Chapter 2: Best Friends
The pre-dawn gloom clung to Xavier’s condo like damp gauze. He moved through the dim living room, a shadow amongst shadows cast by the faint city glow bleeding through the blinds. His steps were silent on the cool hardwood, years of athletic training ingrained. The only sound was the soft rustle of his Panthers track pants and the low thrum of the refrigerator.
He paused at the doorway to his bedroom. Rein lay tangled in the sheets, a pale curve of shoulder and dark hair stark against the grey pillow. Asleep. Truly asleep, her breathing deep and even, the frantic energy of the night before dissolved into peace. A fragile peace he’d helped shatter, then watched her rebuild him within its quiet sanctuary.
He crossed the room. Didn’t hesitate. His large hand slid under the sheet, finding the warm, smooth swell of her ass. He squeezed, hard. Possessive. Needing the contact, the solid proof of her there, before stepping out into the day’s crucible. A low, sleepy murmur escaped her lips, more vibration than sound, but she pressed back into his touch for a fraction of a second before sinking deeper into sleep. He bent, pressed his lips to her temple, breathing in the scent of her skin – sleep and faint coconut oil – then pulled away. Gone before the echo of the closing door faded.
Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, sliced through the blinds hours later, painting bright bars across the disheveled bed. Rein stretched, a long, luxurious arch that made the sheet slip down to her waist. The cool air kissed her bare skin. For a moment, she just lay there, feeling the lingering phantom pressure of Xavier’s hand. The echo of his need. The memory of the stillness they’d carved out of the night’s chaos.
With a sigh that was half-contentment, half-resignation, she pushed the sheets back. The cool tiles of the bathroom floor shocked her bare feet. She faced the mirror, the reflection showing the faint shadows under her eyes, the imprint of the pillowcase on her cheek. It was time to rebuild her own armor.
The shower hissed, steam quickly fogging the glass. She stepped under the hot cascade, letting it sluice away the lingering night. Then came the ritual. The razor, cool and sharp. Long, methodical strokes down her legs, over her hips, across the sensitive skin of her bikini line. Careful. Precise. Removing every trace of stubble, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin. The scent of almond shaving cream filled the steamy air. She worked slowly, deliberately, the act itself a meditation. A reclaiming of her body, inch by inch, after it had been Xavier’s anchor, his solace, his release.
Out of the shower, skin flushed and damp, she stood before the mirror again. Steam swirled around her. She reached for the bottle of coconut oil, warm from sitting near the sink. Poured a generous pool into her palm. She started at her shoulders, working the oil in with firm, circular motions. Down her arms, over the swell of her breasts – fingers lingering almost unconsciously over the cool metal bars piercing each nipple – across her stomach, tracing the delicate curve of her navel piercing. Deeper strokes over her hips, the newly smooth skin of her thighs, her calves, down to her toes. Every inch received attention. It wasn’t vanity, exactly. It was preparation. Crafting herself. Smoothing the surface until it gleamed under the bathroom light, a polished offering, a statement.
The hair came next. Sectioned, detangled, smoothed into submission with products that smelled like vanilla and shea. Then makeup. Not a mask, but an enhancement. Foundation to even, a subtle contour to define her cheekbones, mascara to darken already thick lashes. Lips stained a deep, natural rose. Her reflection sharpened, becoming more defined, more… presentable.
She padded naked back into the bedroom. The air was cooler here. She bypassed the drawers of underwear. Instead, she pulled on a pair of biker shorts – black, impossibly tight, clinging to the high curve of her ass and the strong muscles of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination. The white half-tank was cropped, hitting just below her breasts. It scooped low at the neckline and lower in the back. She pulled it on. No bra. The thin cotton stretched taut, the dark circles of her areolas clearly visible beneath the fabric, the distinctive shapes of the barbells pressing against the material. Every breath made the fabric shift, hinting, revealing. The silver of her navel ring glinted above the low waistband of the shorts. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Exposed. Vulnerable, somehow. Powerful. Ready for the day.
