Salt, Sweat, Sugar

For those of you reading The Morning After, I interrupt your regularly scheduled Capitals programming for this sidebar.  Many of you who have requested this leading man, and this should hold you over until he gets his own story.  It's for a Playoff Smut Challenge.

Please play this song with it (there's a cue) - I think you really get the idea.  And I'll never hear this song the same way again.  Turn it up loud: Salt, Sweat, Sugat - Jimmy Eat World
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Salt, Sweat, Sugar

Jesus H, even Mike Green's got a girlfriend.  Don't get me wrong, I love the guy.  But he's always been a little... challenged when it comes to common sense and women.  Then this morning we rolled in like the cavalry (Mike's idea), rescued Zoe from a bad roommate situation (Mike's fault) and moved her in with Nicklas Backstrom (Mike's solution).  I have to admit - this guy has learned a thing or two.  Now they're behind us, holding hands and talking about breakfast.  I'm walking next to John Carlson, who I'm pretty sure is picking his nose.

Backstrom's in front with Zoe's friend Christine.  She's a catch too, but not for Nicky - he's too smart to date his new roommates' friend.  Most of us are, having made any number of mistakes in the past.  As they say it's best not to pee in your own pool.  Even so it won't take long for someone to claim our Swedish friend.  Especially now that his bromance pal Mikey will be occupied elsewhere.

Now before you go feeling all bad for me, I don't have problems with women.  In fact that is my problem with women.  I can't help being nice, polite, calling them back.  As the other guys are catching up to my manners, I seem to be falling behind their success.
 

A few weeks ago a bunch of the guys went to see Little Wayne.  I begged off - it's not really my music scene - but they were backstage, posting photos and it really looked like fun.  I should have gone.  So when I suggested another concert they all jumped on it and Jimmy Eat World is a little more my style.  The small show was sold out, but it wasn't hard to get tickets or VIP passes.  We took them up on backstage access too, not so much to meet the band as to have a place out of the public eye in case anyone really planned to cut loose.  Always good to have a dark corner, Ovi would say.

The playoff race and post-season are tough times.  Everyone is watching and judging, racking up things to hold against you when you fail.  And we have failed in recent years.  It's like a chain around the neck of this team - so much promise, so little product.  It means we're not tearing it up on off nights for fear of the Patrick Kane Police calling us out.  If someone's going to do something, they're going to keep it quiet.  And I feel like going out tonight.

It's the hottest day of the year so far - as if we skipped spring and went right to the start of a DC summer.  The temperature is well above seventy after 9 PM and there's even humidity.  This club better have air conditioning.

I catch a ride with Mike in his Maserati and instantly feel bad, Zoe is folded into the backseat of the sports car like luggage.

"Hi Brooks!" she shouts.  I can't help but smile - this girl has us all wrapped around her finger.  Tank top and shorts - if she were mine we wouldn't be out with friends tonight, or ever.  If not for Mike... well, I never would have met her.  But if I had met her first things might have been different.  Then I see the look on Mike's face as he watches her in the rear view mirror: the fool is in love for the first time ever.

"Hi Zo!"  I yell back.

Ovi and Semin are in the VIP room when we arrive, drinks in hand and women circling like it's feeding time at the zoo.  Carlson and Matt Hendricks are there too, and Christine is introducing them to another girl.  Nicky comes in last, alone.  The first thing he always does upon entering a room is search for Mike.  Now I think he might be searching for Zoe, and he finds them together.

We have a few beers while the opening act is on, then move to the general admission floor to watch the show.  The guys like to be in the middle of things, Zoe is a concert dancer and hey, no one complains when Ovi stands in front of them.  Just before the show starts I go to the bar.

People are squeezing in empty-handed and back out with drinks.  I wade in by turning my shoulders like wing nuts and come up behind something definitely worth coming up behind.

She's leaning on her elbows.  A plain white tank-top ends just above dark denim shorts.  Long legs run down into cowboy boots the color of caramel.  Dark blond hair is swept forward over one shoulder and she twists the ends between two fingers as she waits.

God I want to fuck something.  My teammates are always chasing drama with women - sleeping with one while trying to dislodge a clinger and line up the next conquest.  Some of the girls are hot though it's more important that they're willing and the dumber, the better.  It's pretty gross but sometimes it makes me feel like the boring old man.  I ran around a bit when I wanted to and every once in the while I get the urge to do it again.  It's not my libido, it's my standards that get in the way.  But this girl....  I'm a good five inches taller so despite her obvious loveliness, the bartender sees me first.  

"What can I getcha?" he calls.

She half-turns, pissed that she's being punked, about to say something.  Her skin is tanned slightly and her eyes are very, very dark.  I give her an apologetic smile.

