Chapter 447: Debt Collector

Nia stepped out onto the asphalt, swinging her water bottle from her fingertips, her hips moving a little slower than necessary.

"You forgot dinner," Nash said, still panting as he stood.

"I brought water. Dinner is me," she teased, hips swaying just a bit more.

Nash chuckled. "I’ve been waiting for my dinner for forty-five minutes."

"Beauty has to be earned, Big Idiot," she said, throwing her towel on the bench. She looked him up and down—sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, veins popping on his forearms. Yeah, she was really in for a treat. "I see you’ve been sweating a lot without me."

"Endurance work," Nash said. "Running until my legs give out."

"Well," Nia smirked, "I’ll run until your legs give out."

"You won’t last," Nash challenged.

"We’ll see."

They lined up at the baseline, side by side. Nash kept a steady, slow pace so she could keep up. She was fast—faster than almost everyone on the roster—and she stayed glued to him for the first ten laps.

By the fifteenth she was breathing hard. By the twentieth, sweat poured down her neck and spine, her black bra completely soaked through. Nash slowed even more to stay beside her. She noticed and glared at him, but she didn’t stop.

"Don’t go easy on me! I can do it..."

"I’m not," Nash teased. "I’m just saving energy for later."

She managed three more laps before her legs finally gave out. She dropped to her knees on the asphalt, palms flat, chest heaving. Nash circled back and stood over her, hands on his hips.

"That’s it? Lil Vice? All this chat for this shit?"

"Shut up..." she panted. "Give me a minute."

"I’ll give you two. Then you’re following me for another lap." He crouched and held out his hand. "Come on. Up."

She grabbed his hand, but instead of getting up she suddenly wrapped herself around his arm and yanked him toward her with all her weight. Nash lost his balance, tried not to fall on her, and ended up on his back. Before he could blink, Nia rolled on top of him, straddling his chest, hands pinned to his shoulders, laughing her head off.

"Surrender!" she yelled.

"Never."

"Surrender, I said!"

Nash decided to play dirty. He slid his hands up her chest and grabbed her breasts, squeezing them hard through the soaked bra. His thumbs found her nipples through the wet cloth and flicked them.

The laughter stopped instantly. Nia let out a long, shaky moan, fingers digging into his shoulders, head falling forward.

"You’re... you’re cheating..." she whispered, voice trembling.

"You asked me to surrender," Nash smirked. "I never surrender."

He squeezed again, harder. She let out a raw moan from the deepest part of her throat, and her hips started grinding against his stomach on instinct. When she finally got enough breath back to insult him, she rolled off to the side, face flushed red and eyes bright, and stayed lying next to him on the asphalt, laughing nervously.

They got up together. Nia grabbed her water bottle and drank. Nash watched her throat move with every swallow, water spilling over her chin and trickling down between her breasts. She handed him the bottle. He drank in turn, head tilted back, the muscles in his throat giving her the same show. Nia stared, hypnotized by the drop of water sliding down his Adam’s apple.

"I’m still thirsty," she whispered.

Nash held the bottle out, but noticed her mischievous gaze too late.

She took it and leaped at him, legs locking around his waist, arms wrapping around his neck. He caught her easily, hands gripping her ass to hold her up.

"I’d rather drink from the source," she murmured against his lips.

She kissed him. A deep kiss, mouth wide open, tongue seeking his, the warm water of their breaths mixing. He carried her to the bench, set her on the edge, and leaned over her without breaking the kiss.

Nia pulled back, but immediately filled her mouth with water without swallowing. Seeing her cheeks puffed out, Nash knew this was about to get added to the nasty list.

She opened her mouth against his and let the water pour in slowly, some spilling from their lips and dripping onto their chests.

He swallowed half, kept the rest, and pushed it back into her mouth. She laughed, the mouthful sliding between them, water running down her chin, her neck, and between her breasts. He took the bottle next, drank a sip, and gave it back the same way—lips pressed to hers, the taste of their spit mixed with the cool water. They did it again and again, the bottle passing back and forth, the kiss turning into one wet, soaked mouth. Nash’s hands gripped her hips. Nia’s nails dug into his back.

