping a pen against the clipboard impatiently.
“Well, here’s the funny part,” I start, giggling slightly. The guy glances up and falters a bit when he catches a glimpse of my face. I crank up the ditzy blonde act, twirling a stray strand of hair around my pointer finger. “See, there was this guy I met earlier at a restaurant, Lecker—I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?” I toss out the name of the ritzy eatery Ellie told me she was meeting her family at hoping to add some credence to my story.
First rule of lying: add random details. It seems to work, because the bouncer nods, his stoic expression softening a bit.
“Anyhoo, he came up to me and was flirting. Then, he asks me to meet him here later. But he’d already asked for my name, and my friend Tiffany here”—I yank Natalie forward—“read some article about how you should never give a strange guy your actual name when you’re traveling because then he could track you down later. I mean, you should hear some of the stories my sorority sisters have told us about the creeps out there. So, I didn’t tell this guy my real name, but then he tells me he’ll put my name on the list here. And I couldn’t come clean then, right?”
The bouncer eyes me apprehensively. I have no idea if he believes me. If this place is really as popular as Natalie claims, I’m guessing he’s heard it all.
“What name did you tell this guy?” he asks. Well, maybe not all.
“I forget,” I respond, smiling sheepishly instead of triumphantly. “I panicked and just made one up. Lisa Linderhagen, maybe? Is that on the list?”
There’s a quiet snort behind me, and I hope the bouncer didn’t hear it. If one of these idiots ruins the compelling tale I just fabricated, I will never let them forget it. He studies me for a minute, not even bothering to glance down at his list.
“All right, you ladies can come through,” he finally says, unclipping the ceremonial-looking rope barrier. There are loud protests from those in line, but I don’t wait around to listen to them or give the bouncer a chance to change his mind. I saunter through the doorway into what, I have to admit, is a pretty cool atmosphere. If Kluvberg players do hang out here, they’ve got decent taste. It’s not flashy or extravagant, but minimalistic and sleek.
“That. Was. Brilliant!” Natalie announces, bouncing in beside me.
“Seriously,” London agrees. “I feel like I should be looking around for the poor guy who fell for the ‘I’m Lisa Linderhagen’ line.”
I scoff. “I’m going to grab a drink from the bar.” “I’ll get a booth,” London announces.
“Let’s hit the dance floor.” Natalie pulls the rest of our group along with
her.
The interior of the club is structured in a U shape. The bar sits to the far
right, while the dance floor and DJ booth take up the left side. The bottom curve is bifurcated by the doorway, with booths lining the brick walls. I skirt through the crowd, ignoring the glances I’m garnering. I’m not in the mood for it right now, but it’s impossible to tune out the people close to my own age, all dressed in clothes that hint at designer labels. And they all seem to be locals. Nothing but German punctuates the thumping bass pumping through the speakers.
Finally reaching the bar, I order a gin and tonic, then study the expensive bottles of liquor displayed behind the bar as I wait for my drink. There’s a muted light shining behind them that adds to the alluring ambiance.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
Why is it the last person you want to see is always the one you run into? There is one person I didn’t want to encounter in Germany—actually all of Europe.
A geographic region comprising millions of square miles. Thousands of clubs.
One Adler Beck.
I turn to face him, which is a mistake. Adler Beck looked gorgeous sweaty and pissed off. He looks even better leaning against the bar in jeans and a gray t-shirt that hugs a torso I’ve seen splashed on more magazine covers than I care to admit. He still appears pissed off. Either it’s his default setting, or I draw it out.
Or both.
“How do you know? Maybe I was personally invited by the owner,” I respond, mirroring his pose and leaning back against the bar. It’s so unfair hot guys are often the assholes. Hair that blond and eyes that blue should not be genetically possible.
“You weren’t,” Beck states flatly. He’s holding a bottle of beer, and the beverage choice surprises me. He seems more like the type to sip expensive
liquor from a crystal tumbler. Then again, I’m just basing that off paparazzi photos of him with models exiting cars that cost more than four years of tuition at Lancaster.