"A Newcastle and whatever she's having."

That gets me the rest of her - she turns until her back is against the bar.  She's got a fantastic figure, the kind that girls who wear white tank tops know they can show off.  And now she's not mad anymore.

"Thanks."  Her dark eyes narrow a little and I wonder if she's trying to place me.  Maybe her brother or boyfriend likes hockey, maybe she's seen my face before.  The music changes and the band will be on any second.  Behind me the crowd presses in, reaching for that last round, and I do my best to leave an inch of space between her body and mine.

"Sorry." I'm looking straight down at her now.  She tips her head up, meets my eyes and with barely a muscle moved, she kisses me.

I couldn't be more surprised if it started raining inside.  Soft, warm lips touch mine, sweetened by a hint of berries.  No other part of us touches but I feel like I'm on burning.  A firestorm of need and greed unleashes itself against my spine.

Thump.  "Ten-fifty, bro," the bartender says.

Her lips stick to mine, ever so slightly like they don't want to go home just yet.  I'm stunned and breathless as I fumble for my wallet.  The first bill is a twenty and I throw it at the guy.  But one beer is already missing from the bar.  Like a slap she presses it to the feverish skin of my bicep, just below my t-shirt sleeve.

"Thanks," she says again before disappearing into the crowd.

I look back for help but the bartender just shakes his head.

____ (cue the song)____

The lights go out and the crowd hollers as the band comes on.  I hear it like I'm underwater.  Blood and hormones pound in my ears as I make my way back to my friends.  We're all packed in tight.  Ovi's got his arm around Christine's shoulders in a friendly way.  Mike holds Zoe in front of him like he doesn't want anyone else to touch her, ever.

I stand on tip-toe and crane my neck around uselessly.  I'd never spot someone under six feet tall in this crowd.  The girl in the boots is gone after one kiss.

I still taste it.  It cuts the foamy taste of the beer, impossible to ignore.  If they added it to the bottle they'd make a fortune.  A tiny hint of sugar and spark in the dark promise of drink.  

Let it go, I tell myself.  As far as casual encounters go, it may have been brief but that was pretty awesome.  The first song starts, one of my favorites, and I feel drunk with events of the last five minutes.  Everyone's into it and I'm glad I suggested this little night out.

Two songs later, I'm nearly lost in the pulse of the crowd and the thump of the base.  Then I feel a hand on my back.  Somehow I know it's her even though we never touched.  I spin around and she's melting into the crowd again.  Before I can react, she's lost.

Fuck.  That does it for the next two songs, which I hear without listening.  I'm halfway between here and gone.  I need another drink.

I don't go to the same bartender.  He's probably still laughing at me.  At the edge closest to the stage I make room and order myself another beer.  As I'm passing cash over the bar, an ice cold flash jolts against my skin.  I'm slower this time, caught facing the drinks, and see just a glimpse of blond hair pass out of sight.

"Damn it," I say out loud.  Once is a coincidence, but now she's playing with me.  It's cute actually - flirty and funny and if she did it to Carlson I'd crack up laughing.  If she did it to Ovi, he'd replace her before she came by again.  If it were Nicky, he'd pull up a chair and wait patiently for her to come back.  But I'm a little drunk and a lot horny and there's a reason I'm different from my teammates.

I do my own thing.  I follow her.

She's moving pretty quickly, snaking through the mass of rocking bodies.  Luckily I'm tall enough to see over some people.  By the time we're near the middle of the floor, she still hasn't turned around.  Does she know I'm behind her?   I'm beginning to wonder if she meant to flirt with me at all.

Then I see it.  As she weaves around a big guy, she glances quickly over her shoulder.  I don't bother to look away.  
At the far side of the room, she heads right for the door at the corner of the stage.  Good thing I've got this wristband on.  That ass in those shorts goes up two steps and through a door marked "Backstage Access Only."  I flash my wrist at the burly bouncer and he nods me past.

There are doors along both sides of a narrow hallway.  A bare bulb overhead flickers like I've just stepped into Pan's Labyrinth.  The entire place - floor, walls, ceiling - shakes with the music from the stage.  I slow, wondering how far to proceed, wondering how long before someone passes this way.  At my right, a door opens and a hand closes around my wrist.

The light is low, a small lamp on a couch-side table, in the disused dressing room.  Blond hair fans out in midair as she pulls me in and shuts to door behind me.  I want to look at her, to confirm that what I saw the first time was really as good as I remember but she's all over me - her hands in my hair, her lips on mine.  Those are definitely as delicious as I recall.  

