It was the only sound I could make. Other than the bow-chick-a-wow-wow resonance of bovine flatulence filling the air, it was the only noise to be heard when within seconds of my making the Northman Fuckable League he had me back in his arms and back in his mouth. I couldn’t find it in myself to mind because while I suspected he was more than proficient in the art of fuck, he was a fucking master at the art of kissing.
Bad, bad, bad…this was a bad idea. And oh how I wanted to do bad things to him.
But I was nowhere near Super Bowl ready. Despite what my Rudy-inspired mouth had said, scrimmages would have to suffice for now. At least until I knew he wasn’t a serial killer.
And I could get on some sort of birth control. I’d stared enough at his baby maker to know there were no condoms in his pockets.
I couldn’t believe the words even as they tumbled from my lips. I blamed Betty. What with her cheering and leading and general sis boom bahing. She used the echoing walls of my stadium’s tunnel leading to our underground floors as her megaphone.
Like that bitch wasn’t loud enough all on her own.
But even worse than that, I was happy with my verbal vomit. I couldn’t deny even to myself that I wanted him. A lot. And it wasn’t just my vagimones that were to blame.
It was just regular old me. Sookie Stackhouse – quasi-virgin.
I could look the part. Walk and talk with the confidence of a cathouse madam, but it was nothing more than pure hokum. Flimflam to the nth degree. A sleight of hand snow job.
‘Did someone say ‘blow job’?’
The reality was any sort of intimacy had always been a chore for me. I could manage to stay in my own head for a make-out session, but not without always having to concentrate on keeping my shields up. I could never let my guard down and all hope was lost as soon as I slipped. I always had to choose one or the other – achieving an orgasm or maintaining my shields. I could never have both.
And it had left me feeling broken. Like I wasn’t a real woman and certainly could never really be with a real man.
But he was all man. Real. Live. Both hard and soft. With him I felt whole. With him there was no chore to be had. No row to hoe. No field to plow.
And if I was lucky, it would hold out if and when I let him plow the ho inside of me.
Christ. I had it baaadd…
My shields had disappeared quicker than DB Cooper, but not once did his thoughts leak into my head. For the first time I truly got to just feel. Feel his lips on mine. Feel his desire for me in his touch. Feel nothing but my own willpower vanishing and the tick tock of the detonator counting down to when his terrorist stick of dynamite would explode against the doorway to my Oval Office.
If he was here right now, Jack Bauer would be running around like a madman and shielding President Palmer with his body yelling, ‘It’s gonna blow!.’
My mouth or my pants. We’d have to wait until after the commercial break to find out which one.
Everything about him made Betty do somersaults across my ovaries. Hearing his words, she slid down my fallopian tubes like a fireman’s pole, only to land in my uterus where she sprung back up into the air, completed three and a half revolutions and landed, nailing her triple axel jump.
My ovum cheered and held up perfect ten scores.
I’d call her cocky but from what else I felt, my coach already had the gold in that category.
And I wasn’t talking about his attitude.
The thought alone had Betty ditching her newly donned burqa and preparing to start her long program.
It was too perfect to pass up. He was too perfect to pass up. A once in a lifetime opportunity.
If twenty-two years could be considered a lifetime.
I reasoned I would be taking one for the team. So to speak. If another body turned up, depending on the circumstances, at least I might know if it would be impossible for him to be the killer.
He was in between my legs, Your Honor. I swear!
Defense Exhibit A – my vaginal swab.
But I still had doubts. I knew it was wrong. To agree to whatever it was we might end up doing. My feelings were real, but my true identity was a big fat lie. I wasn’t his personal assistant.
I was an undercover FBI agent.
And what if he wasn’t the killer? What would he think of me then if we’d already gotten to know one another under the covers? How betrayed would he feel to know I’d been sent there on an assignment? A mission that was slowly but surely getting pushed to the back of the line with my hormones damming everything in their path. Clogging up my pipes like the giant piece of shit I would feel like if it turned out he was innocent.
And I’d feel even shittier if he wasn’t.
I forced my lips away from his, marveling over the coolness of them as they moved undeterred to my neck and soothed my burning skin, as I said, “We need to go over the ground rules and game plan, coach.”
There would be no scoring tonight.