She moved through the condo, a different energy now. Purposeful. She straightened the rumpled sheets, smoothed the duvet. Wiped down the bathroom, the steam already a memory. The lingering scent of Xavier’s release was replaced by coconut and vanilla. She puttered in the sleek, minimalist kitchen – stainless steel and pale stone. Chopped vegetables with quick, precise movements, assembled sandwiches with layers of turkey, avocado, crisp lettuce. Packed them neatly into a cooler bag alongside chilled water bottles and protein bars. Fuel for the king after battle. The silence was companionable. The condo, usually a cool, curated space, felt inhabited. Charged with anticipation.
The distant clunk of the elevator down the hall. Footsteps. Heavy, tired. The scrape of a key in the lock. Rein leaned a hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed under her breasts, deliberately lifting them slightly. The door swung open.
Xavier filled the doorway, breathing hard. Practice gear plastered to him with sweat. Shoulders slumped. His usual imposing frame looked battered. The sharp planes of his face were tight with fatigue and something darker: frustration simmering just below exhaustion. He smelled like grass, liniment, and male exertion. His eyes, usually sharp, scanned the room and landed on her.
He didn’t speak. Just dropped his duffel bag with a heavy thud that echoed in the quiet space. His gaze, intense, almost feral, travelled over her – the exposed midriff, the tight shorts hugging her curves, the unmistakable outline of her piercings pressing against the thin white cotton of her tank top. The vulnerability she’d soothed last night was buried deep, replaced by a raw, visceral need radiating off him in waves.
Rein pushed off the counter, walked towards him. Five steps across the cool floor. She stopped just out of reach. Saw the tension coiling in his neck, the clench of his jaw. Saw the storm cloud in his eyes.
"Rough one?" she asked, her voice calm. Level. An anchor point.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stared at her, his chest rising and falling heavily. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid, everything he’d carried home. His need wasn't for words. It never was, when he walked through the door like this.
Finally, his voice scraped out, low and strained. "Need one thing, Ma."
He didn’t have to ask twice. Rein closed the distance. She reached up, her fingers sliding into the damp hair at his nape, pulling his head down. Stood on her toes. Met his mouth. It wasn't gentle. It was hard. Needy. A desperate search for contact, for grounding. His lips were dry, chapped from the field. He tasted like salt and exhaustion. He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. His hands, big and still encased in sweat-stained practice gear, came up. One landed heavily on the bare skin of her waist, fingers splaying possessively, the other gripping the curve of her ass, pulling her hard against him. The rigid plastic plates of his shoulder pads dug into her chest. He kissed her like he was drowning, and her mouth was the only air.
She kissed him back, matching his intensity. Letting him take the anchor he needed. Her fingers tightened in his hair. She could feel the damp heat radiating from him, the tremor of fatigue running through his powerful frame, the frantic beat of his heart hammering against hers. This was the storm before the calm. Again. Always.
He broke the kiss first, gasping, resting his forehead heavily against hers. His breath was hot and ragged on her face. His hands moved restlessly over her – her back, her waist, the swell of her ass – as if memorizing her shape, confirming she was real. Solid. His.
"Scout was there," he rasped, the words thick with suppressed anger. "From the Saints. Saw me miss that damn block twice. Coach… Coach lit into me after. Said I looked distracted." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Said I better get my head right before Sunday or consider riding the damn bench."
His fingers dug into the flesh of her hip, almost painful. Rein didn’t flinch. She traced the shell of his ear with her thumb, a feather-light touch against the tension.
"You got it," she murmured, her voice impossibly steady against the storm raging in him. Her other hand slid down his chest, over the damp fabric, feeling the hard muscle beneath. "Right here. Right now. Head’s exactly where it needs to be." She tilted her head, brushed her lips against the pulse hammering in his neck. "You know what you need, Xav. Take it."