"You’re disgusting," she said, laughing, chin dripping.

"You started it."

"You’re gonna pay for that."

"I hope so. You’ve been saying that since we started."

"Because it’s true."

She tapped his cheek, a dirty smile on her lips.

"You act tough, but later you’re gonna end up under me, begging."

"Bet."

"We’ll see."

She stood, stretching, arms above her head, her soaked bra completely stuck to her tits.

"Stretches. If I pull something, I’m making you pay for that too."

She sat in the center of the court, legs spread wide. Nash settled behind her. He put his palms on the top of her back and pressed slowly. She bent forward until her forehead touched the ground and let out a low moan that had nothing to do with the stretch.

"Harder."

He pressed harder. His hands slid over her sides, her hips, her thighs, spreading them further. She arched, pushed her ass back until it was pressed against his crotch, and started grinding against him—forward and back, slow, deliberately rubbing his erection through his shorts. Nash held his breath. She looked over her shoulder.

"You want me to stop?"

"No."

"Then keep pushing."

He pushed. She ground harder, deeper, her hips rolling in a slow, heavy motion that pulled a groan out of him. He gripped her hips with both hands and forced her back against him. She let out a choked little laugh.

He laid her on her back and lifted one leg against his shoulder. One hand under her knee, the other flat on her thigh, he leaned forward until their faces were almost touching. With every inch he gained, his stomach pressed against hers, her skin sliding, oily and salty. He licked her throat in one long stroke from collarbone to ear. She shivered from head to toe and dug her nails into his back.

"Too hot," Nash said.

He grabbed the bottom of his soaked t-shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it on the asphalt. His abs shone under the lights, sweat running between the muscles, dripping toward the waistband of his shorts.

Nia put her hand flat on his stomach, slid it over every line of muscle, then pushed up on her elbows and licked him—from the waistband up to his ribs, slow, tasting the salt.

"Yeah, it’s so hot here," she said.

She grabbed the bottom of her bra and pulled it over her head, dropping it next to the shirt. Her tits spilled free, glistening with sweat, nipples hard. Nash looked at them for a long moment without a word.

"You’re allowed to touch," she said. "But training continues."

They went back to the drills. Defensive slides, her with the ball, him sticking to her. On every fake she backed into him and pressed her bare back against his bare chest, skin on skin, slick and burning, her ass nestled against him. He wrapped an arm around her stomach to hold her, hand sliding up, grabbing a breast, squeezing. She let out a broken breath, dropped the ball, turned into him, bit his shoulder, licked his throat, clawed his back.

He dropped her to her knees, then flat on her back on the asphalt, and lay on top of her, one knee between her legs, hands planted on either side of her head. Sweat from his chest dripped onto her tits. She licked it off his skin, off his abs, with the slow pace of someone savoring ice cream. He lowered his head and took a breast into his mouth, sucking, licking, biting the nipple, making her arch under him. She moaned, legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to pull him closer. Her hips rolled up and down against his, their bodies grinding through the thin fabric of their shorts. He could feel how hot and wet she was. He was hard against her, and with every movement she gasped louder.

"You’re hard," she breathed, short on air.

"You’re soaked."

"Because you’re doing it on purpose."

He licked her chest, her stomach, the hollow under her arm, the crease of her hip—every place the salt had gathered. He bit the inside of her thigh through the shorts, a little too hard, and she cried out. He moved back up, grabbed both tits in his hands, squeezed them, let them slide under his palms. She ground against his thigh, eyes rolling back, mouth open.

"Nash..."

"What?"

"Nash..."

"Say it."

She held out a few more seconds. Then she broke.

"Stop," she whispered, hands clenched in his hair, eyes dark and burning. "Stop, I can’t take your training anymore."

"You’re giving up?"

"I’m giving up the training."

She slid one hand between them, grabbed the waistband of his shorts, and squeezed.

"Fuck me. Now."