She's smaller than I thought, maybe 5'5" in her boots.  Since she's taken the liberty of pulling me into a dark room and attacking me, I figure she won't mind if I'm a little aggressive on my own.  I run my hands over her ass, feeling the perfect round shape, then grab the back of her thighs and lift her up around my waist.  Obediently those boots lock behind me and she holds herself up, tongue still in my mouth.  My head spins from the taste, the noise, the vibration.

There's a couch.  There are also four walls, a floor and at least one table.  I know exactly what's going to happen, the question is: where?

Her shorts are really short and I've got two good handfuls of soft, creamy thighs.  She's kissing me so hard I can barely differentiate tastes from smells, but there are the berries from before and something sunnier, more flowery that I think may be the sheet of blond hair spilling down her back.  I want to breathe it in, I'm drunk on the idea.  The quickest route is the the one I choose.  

I press her up against the wall.  It's everything I need - I work my lips down her neck and inhale the delicious scent of her hair.  It's also the perfect ergonomically comfortable position for me to grind against her lap.  The thumping sounds of the concert rocks the walls so hard they're practically grinding me back.

I'm hard almost instantly.  From the moment she kissed me on the floor I knew this was everything I'd been missing - fun, excitement, danger.  Bass pumps through the wall, shaking the entire room and I try to match it with the thrusts I'm pressing into her body.  She whimpers in my ear.

"Fuck me."

I wonder if she knows my name.  In truth I don't care.

Her feet go to the floor.  I tear open her shorts and without a moment's hesitation slide my hand right down inside her panties.  Hey, she asked me it.  She's hot and wet, running into my hand as she lifts one leg to let me press two thick fingers into her pussy.  Her head goes back and eyes close.

"Oh God," she says to herself.  The song changes, the crowd cheers us on.

I could fuck her with my hand all day, feel the slick heat of her core that's so ready for me.  But that's not going to be good enough tonight.  I push her shorts and underwear to the floor, put my foot on them between hers and let her wriggle those boots free.  I'm going to need her legs.  While she's shaking them off, I drop my pants as well.

She doesn't skip a beat, just takes my cock in her hands and starts stroking.  Her tongue tangles with mine and I'd love to feel it rolling my did like a lollipop but that will have to be another time.  I lift her again and swear we are the only thing holding that wall up as the next song begins.

It's one of my favorites: Salt, Sweat, Sugar.  Good analogy for what I'm feeling right now.

"Yes," is all she says.

I slide her up an inch then lower her all the way down onto my cock.  It's like sliding into a glove that's a size too small - I have to push against her weight to wedge myself in.  By the squeal she doesn't try to stop, it feels just as good for her.  With both hands under the soft skin of her ass, I start to pump.

Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt...

I'm drunk.  Whether it's on alcohol or the delirious feel of her sweet, deep cunt running down the length of my shaft to the beat of the music.  There's more here - her breasts, her mouth - but we're running hard for home plate.  All I want to do is fuck myself into forgetting everything else.

Tune in, and we can get the last call...

Her nails dig through my shirt, into the flesh of my back.  I slow a moment, thinking in my haze I might be hurting her, but realize she's scrambling for the grip to move herself harder.

"You want more?" I ask her but I'm already answering.

The song is a frenzy and I am completely lost in the pulse of the music.  My mind is unanchored, just the way I'd been looking for: no worries, no pressure, no playoffs or disappointment.  Just the deliriously intoxicated feel of screwing ourselves senseless.

Clean you thoughts, clear your conscience...

She's screaming.  More, yes, I can't really hear and I don't speak English right now anyway.  All I understand is the tremor building in her pussy as it clenches and sucks at my cock.  There's no way I could ever win anything more than this, no feat more athletic than breaking this girl open and spilling her sweetness all over my dick.  I'm pounding home so hard I think we're rocking the wall instead of it rocking us.

Our hearts littering the topsoil...

She comes with a sound that could be pain if I didn't feel her pleasure.  Like a hot flood of honey, her body spills over and fills the space between us.  I lose my breath.  She pulls my head into her neck and only then do I let myself ride her home.  She moans loudly but only I can hear.

I come with a roar.  It's lost in the song but she knows that it's for her.  Four, five, I lose track of how many times I plow it as deep into her milky core as I can reach, like I'm trying to launch something into space.

It's the picket line, or the parade...

The last note is drowned out by the screaming crowd.  The last hot spurt of my come is absorbed by the mess we've made.  I'm panting hard, she's clutching at me, grateful not to have to stand up.  Her lips find mine, the rise and fall of her chest quick and thready even as she takes the breath from my lungs.  I'm still buried inside her and could be hard again before the encore.  The look in her dark eyes says she'd gladly wait.  A small smirk comes to her lips.

"That's the kind of effort that wins playoff games," she says.

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