He shuddered. A full-body tremor. His grip on her tightened, pulling her impossibly closer, crushing her against the unforgiving plastic and pads and the desperate heat of him. The scout, the coach, the missed blocks – they were still there, a toxic cloud around him. But beneath the anger, the exhaustion, the fear of failure, the raw, physical hunger flared hotter. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to where the thin fabric strained over her breasts. The promise of oblivion, of release, of silence. His kingdom. Waiting.
Xavier’s eyes, dark and stormy with leftover frustration from the field, locked onto hers. Without a word, his arms slid under her thighs, hoisting her up effortlessly. Her legs immediately wrapped around his waist, anchoring herself as he turned, his cleats leaving faint scuff marks on the pristine hardwood.
He carried her down the short hall, his breath harsh but steady against her neck, the smell of grass, sweat, and something uniquely him enveloping her. He didn't pause at the threshold of the bedroom. He strode in, the focused intensity of a man on a mission radiating from his tense muscles.
He lowered her onto the cool, rumpled sheets, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Need you, Rein. Now." His hands were already tugging at the hem of her white tank, fingers brushing the bare skin of her stomach. "Need to feel you. All of you." The vulnerability from last night was gone, replaced by a raw, driving hunger. "Touch you. Everything else... it's just noise."
"Then take it, baby," she breathed, arching slightly to help him peel the thin cotton up and over her head. Her breasts sprang free, the cool air hitting her nipples, making the barbells stand out starkly. "Take what you need." Her voice was low, steady, a grounding force against his turbulence.
He groaned, his gaze sweeping over her bare chest. "Jesus, Ma. So damn pretty." His thumb brushed the stiff peak of one nipple, the metal cool against his skin. "Perky." The word was almost reverent. "Perfect." He dipped his head, his lips finding the other nipple, sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth, his tongue flicking insistently over the metal bar. A sharp gasp tore from her throat, her fingers tangling instantly in his damp, close-cropped hair.
One large hand slid down her side, past the curve of her hip, finding the waistband of the tight black shorts. He hooked his thumbs and peeled them down her legs in one fluid motion, discarding them carelessly. His lips left her breast, blazing a hot trail down her stomach. He paused, his nose nuzzling the silver navel ring, before his hands spread her thighs. The scent of her arousal, warm and musky, mingled with the coconut oil she'd smoothed on earlier.
He looked up, his eyes burning into hers, holding her gaze captive. "Need to taste you, Rein." His voice was thick, rough with wanting. "My best friend's pussy." His thumb brushed lightly over her clit piercing, making her hips jerk. "Need it."
She met his intensity head-on, her own need building rapidly under his gaze. "Taste it then, baby," she commanded, her voice husky. "It's yours right now."
He didn't hesitate. His mouth descended, burying itself between her legs. His tongue was relentless, broad and hot and knowing. It circled her clit, flicked the metal stud, traced the swollen folds, then dipped deep inside her. He devoured her with a desperate focus, as if her essence was the only thing that could sustain him. His hands gripped her hips, holding her firmly in place as she arched off the bed, a choked moan escaping her lips.
"Xav!" Her cry was muffled by her own hand clapped over her mouth. Her other hand fisted in the sheets. His tongue worked magic, finding every sensitive spot, the pressure perfect, the rhythm driving her relentlessly towards the edge. His groan vibrated against her core as she bucked against his face, her thighs clamping around his head. He didn't relent; if anything, he intensified his assault, his tongue a persistent, demanding pressure against her clit.
"This," he growled against her slick heat, his voice muffled but perfectly clear. "This is the only medicine I need." He sucked hard, drawing her clit fully into his mouth. The sensation was electric, overwhelming. It shattered her.
She came with a sharp cry, her body bowing, trembling violently as wave after wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashed over her. He drank her down, swallowing every shudder, every pulse, his tongue coaxing the last tremors from her body until she collapsed, boneless and gasping, onto the mattress.
He lifted his head, his mouth glistening. His eyes were clearer now, the storm clouds dissipating. The rigid tension that had held his shoulders hostage since he walked in the door had visibly drained away. He crawled back up her body, his movements slower, more deliberate. His mouth found her breast again, suckling gently this time, the sharp edge of his hunger blunted by her release and his own satisfaction.
