Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (10 page)

But as I’m kissing him, it just feels s
o good. It feels so right. Our lips are pressed together. It’s a kiss like no other I’ve ever had.

I’m aware that his hand is creeping
around
my
back
, massaging me. I’m aware that his other hand is getting dangerously close to my breast
s, but I don’t want
to stop him. I want
him
to keep going. I want him to take me. This is my deepest desire, my strongest desire, coming to the surface, overtaking every other
conviction
I’ve ever had.

But I shouldn’t be kissing him. I’m thinking this at the same time I’m thinking how
good
, how absolutely amazing, this feels.

Real
reporters
don’t make out with their inside sources!

If Beaumont finds
out, who knows what will happen?

There’s
no way I’ll be working for The Journal
with behavior like this!

But I keep going. I’m kissing him back stronger than I’ve ever kissed anyone back.

Suddenly, there’s a
noise
from
somewhere down below in the pool.
We’re
supposed to be alone. Is this some
kind
of dumb swimmer trick? It’s not surprising to me that this is the first thing my mi
nd goes to: after all, I don’t
trust Anchor farther than I can throw him, which isn’t very far at all. I doubt I can even pick him up.

Anchor had turned some of the lights on, to get a nice effect down at the pool.

Now more of the lights turn on. It seems like all of them are on down below. It’s still dark up here in the balcony.

Anchor has pulled away from me
. He’s frozen still, but I can’t
read his expression, except to know now that it
isn’t
some trick. He
isn’t
expecting anyone else here either.

My heart is
thumping
strongly, as if it’s about to
burst
through
my chest. It feels like it’s b
eating so loudly that someone down in the pool area would be able to
hear
it.

“Who’s
t
here?” shouts someone, down below.

I remain frozen.

“It’s coach,” whispers Anchor, sounding terrified himself. I suddenly realize there might be more to this jock than I thought. Or maybe not:
after
all, he’s probably just worried about getting kicked off the team. From what he told me earlier, it sounds like he’s
been in trouble so many
times
with the coach that one more wrong move and he’s off the team, despite being the (self proclaimed, no less) best swimmer ever to grace the college’s pool with his hunky presence.

Despite the tenseness of the situation, I notice that I’m calling him Anchor again in my head. What a stupid name.

But part of me likes calling him that. And part of me likes being the girl that the fastest swimmer took away from the party to make out with. It’s the part of me that never had a date for the high school prom. It’s the part of me that’s been
secretly dyi
ng for attention from a guy all these four years at school.

“I know someone’s up there,” yells the coach. It sounds like he’s stomping around down below.

“He’s trying
to
find the light box for the balcony,” whispers Anchor.

Shit.

Suddenly
,
the
situation seems a lot more serious.

I think I can hear coach coming up the steps now.

If I’m caught here with Anchor now, Anchor’s not going
to
be the only one in trouble.

I know I told
Beaumont
that
Anchor’s
going
to
be my inside source, and that I’m going to extract all
kinds
of great stuff from him for the story, but that doesn’t mean he’d approve of me breaking into the pool with Anchor way after hours to make out with him. There’s not going to be any good way I can explain this away, no matter what spin I try to put on it.

Real reporters don’t
commit crimes with their sources, and they
certainly
d
on’t make out with them!

“This way,” whispers Anchor. “I think I know a way out.”

I feel pride surging up through my chest, as I watch Anchor movin
g silently and gracefully over
to
the wall, keeping his body low so that he won’t be visible from down below, in case the coach has come with someone else, and they’re
waiting
down below
by the pool
.

I don’t
know what Anchor’s thinking, though.

It sounds like the coach is making his way up the steps. He’s almost here.

I can hear his heavy body on the stairwell.

“Through the vent,” hisses Anchor to me, motioning for me to come over.

I dash over
to where he is by the wall, trying to keep as low as possible, trying to make no noise, but I can hear the flats I’m wearing smacking against the concrete floor loudly.

“I know you’re in there,” yells the coach from the stairwell. I can hear him fumbling with the door to the balcony. I wonder if Anchor had the foresight to lock it.
Probably not.
“There’s no other way out of here,” yells the coach, sounding seriously upset. After all, this is his pool.

I look up, and Anchor has
somehow
undone the grill to the vent. It must be
part of
the
air-conditioning
system, although I find it hard to believe there’s ever been air conditioning here, given how hot and stuffy it always is up here.

Before I know it, Anchor has pulled himself up into the vent.

“Come on,” he says, not even trying to ke
ep quiet
now.

I spin my head and look behind me. The door swings open. The coach’s foot comes into view.

“I can’t
do it,” I whisper.

“Yes you can!” says Anchor.

I look him in the eyes. I see only fierce determination. His hand is reaching down towards mine.

I grab his hand, and he pulls me up and into the vent.

The space inside
is huge, and I crawl deep inside
in
to the darkness, not knowing or caring where I end up.

