Chapter 11: The scent of Ace's sweat still clings to the jersey as CC buries her face in the fabric, her fingers plunging deep into her slick pussy while watching Ace dominate on the field - until the real woman appears in her doorway, eyes dark with hunger at the sight of her desperate baby.
The stale air of Lee’s room offered temporary sanctuary, the hot shower a desperate attempt to scour the physical evidence of Ace from her skin. But the phantom sensations lingered: the deep ache inside, the echo of being stretched, the sting of teeth on her collarbone. The scent of Ace’s leather jacket, draped over Lee’s desk chair where CC had flung it, seemed to mock her attempts at cleansing. She’d fled his room hours later, mumbling thanks, avoiding his knowing gaze, seeking the supposed safety of her own dorm.
Now, curled into a tight ball on her narrow bed, CC felt anything but safe. Lee’s words echoed. Gay panic club. Claimed like a prize heifer. The shame was a living thing, coiling in her gut. She’d been fucked. Utterly, completely, rawly fucked. By a woman. And her treacherous body… craved it. Craved the brutal possession, the helpless surrender, the sheer terrifying force of Ace’s need. The confusion was a physical pressure behind her eyes.
Desperate for something familiar, something that felt like her, she’d burrowed into her laundry basket. Her fingers closed not on soft cotton or silk, but on rough mesh fabric. Ace’s practice jersey. Number 9. It smelled overwhelmingly of her: sharp sweat, the lingering tang of the turf, and beneath it all, her – that leather-and-salt musk that invaded CC’s senses and scrambled her thoughts. She’d pulled it on before she could stop herself. It swallowed her petite frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves engulfing her hands. Ace’s scent enveloped her like a physical embrace. A claiming.
The ache between her legs, never fully gone since stumbling down that hallway, roared back to life. Hot. Insistent. Demanding. She pressed her thighs together, a whimper escaping her lips. The jersey rasped against her bare nipples. Her hand moved almost of its own volition, slipping under the oversized hem. Her fingers found slick heat instantly. She was drenched. Just the feeling of Ace’s sweat-stiffened jersey against her skin, the smell flooding her nostrils, was enough. She groaned, low and guttural, a sound she barely recognized as her own.
Fumbling for her phone with her dry hand, she scrolled frantically through her photos, past selfies and outfits, landing on the videos. Not of her friends, not of parties. Clips she’d secretly taken at Ace’s soccer games. Ace streaking down the field, powerful legs pumping, face a mask of fierce concentration. Ace celebrating a goal, muscles bunching under her damp jersey as she roared. Ace tangled in a scrum, shoving an opponent off with a snarl CC could almost hear.
She hit play on a close-up shot. Ace, chest heaving, sweat plastering dark strands of hair to her forehead, jaw set. That intense, focused gaze seemed to lock onto CC through the screen. CC’s breath hitched. Her fingers pressed harder against her swollen clit, circling roughly. “Fuck,” she hissed, the word sharp in the quiet room. She imagined those strong hands pinning her wrists again, that demanding mouth on hers, teeth scraping skin. She imagined Ace’s thick fingers plunging back inside her, stretching her, filling the empty ache so deep it hurt. She pictured Ace’s face – the raw hunger, the possessive triumph – as she claimed her.
Her hips bucked off the mattress, seeking friction. She drove two fingers deep inside herself with a choked cry. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Her fingers were pathetic, weak substitutes. She needed the demanding stretch, the force, her. She pulled her fingers out, glistening, and frantically rubbed her clit, eyes glued to the screen. Ace was shouting at a referee, veins standing out on her neck, radiating pure, untamed power. CC moaned, circling harder, faster, the jersey bunching around her waist. “Ace,” she gasped, the name a plea. “God, please… fuck me… like that… harder…”
The knock at the door was a gunshot.
CC froze. Her entire body locked, fingers buried between her slick folds, the phone clattering onto the comforter still playing Ace’s furious yell. Terror, sharper than any arousal, lanced through her. Who? Lee? A floormate?
“CC? You in there?” Ace’s voice, rough-edged but softer than usual, filtered through the wood. “It’s me.”
Panic seized CC’s throat. No. No, no, no. Out of all people. Now. Her mind blanked. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The phone screen glowed, Ace frozen mid-roar. The scent of the jersey was suffocating.
“CC? Listen, I… uh… I brought…” Ace’s voice faltered. The doorknob rattled. “Shit, is this unlocked…?” The door creaked open a few inches.
Ace stood silhouetted in the doorway. In one hand, a slightly crushed bouquet of bright gerbera daisies. In the other, a large, steaming paper cup from CC’s favorite coffee cart. Her expression was hesitant, contrite, the tough-guy swagger replaced by an almost painful vulnerability. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the desk lamp, searching for CC.
They found her instantly.
CC was frozen in her guilty tableau: half-reclined on the bed, Ace’s number 9 jersey barely covering her, the hem rucked up to her waist. Her legs were spread, knees bent. One hand was clearly buried between her thighs. Her other hand was splayed on the comforter near the glowing phone screen showing her face. CC’s own face was a mask of pure, unadulterated shock and humiliation, flushed crimson down to her chest. The unmistakable scent of female arousal hung thick in the small room, mingling violently with Ace’s own sweat ingrained in the jersey.
Ace’s gaze snapped from CC’s terrified eyes, down the exposed curve of her inner thigh, to the hand clearly working beneath the jersey hem. Then to her own face, shouting silently on the phone screen. Then back to the jersey swallowing CC’s small form. Her own jersey. On CC. While she…
The paper cup slipped from Ace’s fingers. It hit the worn linoleum with a wet smack, hot caramel macchiato exploding upwards in a brown geyser, splattering Ace’s sneakers and the bottom of the door. The flowers tumbled forgotten beside it. Ace didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked back onto CC’s face. The vulnerability vanished, incinerated by a dawning, overwhelming intensity. Her nostrils flared, inhaling the potent cocktail of her own scent on CC’s skin and CC’s undeniable arousal.
Every trace of apology evaporated. Ace’s jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled in her chest, barely audible. Not a word. Just pure, predatory recognition. She took a single, deliberate step into the room, her eyes never leaving CC’s. The door swung shut behind her with a soft, final click. The air crackled. The spilled coffee seeped across the floor, unnoticed by either of them. CC’s fingers were still pressed against her soaked pussy, trapped. The only sounds were CC's ragged breathing and the faint, tinny roar still emanating from the phone.
Ace’s gaze dropped again, lingering on the spot where CC’s hand disappeared under the jersey hem. When her eyes lifted back to CC’s face, they held a fire that was terrifying and exhilarating. Raw need, stripped bare. Possession confirmed.
“So,” Ace said, her voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through CC’s bones. She took another step towards the bed. “That’s what you were thinking about in the shower at Lee’s?”