“I thought you’d wear something else.” That’s how Beck greets me the following weekend when I reach him. He’s standing at the front
entrance of the park whose bathroom we sullied, leaning against one pillar that marks the entrance.
“You look nice, too.” I roll my eyes. Thank God I only changed my outfit twice. Okay, five times. Only because his text last night was insanely vague. I don’t know if he knows Sunday is Scholenberg’s day off, but it seemed like an intentional choice to text me on a Saturday night. All he said was: Park tomorrow?
I replied: To play?
And he responded: No. But dress comfortable. I suppose I should just be grateful he finally sent me more than two words at a time. Prior to last night’s text, our only correspondence was his request for me to meet him outside the locker room at the stadium.
“I told you to wear comfortable clothes,” he reiterates unnecessarily as I pause a couple feet away.
“I know, and that’s all I wear. This is comfortable.” I gesture to the green cotton dress and Converse sneakers I’m wearing.
“Okay.” Beck looks dubious but starts walking toward the street. Away from the park.
I follow him over to a shiny black sports car parked along the curb. I snort as I survey the seamless lines. “Of course this is the car you drive.” It practically screams sexy millionaire.
“You don’t like it?” Beck asks, feigning disappointment. At least, I think it’s false.
“I would be more impressed if you drove a wood-paneled station wagon,” I inform him.
Beck raises both brows. “That what your family has?”
“Not exactly.” Along with my trust and respect, my mother absconded with the beat-up minivan I spent the first five years of my life being shuttled around in. My dad has driven around in his company’s loaner cars for the last sixteen years, trading in for the newest sedan model every now and again. It was the kids with intact families who were dropped off in old wagons.
My tone doesn’t match his teasing one, and I watch a flash of realization appear that suggests Beck noticed. Thanks to the media, I have a general sense of what Beck’s upbringing was like: elite soccer academies and snazzy parties. Neither of my parents are famous athletes, so he doesn’t have any of the same insight into my background.
Maybe he thinks I’m embarrassed about it.
Maybe he thinks I don’t want to share anything personal with him because he’s Adler Beck and this is nothing but a bizarre blip in both our lives.
Or maybe he’s more astute than I thought, because he asks no further questions; just climbs in the driver’s seat. I slide into the passenger side, inhaling the clean aroma.
Beck’s car smells like him. Manly. Musky. With a rich undertone of expensive leather.
I study the spotless interior. My car is always littered with hair ties, empty water bottles, and spare shin guards. Beck’s looks like it was driven off the dealership lot twenty minutes ago.
“Where are we going?” I ask skeptically. An outing was not what I expected. I didn’t know what to expect, which is mostly why I showed up. I was curious.
“You’ll see.”
I hate not being in control, but I don’t press for more details. Instead, I snap the seatbelt into place. “Isn’t it blasphemous to drive an Italian car when half the country considers you their Kaiser?”
“Wow. You learned one German word.”
I roll my eyes. Admittedly, I’m not doing much to dispel the self- centered American stereotype. Every other Scholenberg attendee is bilingual. At least.
“And it’s a lot more than half.”
“Miraculous your ego fits inside this shoebox,” I mutter.
“To answer your question, it’s common knowledge that Germany produces the best soccer players and Italy builds the best cars.”
“Sure you didn’t just want to buy the most expensive car in the world to show off the pay disparity between male and female athletes?”
“Oh, I didn’t buy this car. They gave it to me for free.” I glance over at him. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh,” Beck responds, flicking on the blinker.
I roll my eyes then mostly keep my gaze fixed outside as we whizz along the streets. Beck drives the same way he does everything else: aggressively and assuredly. Not that I’m complaining. We’re outside the city limits in minutes, flying along mostly empty roads as civilization disappears behind us.
When he finally exits off the highway, it provides no indication of our destination. Just another tree-lined road. Oddly, I don’t mind the uncertainty. I figured Beck wanted to meet me in the park bathroom again. Leaving the city is unexpected and exciting.