Beck sets the glass cylinder down on the black bar top made of some sort of stone. Maybe marble? Can marble be black? I took geology, aka “rocks for jocks” as my science requirement, but we didn’t cover bar top construction. Regardless, the dark, lustrous surface fits with the sultry vibe emanating from each corner. Classy and chancy.
“How do you know?” I ask, before glancing over my shoulder to check on the bartender I ordered from. He’s busy flirting with some girls farther down the bar, meaning my drink is not about to appear. Welp, there goes his tip.
“Because I own this place.” The words are matter of fact.
Thank God I didn’t compliment the décor out loud. It would ruin my perfect record of not feeding his ego. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?” He grabs his beer from the maybe-marble surface and takes a sip.
“You don’t really look like the nightclub-owning type. Show me some paperwork.” That sounded a lot less lame in my head. I’m speaking like some sort of amateur gangster. I blame it on the fact that I never expected to see him again.
“What exactly does the nightclub-owning type look like?” Beck inquires.
“Not you,” I reply, unable to think of anything wittier. I would love to leave this conversation where I can’t come up with anything clever to say, but it’s fairly obvious I’m standing here waiting for my drink, and there’s no cocktail to be seen.
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” There’s the barest hint of a smirk, which makes me think Beck might be aware of the fact that I’d very much like to leave his beguiling presence.
“No idea,” I tell him honestly. Yup, there’s definitely some amusement in his expression now. “Maybe you should spend less time managing your club and more time practicing penalty kicks.” I went there, and Beck’s expression makes it clear he didn’t think I would.
I turn to look at him fully for the first time, enjoying watching him decide how to respond. Defend or ignore?
“Otto’s new.”
I smirk. Or blame the goalie. “He blocked one of yours,” I’m quick to point out.
“You caught him a bit off guard.”
“I can’t think of a single game I’ve played in that progressed the way I expected it to.”
“I was referring more to the fact that you’re American.”
“I actually wasn’t talking all that much,” I respond cheekily, finally finding some footing in the conversation. I’ve never fished for a compliment in my life, but for some reason I really want Adler Beck to acknowledge he means my appearance, not my heritage.
Eyes the exact color of the sky when it’s marred by only a few fluffy clouds flit away from my face, down the navy slip dress I’m wearing, and back up. “Hard to ignore that accent,” he remarks.
Fine. He’s a worthy competitor off the field, too. Adler Beck doesn’t just have confidence; he oozes charisma. It exudes from every invisible pore, clogging the surrounding air with cockiness.
“The only player in the club over ninety is me.” Grudging, barely discernable respect lightly coats his tone.
Adler fucking Beck checked my conversion rate. “You looked me up?” “Mm-hmm.” He takes another sip of beer.
I mastered the art of appearing indifferent a long time ago, but the knowledge that Adler Beck took the time to look up my conversion rate for penalty kicks is surreal—not that I have any intention of telling him that, or telling him I’m impressed he found my conversion rate based on nothing but my first name. My soccer stats aren’t exactly splashed across the internet the way his are.
Thirty seconds of silence pass before Beck speaks again. “You here alone?”
“No, with a teammate from home. She’s at Amnerallons and came for a visit with new friends. I needed some… I came to grab a drink.”
“What did you order?” “Gin and tonic.”
Beck turns and says something in German. I look behind me to see the bartenders are now rushing about. Maybe he really does own this place. Or maybe they’re just responding to the presence of the world’s most famous footballer. In seconds, a glass filled with bubbly, clear liquid and topped with a lime wedge appears before me.
“Tha—” Beck swipes the glass mid-word. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t reply, just starts walking to the left, clutching what I assume is my drink. Foolishly, I follow him. He takes an abrupt right and heads down a short hallway. Then pushes open a side door. I walk after him into what must be the stock room.
