"Yes?"
"Every time you go after a ball from here forward, you'll bend to pick it up and do it as you just did so I can see your cunt fully. You understand me?"
"I don't intend to be chasing any balls on this side. " He showed his teeth. "Serve. "
She sent a serve down the outside line to his forearm. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he delivered a cross court back that skimmed just over the net at a tight angle impossible to reach in time. "My serve. Let me have the balls, angel. "
"I have two. " When she started to bounce them across, he shook his head.
"I want that one in the corner," he explained. "You'll spread your legs wide when you go down for it. Then bring them all up here to the net and hand them to me. " His gaze was unreadable. As she turned she felt moisture trickle down her thigh.
And unless she wanted to lie to herself, she knew it wasn't perspiration making her thighs slick.
She got to the ball in the corner, bent all the way down, spreading her feet apart as he required, displaying herself for him, feeling his gaze like a lick of heat in her pussy.
Rising, she turned and approached the net, trying to make her strides matter-of-fact.
She had a difficult time meeting his eyes, for the first time not because of her habitual avoidance of it but because his intensity was overwhelming her.
"Marguerite, you know the rules. Look at me. "
She brought her chin up, dragged her gaze to his face. Setting his racquet down, he propped it against the netting. He put both hands to her neckline, ignoring the balls she carried in both hands. She realized he was holding something in his other hand. "Don't move," he warned.
It was a small pocketknife, precisely sharp. As she stood there, motionless at his command, he etched a cut in the fabric of the sports bra. All the way around one nipple, then back to the other and under, so that an oblong piece of fabric fell loose. The garment still supported her but now the compressed inside curves of her breasts and her jutting nipples were visible.
"The next two points are mine, I believe. " He took the balls and brushed the soft plush of them over her exposed breasts. Marguerite bit her lip, holding back a breath of reaction but his sharp eyes caught it. He made the pass again, even more slowly, so that she swayed into the touch.
"The next two serves are yours," she managed. "Not necessarily the next two points. "
His gaze went down. "Trust me, angel. Those two points are all mine. " She sniffed, despite the flush of heat that spread over her skin beneath his gaze.
"Juvenile. I'm not intimidated by you. You shouldn't be able to play tennis worth a damn at this point. " She shifted her gaze deliberately to the shorts. "Men don't multitask. "
"Angel, men can multitask. When it's important. " He smiled that infuriating smile and she pivoted on her foot, went back to the line, her flesh wobbling erotically as she moved into position, turned. When he served, she knew her nipples, her breasts, would be on display for him. As all of her was, as was appropriate for sub training, which she'd somehow forgotten all about for the past hour or so. The cuff of her sock was getting damp from the flow of arousal down her leg.
He served, hard. She went after it, just tipped it over the net, out of necessity rather than a plan. He put on a burst of speed, scooped it up, lobbed high as she was trying to come to the net. She backpeddled to the back line, got to it, swung, brought it back to him at the net, trying to get it past him, but she hadn't had enough time to position it.
He slammed it down the sideline on the opposite side of the court from her.
Even aroused, she was sure she could focus as well as he could. But despite that he won point after point, making it up to 6-0 so he was serving for match point. She was breathing heavily, not so much from physical exertion, though there was that. Her thoughts were whirling. His gaze locked with hers between every point, the heat building, so that with each volley the air seemed to get thicker between them. As if with each point he was somehow backing her into a corner. He single faulted on each of the tie-breaking point serves so she had to go and bend for the ball as he had commanded.
But he hadn't single faulted once during any other game he'd served during the set.
And, emphasizing that the strategy was deliberate, he delivered a sizzling second serve each time.
He wasn't going to win this match. All she had to do was get eight consecutive points. He had managed six, why couldn't she manage seven? She rolled on the balls of her feet, bounced to keep herself ready, knowing it would also create a highly distracting effect for his focus. Or spur him further toward a direction she could feel coming like an impending storm. Perspiration rolled between her breasts. She moistened her lips. Watching. Waiting.
Tyler threw the ball up high. It came down and he served. The ball hit with a hard plock.
She never moved. Never had the opportunity to move. It aced her perfectly, landed in the outside corner of the serve area and banged against the gate with a resounding clang.
He dropped his racquet. "Point, set, match. Come here, Marguerite. " She wasn't afraid of him. She
was afraid of herself. She bolted, dropping her own racquet, not even sure where she was headed. She knew she wasn't leaving, just delaying the inevitable, what her own body was screaming - no, begging - for.
He caught her in the garden. Just like the tennis match at the end, this time there was no equally matched contest. He had the strength, speed and intent of a predator and she was the prey, thoughts jumbled by panic. The moment he touched her, seized her around the waist and brought her to the ground, her body reacted, screamed one word. Yes.
They tumbled. When they stopped, she was on her back and he was lying on top of her, that long, hard body interposed between her thighs, his intent pressed firmly against her.