When he pulls over, it’s in a dirt parking lot. The outrageously expensive car gets turned off, and Beck climbs out, stretching. I scramble out the passenger side to survey our surroundings. It’s just greenery. Trees, shrubs, saplings, sprouts, grass, weeds. Nothing the least bit interesting.
“Is this a pit stop?” I ask.
“This?” Beck asks incredulously, sweeping his left arm in an indication I should take in the scenery.
I’m more focused on the bulge of his bicep, but I humor him. “Okay, it’s a nice view. Let’s keep moving.”
Beck smirks. “This isn’t the view.” He points upward to a peak that seems really far away. “That’s blocking the view.”
“You’re planning to go hiking?” I surmise. Beck nods.
“Why did you let me wear this?” I pinch the skirt of my dress as I tug it to the side to emphasize my attire.
One corner of those luscious lips lifts upward. “I believe we already covered your wardrobe choice.”
I huff out an exasperated breath. “Comfortable and climbing aren’t the same thing, Beck!”
He shrugs. “You’re wearing sneakers. You’ll be fine.”
“I just got fully cleared to play again. One wrong step and I could break an ankle!”
“What do you mean you just got full clearance to play again?” Beck inquires.
“Exactly that. I sprained my knee in the spring. Practice last week was the first time I’ve played in two months.”
Dark blond brows rise, and I’m certain he’s recalling our shootout. Hopefully, he’s thinking it was crazy impressive, not completely stupid. “All right, if you don’t think you can handle it then we can head back.” Beck turns toward the car.
Adler Beck does not know me very well if he thinks I’m going to back down from a paltry challenge like scaling a mountain that looks an awful lot like Everest. Who even knew Germany had mountains that size? Not this American.
“We drove all this way.” I have no idea how far, because Beck drives like he’s taking part in a car chase, but the lack of anything but nature in sight suggests we’re pretty far from Kluvberg. “Lead the way.”
Beck spins back around, and he’s smirking. Forget him not knowing me well.
I totally just got played.
I narrow my eyes at his broad back as he strolls past me and toward the base of the mountain. I would have forged ahead alone, except there’s no obvious entry into the wilderness, no clear path or markers. I grew up in a small southern town where the primary outdoor activity is sipping sweet tea on the front porch. My experience whacking through overgrown greenery is very limited.
As in, nonexistent.
The pavement turns into damp dirt covered with decaying leaves and spotted with fresh sprigs of growth. The scent of moss and sunshine swirls around me. Each step I advance farther into the woods, my apprehension grows. I’m uncertain about following him, but I comfort myself with the thought that this is Adler Beck. He’s beloved. Famous. Rich. Search parties will be sent out. If I stick with him, they’ll have no choice but to rescue me as well.
It’s not terrible, I admit to myself as we walk along. The leafy canopy blocks the brunt of the sun. Birds chirp and chat. The air whooshes in and
out of my lungs effortlessly, clean and pure. There’s not the slightest twinge from my knee, even once the flat terrain tilts vertically.
Beck seems completely at ease amidst the trees, pointing out different flora and fauna we pass.
“I didn’t really peg you as a nature lover,” I inform him after he’s identified every plant in sight. Which is a lot, seeing as we’re in the midst of a forest.
“Maybe you should stop ‘pegging’ me as anything,” Beck replies. “I call them like I see them,” I respond, swatting away a fly.
The light ahead grows brighter and larger as we continue trekking through the forest, and then we’re through the trees, overlooking the view we’ve hiked all this way to survey.
“Whoa,” I murmur breathlessly, taking in the scene spread before me. I used to think there was no nicer view than an expanse of green only interrupted by stark white lines, but there is. It’s this. A sight I’m only used to seeing as the automatic screensaver my computer generates. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your eyes blink to ensure it’s not a mirage.
“Not bad, huh?” Beck comments, clearly enjoying my reaction.
Translucent, viridian water pools in a hidden oasis guarded by craggy peaks. Tall and proud evergreens line the water’s edge, dotting the landscape with darker dashes of green.
“What is this place?”