Glass bottles line shelf after shelf after shelf, barely illuminated by the solitary lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Beck grabs a blue bottle and sends a generous splash of its contents into the glass he’s holding. Wordlessly, he holds it out to me. I take the glass and sip some of its contents. Lime, botanicals, and expensive gin hit my tongue.
“It’s good,” I inform him. “Good.”
Beck doesn’t move. Neither do I. But I meet his cool blue gaze unflinchingly, suddenly very aware—excruciatingly aware, in fact—that the two of us are in a room alone. Together. There shouldn’t be any familiarity between us, but I know what he’s about to do before it happens.
Beck steps forward. One step.
Two.
Three.
I hold my ground, only moving back and setting my glass down once our bodies make contact. Once the warmth of his skin sinks through the thin satin I’m wearing.
He presses me against a shelf, prompting loud clangs as the glass bottles shift in protest. And then Adler Beck kisses me. I’m kissing Adler Beck. But it doesn’t feel like I’m kissing a soccer superstar. There’s no distance— literal or metaphorical—from which to view the body pressed against mine as belonging to a famous footballer. There’s just a chiseled frame exuding the temperature of a furnace and forcing a pool of lust to form in my stomach.
I have two options right now, but I don’t want to stop kissing him, so that brings me down to one. Beck’s domineering. Overwhelming. Clearly used to being the alpha. Just like during our shootout, I don’t let him.
We’re already careening down a decline, so I yank the brake stick and toss it out the figurative window. He tugs at my hair; I rake my nails across his back. He slips his hands up my dress; I unzip his pants. All the while, our tongues duel for dominance.
Adler Beck may be German, but he’s mastered the French kiss.
He’s already hard. Really fucking hard. Our brief, clothed interactions have never given me the impression Adler Beck has to compensate for anything, and I receive visual confirmation as I yank down his jeans. He’s huge. Hot. I run my fingers along the firm, silken shaft that’s prominently protruding between us, and Beck groans. His length jerks in my hold.
Skilled fingers find the evidence of my own desire, but I’m done prolonging what I hope is inevitable. I decided approximately two minutes ago I was going to fuck Adler Beck, and delaying that lost its appeal about ninety seconds ago. My right hand is still stroking the length of his pulsing cock, so I fish through my purse with my left to procure a foil packet. His dick is sheathed in seconds, and then I impale myself on it, shoving his fingers out of the way. I have a feeling he’s used to receiving compliments at this point. An “oh, your dick is so massive”, or a “will you even fit?” Those thoughts are absolutely running through my head, but I definitely don’t voice them.
My hands-on approach clearly catches Beck off guard, but he recovers quickly. Those same reflexes that blindside world-renowned defenders and send championship-winning goalies into fits of cursing make it clear anything I throw at Adler Beck will be tossed right back.
He might not have been expecting me to take control, but he’s ready once I do. Ready to challenge me. Thrusting. Kneading. Pulsating inside of me. Adler Beck and I are a blur of passionate, practiced movement. We’ve never done this before, but it feels like we have. Not in a tired, overdone way—in a he-knows-exactly-how-to-make-every-cell-of-my-body- reverberate-with-pleasure kind of way. Probably because he’s practiced with half the women in Europe.
Beck brushes that elusive bundle of nerves with every stroke. Sends shockwaves skittering across the surface of my skin. The words muttered in a German accent don’t hurt either. His syllables sound thicker when he’s aroused, and the hard—pun intended—evidence of that is rapidly sending me toward a very happy ending.
I’d love to prolong this moment, but I can already feel the pressure rising, ebbing over me inch by inch. I want to ask him to slow his strokes and put the eruption off a little longer, but I lost the ability to string a coherent sentence together when I shoved him inside me. Actions are most definitely trumping words right now.
Then it’s too late.
Ebbs become flows.
Pleasure floods my body, coating every centimeter and each cell.
I free-fall through a stratosphere of delectation. And land in a small closet filled with expensive liquor next to a gorgeous German who is most certainly smirking at me.
I yank my dress down and stride out of the room, leaving him alone in the dark.