His lips trailed upwards, over the curve of her breast, along the column of her throat. He lingered at the pulse point just below her ear, nipping lightly, before finally claiming her mouth. His kiss was deep, possessive. He forced her lips apart with his tongue, letting her taste herself – salty, musky, intimate – mingling with the faint mint on his breath.
The frantic energy, the bitter taste of the scout’s presence, the coach’s harsh words, the sting of his own perceived failure… it all felt distant. Irrelevant. Dissolved by sweat, surrender, and the profound intimacy of her taste on his tongue. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, breathing slow and deep. The weight pressing down on him had lifted. For now. He was anchored. Whole. The only sound was their mingled breaths and the fading echo of her pulse in his ears. He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling the familiar coconut scent beneath the salt and musk, the silence in his head finally absolute.
The silence was thick, warm. Xavier pressed his face deeper into the curve of Rein’s neck, his nose buried against her damp skin, inhaling the familiar coconut scent cutting through the lingering musk of their exertion and the salty tang of his own sweat. The frantic static, the replay of missed blocks and the scout’s judging eyes, was finally, blessedly silent. Just her scent, her warmth, the solid reality of her beneath him. His body felt heavy, spent, anchored.
"Hell of a welcome home committee," he mumbled, his voice muffled against her skin, rough with exhaustion but carrying a thread of dark amusement now. The crushing weight had lifted, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and a profound sense of… relief. Sanctuary.
Rein’s hand stroked the close-cropped hair at the back of his head, her fingers gentle. "Committee of one," she murmured back, her own voice husky. "You looked like you needed a full reset." She shifted slightly beneath him, the movement making him acutely aware of the stickiness on his stomach, the damp patches cooling on the sheets. "Sticky," she added simply.
He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. The storm was gone from his, leaving behind a clear, deep brown, softened by exhaustion and something else – intense gratitude mixed with a simmering residue of the drive that had propelled him through the door. "Feel better," he conceded, the words thick. "But I stink worse than the locker room after double sessions." He wrinkled his nose slightly, a rare, almost boyish expression.
Her gaze swept over him, taking in the dried sweat streaking his neck, the grass stains on his practice pants, the sheer, filthy exhaustion etched into every line of his powerful frame. "Shower, Xav," she stated, her tone brooking no argument. It wasn't a question. It was care. Practical, grounding care. His kingdom had protocols.
Without waiting for a reply, she started to slide out from under him. But he moved faster. Before she could get her feet fully on the floor, his arms clamped around her waist and thighs. He lifted her effortlessly, pulling her tight against his chest, her bare skin pressing against the rough fabric of his practice jersey and the hard plastic plates underneath. She gasped, her arms instinctively looping around his neck.
"Xav! The gear!" she protested, laughing slightly despite herself, her feet dangling.
"Need you with me," he grunted, already striding out of the bedroom, carrying her weight as if it were nothing, cleats scraping faintly on the hardwood. He navigated the short hall to the bathroom, pushing the door open with his shoulder. The cool, clean tiles and faint scent of almond soap were a stark contrast to the heated bedroom. He set her down gently but firmly on the closed toilet lid.
He didn’t speak. Just turned, his back to her, and started yanking off the sweat-soaked jersey. It peeled away, revealing the sculpted muscles of his back, damp and gleaming. The shoulder pads followed with a heavy clatter that echoed in the small room. His compression shirt came next, then the padded pants. He kicked off his cleats and socks, standing finally in just his boxer briefs, a monument of tired, battle-worn muscle. He turned back to her, his expression intense, focused. "Shower," he repeated, his voice low.