Beck rattles off a series of German words. He catches my confused expression. There’s a grin. Then, “It’s a national park.”
He navigates down closer to the shore, and I follow closely behind, yanking off my sneakers so I can dip my toes in the water. It’s colder than I expect it to be. If not for the relentless sunshine beaming down on us, the air would feel too cold.
With one hand, Beck yanks his white t-shirt over his head, revealing every ridge and ripple of his torso. I survey the topography unabashedly. It’s a much better view than the surface of the mountain we’ve been climbing all morning.
“Feeling overheated?” I question, smirking.
Shorts come off next. Beck’s still got his boxer briefs on, but they don’t hide much, especially since I already have the dimensions of that particular part of his anatomy memorized.
“Yup.” He shoots me a dangerous grin as he wades into the water; a raunchy, suggestive expression that makes my own body feel like it could benefit from an ice bath, a dunking in water even colder than the pristine pool bestrewed before me.
I was really hoping I would be accustomed to his appearance by now, but Beck looks like a glistening, tan sculpture of the David come to life, and that’s difficult to let fade to white noise.
Heart? Keep beating, please.
I pull cotton that too many washes have softened over my head, leaving behind nothing but matching lace. I may have had some hope for activities aside from hiking on this trip. The chilly water laps higher and higher as I wade in, washing away the perspiration that gathered on the surface of my skin as we navigated uneven terrain.
“Shit,” I mutter, submerging up to my collarbones in an attempt to numb myself to the cold. Beck has already dived beneath the surface, and new droplets of water appear in his darkened hair with each step forward, glinting in the sunshine. Just as I’m about to lose contact with the sandy bottom, I draw even with him.
We stare at each other as cold water saturates the ends of my blonde strands. I feel the hair swirl about me.
“You act like you know everything about me,” Beck says, his low voice cutting through the quiet lapping of water against the shore.
“Not everything,” I correct. “Just the parts extensively reported on by the media.”
Beck rolls his eyes. “So, tell me something about you.”
He says the words simply. Nonchalantly. “Why?” I ask, stuck between suspicion and confusion.
Beck lets his fingertips trail along the surface of the water, leaving symmetrical ripples behind. “Because all I know about you is that you’re American, you’re decent on the pitch, and you’ve broken a lot of hearts.”
I splash him. “I’m more than decent, and I’ve never broken anyone’s heart.” He raises both eyebrows. “Maybe I’ve bruised a couple of egos,” I acquiesce. Beck laughs at that, a husky, warm sound that brightens the surrounding air. “And you’re hardly one to talk.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I was young and horny. What did you expect me to say? ‘No, I wouldn’t like a blow job’ or ‘let’s hang out here rather than go off for a quick fuck’?”
I snort. “Was? And I don’t care what you said. Just pointing out a fact.” There’s a pause. Then, “Well?”
I tilt my head back so cold liquid encircles my skull, wincing at the accompanying jolt to my nervous system. “I spend twenty minutes before every single game imagining exactly how I want it to go, followed by all the things that could go wrong.” I wait, but there’s no response, so I keep talking. “Whenever I need to think—really think—I like to lie on top of the center line and stare up at the sky. People think I love being the center of attention, but I only enjoy it when I’m on the field. I hate olives. I drink nothing but gin, coffee, and water.” Still nothing. “My mom left when I was five. I eat mint chocolate chip ice cream on the anniversary of the day each year.”
“How come?” Beck asks. His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it, completely bereft of its usual cocky undertone.
“We went to get ice cream the day before she left. She ordered mint chocolate chip. I was nervous about my first soccer game the following day.” I scoff. “She was probably planning how to pack her suitcase.”
Beck opens his mouth and I’m expecting some sympathetic words; some iteration of the uncomfortable apologies I was subjected to for weeks after she left. Instead, “I’m allergic to tomatoes,” comes out.
Oddly, it’s the perfect answer. “I don’t think we should consider golf a sport.”
I turn my head to catch a ghost of a grin. “I collect paintings.” “I read mystery books,” I admit.