And when did we move to the couch?
“No…we need to practice more,” he murmured along the hairline just below my ear. Shivers worked their way down my spine as he added, “I’ll be the quarterback and you’ll be the receiver. You can catch my forward pass.”
His hips went long and thrust against my own.
Betty chucked her ice skates and practiced her touchdown dance instead.
Despite the natural snatchstrophe his earthquaking hips were causing by making the tectonic plates shift in my pants, I forced myself to ignore the steady flow of lava and focus, admitting, “I’m not ready to run any drills right now. It’s too soon.”
For you to drill me. Because I don’t know if you’re a serial killer yet.
Betty threw down her yellow flag declaring a foul on the play. I rooted around for something other than using the hypodermic needle in his pants to combat her lethal case of Fuckititis, but the bitch swallowed an entire bottle of Fuckitol instead.
Yep! For HIS junk.
He sat up far enough to stare down at me and I got lost in his eyes. My own were going out of focus now that the Fuckitol was working its way through my system and I struggled to remain coherent when he smiled.
Betty fell over face down two steps into her Fuck It Sobriety Test.
“We can still practice,” he offered. “Since I’m the quarterback, I’m afraid I’m only well-versed in the offensive plays.”
“It would take a lot to offend me.”
Goddamn it. Apparently loose morals equaled loose lips. Loosened up by an overdose of Fuckitol and his nozzle causing the WMD-40 to be sprayed all over the inside of my pants. Thanks to his WMD.
“Good to know.” His voice was low and throaty.
I could feel it in my lower throat.
“First there are running plays.” He demonstrated by running his fingertip down my body, straight through my boob formation, and stopped just short of the goal line.
“Running plays are good,” I sighed.
‘So good,’ Betty slurred.
“I agree,” he whispered. “But we have to keep the defensive line on their toes, so we’ll have to switch things up too.”
Pfft…my defenses were down for the count. Just like Betty. And just like Betty, their toes were curled.
“Then there’s the sweep.”
His single fingertip became two huge hands that swept up my body and back down again, coming to a stop and gripping onto my hips.
“That would keep those bastards running,” I admitted.
My defenses were running like hell in between my thighs right now.
His hands slowly moved back up to gingerly cup my breasts. I might not have been a ginger like Ronald, but my back arched into them like my last name was McDonald when I suddenly felt him play a quick one-stroke game of dick-a-boo with Betty.
“A play action pass,” he explained.
Huh…I could’ve sworn it was dick-a-boo.
Without warning, his hand came up to rest over my eyes, blinding me in an instant while ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ rang out in my ears as he cranked the handle on his cock-in-my-box and called it, “A screen pass.”
Betty begged for one more crank so it would actually pop free and into our box.
The next sound to be heard was a surprised yelp quickly followed by a moan. I was pretty sure it came from me since all of a sudden I was on my hands and knees with his balls smacked up against my ass.
“An end around play,” he called it.
‘A dream cum true,’ Betty argued.
No doubt about it. He was a professional and I was strictly Pop Warner.
“And last but not least…”
It was my only warning. I didn’t have time to fret about being in over my head because he was on his back and I was suddenly over his other head. He pulled my willing hips down over his own and growled, “A reverse play.”
“More like a quarterback sneak,” I breathed out while the air sang with the release of greenhouse gas emitting from a herd of cattle.
The Northman Effect – killing the ozone one thrust at a time.
Please God, let him be Johnny Unitas because I really want to unite his game pieces with mine. If he turns out to be OJ Simpson it’ll have my libido running back for the hills.
“You’re incredibly beautiful,” he murmured reverently.
My eyes refocused on him and saw that he meant it. Really and truly. He thought I was beautiful.
Al Gore could keep his Nobel Prize. I had a line on a better trophy.
It was lined up, alright. And it was just waiting on my acceptance speech.
Betty tapped the microphone and cleared her throat to begin addressing the cum gathered around her, so I pulled the plug to leave the bitch in the dark.
I wasn’t ready just yet.
With that in mind, I smiled back at him, saying, “And you’re incredibly persuasive. But I need to hit the showers and ice up my muscles if I want to get to the Super Bowl.”
One wall of muscle in particular. A hoar frost of the whore would do me some good too.