He reached for her, his hands sliding under the thin straps of her tank top – the one she’d worn specifically to greet him – and pushed it up and off. His gaze raked over her bare breasts, the piercings glinting, before his hands went to the waistband of her shorts. He peeled them down her legs, his fingers brushing her smooth skin, lingering for a fraction of a second at her hip bone. He dropped them, then hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties, pulling them down too. She stood naked before him in the cool bathroom air, her skin prickling. He stripped off his own briefs, his erection already prominent, a testament to the simmering energy still coursing beneath his exhaustion.
He reached past her, twisting the shower knobs. Water roared, steaming quickly, fogging the glass door. He opened it, the wave of warm, humid air hitting them. Without preamble, he lifted her again, stepping them both into the stall. The hot spray hit his back first, then splashed over her as he set her down. Steam enveloped them instantly, thick and smelling faintly of chlorine from the building's water.
His hands were everywhere. Large, calloused palms slid over her slick shoulders, down her arms, tracing the curve of her spine, gripping her hips, squeezing the firm muscle of her ass. It wasn't just arousal; it was mapping, confirming, grounding himself in her tangible reality. His touch was proprietary, bordering on rough, the need for physical connection overriding finesse. Rein gasped as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, her own hands coming up to brace against his chest, feeling the powerful thud of his heart under slick skin and tight muscle.
"Lean back," she instructed, her voice breathy in the steamy enclosure. She reached for the bottle of body wash on the ledge, squeezing a generous amount into her palm. He obeyed instantly, tilting his head back under the spray, closing his eyes. The water sluiced over his shaved head, down the strong column of his neck, over the broad expanse of his chest. Her soapy hands followed, working into the dense muscle of his shoulders and traps, kneading the knots left by hours of impact and strain. She worked methodically, firmly, down his arms, scrubbing away the grime of the field, the phantom feel of opponents, the lingering sting of the coach’s words. Her fingers traced the hard ridges of his abdomen, the powerful V leading down. He groaned, a low rumble of pure relief vibrating against her palms pressed to his stomach.
"My turn?" he murmured, his eyes still closed, head tilted back, letting her work. The tension visibly draining from him under her hands was its own kind of reward.
"Your turn," she confirmed, handing him the soap. He took it, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He turned her gently, his hands slick with soap as they slid over her shoulders and down her back. His touch was thorough, tracing each vertebra, kneading the muscles flanking her spine, smoothing over the swell of her hips and the firm curve of her ass. He took his time, washing away the traces of his earlier claim, the coconut oil, the sweat. His thumbs pressed deep into the muscles beside her shoulder blades, eliciting a soft sigh from her. "How was your day?" he asked quietly, his voice softened by the steam and the intimacy of the task. His fingers traced the dimples just above her tailbone.
"Quiet," she breathed, leaning back slightly into his touch. "Cleaned. Made your lunch. Thought about you." His hands slid around her waist, gliding soap over her belly, his fingertips brushing the edge of her navel ring. "Wondered how practice went." She felt him tense slightly behind her. "Before you exploded through the door."
He didn't answer immediately. His hands moved to her front, soap sliding over her ribs, skirting the outer curve of her breasts. "Rough," he finally admitted, his voice tight. "Scout saw the worst. Coach… wasn't gentle." His hands paused, resting lightly on her hips. "Felt like the walls were closing in."
She turned within the circle of his arms to face him. Water streamed down both their faces. "Not now," she stated, looking up, meeting his dark gaze directly. Her hands came up, slick with soap and water, sliding over his chest, his biceps, playful now. "No walls in here." She squeezed his bicep, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Just water."
He caught the shift. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips, something rare amidst the usual intensity. His own large hands, slick and strong, slid down her back again, gripping her ass firmly, pulling her flush against him. Water plastered her hair to her head, ran in rivulets between her breasts. He lowered his head, capturing her mouth in a hot, open-mouthed kiss under the spray. Water splashed their faces, mingling with the kiss. She laughed against his lips, the sound bright in the steamy roar, her hands sliding down his slick back, finding the powerful curve where his spine met his ass.