“My favorite color is blue.” “I’ve never been on a date.”
Beck breaks our volley. “What do you think this is?”
I raise my head so I can look at him, feeling cold rivulets of water trickle down the sides of my face as my hair emerges from the lake. “Uh, not a date. A hike. Hanging out. Foreplay.”
The last suggestion earns me another hearty, husky laugh. “All these trees turning you on?”
“Nope. But you are.” Subtlety has never been my strong suit, and the look Beck gives me in response to that comment makes me glad I’m already submerged in chilly water. I’m pretty sure the heat in his gaze would incinerate clothing. If I were wearing any, that is.
The water parts effortlessly as he advances, ripples radiating outward toward the shore. Toward me.
“Do you want me to do it some more?” Beck whispers in a low voice, like we’re in a crowded movie theater rather than in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere.
And rather than play it cool and composed, I nod so ferociously I look like a bobblehead doll. Beck draws close enough that I can see the skin of his throat vibrate with a chuckle as he registers my response.
“You sure?” he teases.
I step forward so he’s pressed against the drenched lace that’s all I’m wearing. “I’m always sure.” Anticipation crackles and crinkles between us as the mood shifts to one I don’t usually associate with swimming. I trail my fingers through the droplets of water clinging to his chest, dragging the beads of condensation between his pecs and down along the ridges of his lower abdomen. The defined muscles ripple under my touch.
Beck hauls me against his tan torso, and I rub against the washboard texture brazenly, rewarded when I feel the hardened tissue contract against my stomach. I’ve seen a lot of fit, shirtless men. It sounds like a brag—and it’s definitely not a plight I’m unwilling to bear—but none of them had molded their bodies into the perfect specimen glinting in the sunshine before me.
I’ve seen Adler Beck shirtless before. In magazines. On social media. But not in person.
Not up close.
Not against me.
Beck walks toward the shore as I cling to him like a spider monkey. Now that I’ve been introduced to his bare torso, I’m not super eager to be separated from it. With each step he takes, the water level drops farther, exposing more and more of my wet skin to the breeze soughing through the treetops. Beck sets me on the sandy shore, which is really half dirt and mixed with pine needles and leaf litter. He’s no longer having to hold me up, leaving his hands free to roam, so we could be lying on a heap of wood chips for all I care right now.
Beck rolls so he’s on top of me. The heat is welcome, tempering the wind that makes the water droplets coating me feel colder than when I was fully submerged. He slides down my body slowly, gliding lower effortlessly thanks to the moisture coating both our skin.
Once again, I know what he’s going to do before he does it, but that doesn’t make it any less spectacular. I spend his trip down to the apex of my thighs imagining what it might feel like to have Adler Beck go down on me.
For once, reality outshines fantasy.
His blond head hovering between my thighs is the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen. I let my legs fall open as I entwine my fingers in the soaked strands of his hair and lose myself to sensation. He feasts on me. Licks and sucks and swirls and teases. It feels decadent. Delicious. Obscene. I’ve never been shy in the bedroom, but this isn’t a bedroom. This is the German wilderness, and this isn’t an overeager jock. This is Adler fucking Beck electrifying frissons of ecstasy.
We’ve had sex before, but this feels different. Even more intimate. This isn’t in a club or a bathroom or a closet. It’s spontaneous, but in a way that’s premeditated. He’s pleasuring me because that’s what he wants to do, not as part of a one-night stand or a flash of lust.
I’m nothing but nerve endings.
Pleasure lights up my body, as potent and powerful as I’ve ever experienced.
“I’m too blissed out to give you a blow job right now,” I inform Beck breathlessly when he returns to eye level.
He’s still pressed against me, so I feel the low chuckle reverberate in his chest. “We don’t have to keep score, Saylor,” he replies.
His statement chases away the final remnants of ecstasy. Beck may have just carried me out of the lake, but I suddenly feel like I’m in over my head.
Because I hate losing.
Because I like to know where I stand with people.
And because Adler Beck is the furthest thing from a sure bet.