“If we’re to be teammates, shouldn’t we be showering together? I’ll let you snap a towel across my ass if you promise to drop the soap.”
He waggled his eyebrows.
I wanted to bite them.
“The picture you’re painting is more prison porn than Pittsburgh Steelers. You sure as hell aren’t any Saint, even if we are in New Orleans,” I laughed.
Only so I wouldn’t cry.
“Spoil sport,” he frowned.
He was the Grimace to my Ronald McDonald.
It only made me want to bite him even more.
It also reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything that day, so I forced myself to get off of him – since I wouldn’t be getting off with him – and offered, “How about I make it up to you with dinner? My treat.”
I hadn’t done any grocery shopping so there wasn’t anything to eat in my place, but there were several restaurants within walking distance if he didn’t want to eat in his own downstairs.
He’d sat up by that point, but it wasn’t until my offer that he finally stood and asked, “Are…you asking me out? On a date?”
He stared at me like I’d asked him to park my unicorn next to his Maserati. My unicorn who had a wicked case of diarrhea and the resulting shitsplosions would ruin his paint job.
Had I crossed some invisible line? Broken an unwritten rule? Gone too far with my offer?
Even though it seemed he was more than willing to go all the way during our fuckable practice?
Had ‘more than one night’ only been a come on to get his cum in me?
I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t come up with any other alternatives. I didn’t know what I felt more. Pissed? Hurt?
My innocent invitation had only been made because I genuinely liked spending time with him and that had left me feeling vulnerable.
I quickly locked up my expression – like my heart and my legs – but it seemed I’d been a hair too late on at least one front because he moved to stand in front of me and ordered, “Stop.”
“Stop what?” I asked in the cadence and tone of any tantrum throwing toddler.
I’d tell him he wasn’t the boss of me, but he was. Technically. At least he would think so.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking that’s making you look that way.”
“I’m sure I have no idea of what you’re talking about,” I huffed.
Professionally, of course.
“I’m sure your pants would burst into flames if I hadn’t made them so wet with your cum.”
Stupid inappropriately sexy boss/serial killer and his spot-on observations. Stupid Velcro stripper pants and their capacity at cum concealing having all the effectiveness of a colander trying to contain the Mississippi River.
Stupid Betty could fuck off too.
I looked up at him prepared to tell him just that, only to see him staring down at me like I’d offered to let him eat me for dinner.
Fat chance now.
“Because I’d be more than happy to eat what you have on offer in between your legs.”
Huh. Score one for Team Sookie. I guess I didn’t need my telepathy with him after all.
And it was a good thing I didn’t really need this job either because the overdose of Fuckitol had finally kicked in.
Too bad Betty hadn’t read the warning label.
Instead of becoming weak-kneed by his dirty words, I became furious. “So,” I glared back at him. “Let me get this straight. You’re more than willing to eat me out in private, but sharing a meal together in public is…what? Absurd?” When he didn’t say anything, my temper took over and added, “A preposterous proposal, perhaps? Tell me, was that what had you nearly falling out of your chair with your earlier appointment? Did she ask you out on…oh my god say it ain’t so…a date?”
He looked like he’d just been smacked in the face. I wasn’t sorry and he should be happy.
It was matchy matchy with my ego.
I wanted him to fight me. Refute my allegations. The larger part of me – the insecure, broken, and sexually inexperienced young woman in me – wanted him to tell me I was being ridiculous. Tell me my accusations were all wrong. Tell me I was making an ass out of him and me for making assumptions. Tell me he’d meant what he’d said.
That I was different.
That I meant something.
Instead he met my verbal finger pointing with silence. His eyes had dropped from mine and remained glued to the floor where they seemed intent on staying for the foreseeable future.
I was sticky enough for one night and his non-look told me all I needed to know, so instead of waiting for him to try and worm his way out of it. To bemoan he had a manwhore image to maintain. To whip out the classic, ‘But it’s not like that baby, I swear you’re more than just a fuck to me!’ I declared, “Thanks for the offer to eat me, but no thanks. That’s not on the table. Not tonight or any night. It’s not on the couch. Up against the wall or in your bed or mine. I hereby rescind my invitation and I’m sorry for assuming whatever this is – was – is something it’s obviously not.”