The playfulness shifted. His kiss deepened, turning hungry, searching. His hands slid up her back, fingers tangling wetly in her hair, angling her head for better access. Her laughter faded into a low moan as his tongue invaded her mouth. His erection pressed insistently against her stomach, hard and hot even through the water. The need wasn't just for contact anymore; it was coalescing, demanding.
She broke the kiss, breathless, water streaming down her face. Her eyes held his, dark and knowing. "Let Mama take care of you," she murmured, her voice a low promise cut through the shower's hiss. Her hands slid down his chest, over the hard ridges of his abs, slick with soap and water. She didn't break eye contact as she sank gracefully to her knees on the textured floor of the shower stall.
The hot water cascaded over his hips, over her head and shoulders as she knelt before him. Her hands gripped his thighs, fingers digging into the dense muscle, steadying herself, steadying him. She looked up at him, steam swirling around her face, water beading on her eyelashes. Then, without preamble, she took him into her mouth. Not tentatively, not slowly. Deep. Rough. Her lips stretched wide around his girth, her head bobbing immediately with a practiced, aggressive rhythm that had his knees buckling slightly. Her tongue worked the underside of his shaft, pressing hard against the thick vein, swirling around the head on each upward stroke.
He gasped, a raw sound swallowed by the shower, his head snapping back, hand slapping against the wet tile wall for balance. "Fuck, Rein!" The curse was ripped from him. She didn't gag. Not even a hitch. She knew him, knew his size, knew the angle, knew the rhythm he craved when the world was too much. Years of this intimate service had made her an expert. A professional in the art of his obliteration.
Her mouth was relentless, a hot, wet vise. She took him impossibly deep on every downstroke, her throat opening, her nose pressing into his lower abdomen. Her suction was fierce, demanding, pulling the tension straight from his core, replacing the memory of failure with pure, overwhelming sensation. One hand stayed planted on his thigh, fingers gripping hard; the other reached around to cup and squeeze his ass, pulling him deeper still into her throat with each plunge. The sounds were obscene: wet suction, his ragged gasps, the slap of water, the low groan vibrating in her own throat.
He was helpless against it. His hips jerked, thrusting shallowly into the hot, welcoming pressure of her mouth, his hand fisting in her wet hair, not controlling, just anchoring. "Ma... yes... just like that..." His voice was a broken rasp. "Swallow it all... take it..." The coil in his belly wound impossibly tight, a pressure building beyond bearing. The scout’s notebook, the coach’s glare, the roar of the imagined crowd – all drowned under the relentless, perfect suction of her mouth, the scrape of her teeth, the wet heat. He came with a guttural shout, body tensing like a drawn bow, hips driving forward instinctively.
She didn’t pull back. She took it. Deep. Swallowing convulsively, throat working around him as the thick pulses hit. She milked him with her tongue, with the rhythmic clenching of her throat, drawing out every drop until the last tremor subsided, until he was spent, gasping, sagging against the tile wall, the hot water still sluicing over them.
She released him slowly, her lips sliding off him with a soft, wet sound. She stayed on her knees for a beat, catching her breath, water streaming down her face, her lips swollen, glistening. Then, with a deliberate slowness that vibrated with its own power, she rose, her eyes never leaving his dazed, satiated face. Water plastered her hair flat, ran down her neck, between her slick breasts.
She stepped into him, her body flush against his. Her hands came up, framing his face. She pulled his head down. Her mouth met his, hard. Insistent. She kissed him deeply, forcing her tongue past his lips. He could taste himself on her, salty, musky, intimate, mixed with the faint mint of her toothpaste and the clean scent of the body wash. It was a claiming. A reminder. A transfer of power back to her. The kiss was deep, messy, wet, devoid of tenderness, full of raw, shared energy. His hands, weakened by release, slid around her waist, pulling her closer, responding hungrily despite his spent state. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was nasty. Deliberately so. A spark reigniting in the wet, steamy aftermath. He felt himself stir again, weakly but undeniably, against her hip. She pulled back just enough, her eyes dark, challenging, her breath hot on his face. "Clean enough?" she asked, her voice rough, a dare.