Turning behind me, I can tell Anchor’s closed the vent, because we’re suddenly
enveloped
in
complete
darkness.

Anchor’s hand reaches out and touches my leg, letting me know he’s here with me. He’
s silently urging me to be quiet
, but I don’t need any encouraging. I don’t want to get caught just as much as him, probably a lot more so.

“Damnit all to hell” yells the coach. Out in the balcony, he throws something, and curses again. “How the hell did they disappear like that
?”

Anchor gets in front of me and leads the way, through the dark tunnel. I follow him, with one hand on his ankle for guidance.

Somehow, he knows his way through these ducks, even in the darkness.

I don’t have any idea where we’re going or where we are, but after about ten minutes of crawling through the creepy darkness, where we can’t see anything at all, and can’t hear anything, except our own breathing, we’re out.

Anchor is pulling the
grate off in front of us, and it seems like in a second, he’s down in the hallway where we first came into the pool building.

He helps me down, and after I jump down, he catches me with his strong, muscular body. He feels
like a pillar of rock that can’t
be moved.

“Come on, coach will be back here any second,” he says, and opens the door leading
to
the outside. It’s the same door that we entered the swim building, with the help of Anchor’s copied key.

We run away from the building together, through the darkness. Suddenly, the feeling of terror and tension breaks, and I’m giddy and laughing.

Anchor looks at me,
and I catch his exp
ression in the moonlight. He’s
grinning at me, like he understands how I’m feeling perfectly well.

Despite myself, I grab his hand as we run.

I don’t know where we’re going, and we don’t say a word to each other. I’m still laughing, a high pitched
laugh that borders on a childish giggle, and, without realizing it, I’m leading Anchor right back to my dorm room, quite far away from the swim house where the party is likely still raging.

I realize I’m calling him Anchor in my head again.

“Where we headed?” says Anchor, as we stop under a campus streetlight that’s overlooking one of the paths.

It’s late at night, and our shoes are soaked with the dew from running through the grass.

“My dorm?” I say, not sure if I’m asking a question, or giving him an
answer
. I’m out of breath from running, panting a little, but Anchor’s
in such good shape he doesn’t
look the least bit tired or phased from sprinting across half the campus.

He just gives me a big grin, like he was expecting this answer, like he already knew what I was going to say.

Suddenly, his hands are around my waist. I feel myself sinking into his
body
, as I press
myself
against his strong and powerful chest.

He kisses me, leaning in, and the feeling is…

I don’t know how to describe it. All the clichés apply. It’s a
magnificent
kiss, just like i
n the movies, and I know I can’t
resist him any longer.

All the thoughts of inside source
s
, becoming a professional
journalist
—all these are the last thing on my mind right now. They just feel like
insignificant
little shadows of former worries, things I can’t be bothered with right now.

I’m barely conscious of the little details: unlocking my door, and falling down on the bed with Anchor practically on top of me, kissing me, and caressing me.

“You want to do it?” says Anchor.

Even in my giddy state, I can’t help but thinking there are more
romantic
ways to put it.

I give him a shy smile.

“Well?” he says, waiting for the word, waiting for my answer.

I nod my head, smiling up at him. His eyes are bright and fixed on mine.

He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion.
We’re rolling around on my bed, the thick pink bedspread falling to the floor, the sh
eets becoming tangled. He shoves
the pillow out of the way, as he begins lightly massaging my
breasts
.

I gasp despite myself. It’s rare that a guy knows how to touch
my
breasts in a way that will please me, and not just
himself
. There’s none of that frantic groping that most college guys are so fond of—normally that comprises almost the
totality
of their technique.

“You learned a lot of tricks from all
t
he girls you’ve been with, Anchor?”

“You know how it is,” he says, grinning again. His hair is disheveled just
perfectly
, and his
whole
face is lit up in a
persuasive,
charismatic
kind of way.
“I notice you’re calling me Anchor again, like everyone else. Can I take that to be a good sign?”

“Well you’re in my bed with
your
shirt off, so you’re not too far off,” I say, surprised my mind can manage a semi-
witty
comment when it’s so overcome with desire and lust.

“
I have to have you,” I say. Or,
more accurately, I try
to
say it. My mouth opened, but what came out was barely above a whisper.

“What was that?” he says, looking quite pleased.

“I want…”

“What do you want?”

I see it now. He knows exactly what I said, but he just wants
to
toy with me. Toy with me in the nicest way possible, though.

“I want you,” I say,
the words finally reaching a normal speaking volume.

He thrusts himself on top of me, pressing his
mouth against mine. Our tongues
connect, and my hands are all over his body, clawing at his back.

Before I realize what I’m doing, my hands are at his belt, fumbling with the buckle. In a second, it’s undone, and I’m unzipping his pants.

His cock springs out, full
y
erect. I almost gasp. It’s very large, pointed up at an angle.