I didn’t wait for him to say anything and instead turned to walk over to the door leading out of my suite. Once I had it open I said in an emotionless voice, “I’ll see you tomorrow evening to discuss whatever tasks you have for me, Mr. Northman. Good night.”
“Sookie…” he began.
“That’s Miss Stackhouse to you,” I interrupted.
Stupidly there was still a shred of hope holding on inside of me. A flicker of faith that perhaps I had it all wrong. Wanting him to tell me I had it all wrong and then give my ass fifty lashes with his tongue for acting like one.
Maybe that last part was Betty’s hope.
Instead he walked out without saying a word, looking more and more like the serial hope killer I was discovering him to be.
The door was halfway to being slammed shut when he turned around just as quickly and stopped it with his hand.
Hope flared once more.
And then he snuffed it out.
“You should order room service if you’re hungry. All of your meals will be comp’d. It’s one of your job benefits.”
Like a prime rib dinner would make this night okay.
Gran had always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, keep your fucking trap shut. Or something like that. So that’s what I did.
His eyes narrowed slightly at my continuing glare while he warned, “You should stay in. It’s not safe for you to go out wandering all alone after dark.”
Meh meh meh meh meh meh MEH…
With that out of my system, I kept my voice composed and responded, “Forgive me for not believing much of what you have to say at the moment, Sir. It seems to me while your mouth may say one thing it turns out the reality of the situation is completely different. Like any good salesman, perhaps you’re just used to embellishing the truth.”
Talk about flimflam.
But that verbal slap stung both of us.
His voice remained silent, but his eyes had plenty to say. And I didn’t want to hear it. Any of it.
So I shut the door in his face.
I ripped the dead cow off of my body on the way to the bathroom where I attempted to wash away everything I was feeling. Which – at the moment – was like shit. I hated that I let him get to me. I hated that I let myself believe there was something more than sexplosive chemistry between us.
I hated that he lied and said he wanted more than that too.
By the time I was done I wasn’t very hungry anymore, but I was too wired to go to sleep, so I threw on my earlier outfit and headed downstairs. I decided I needed to concentrate on my true purpose for being there instead of dissecting all the ways this night had gone to hell. My first stop was the bar we’d gone into earlier that evening where I wanted to take a dip into the bartender’s thoughts. Now that I didn’t have His Royal Liar there to fuck with my telepathy, I hoped to hear something useful from him.
Maybe he knew something? Knew of Northman’s comings and goings better than the FBI?
Well…I was well versed in his goings. Not so much his cummings. By choice though.
Did that count?
Not important Sookie! Focus!
Shaking it off, I thought maybe him seeing me walking around with the prevarication of fornication stirred up thoughts of the murders?
Weak, Stackhouse. Weak.
I could admit it. It was as weak as Northman’s claims of wanting ‘more’, but it was something. The man from earlier wasn’t there when I walked in, however I remembered seeing the current bartender working in one of the other bars earlier that night.
So maybe they all rotated between them?
Their uniforms were identical, probably for that reason, so I spent the next half hour wandering in and out of the other two bars. When I still hadn’t spotted him, I recalled seeing someone wandering around the nightclub with a drink in their hand, so I walked in there to take a look around and see if they had a bar too.
I didn’t see a bar, but then my eyes had stopped moving when they landed on something else and whatever appetite I may have had was lost in an instant.
Because there he was.
Not the bartender, but Northman.
Looking like it was just another night.
Looking down at just another blond standing in front of him.
Who looked just like me.
Zeroing in on her thoughts told me she was confident she’d be filling his dance card and his bed for the rest of the night. I felt stupid all over again for having worn that same confidence just an hour earlier. But I didn’t hang around and watch. I didn’t want to see. I’d learned enough about Eric fucking Northman for one night, so I turned and stormed out with my disgust ratcheting up with the realization of the true meaning of his parting words to me.
What he’d implied was he was worried for my safety if I went out on my own.
But not so worried that he would accompany me.
What he’d meant was he didn’t want me to validate his manwhore image.
Like they validated parking outside.
I needed to cool off, so instead of heading for the elevators I made a beeline through the front door and out into the night with only one thought left.
Fuck. It. All.