FURY: A Rio Games Romance (16 page)

Coach gave Logan a speech about honor, responsibility, and commitment, clearly referring to Logan’s trip to the pool with Solomon and company. Logan nodded and tried to focus, but she now felt a second and third kiss, each more insistent, moving closer to her core. She needed Solomon to stop, but the ruse would be completely blown if she made a move to interfere with his necessarily glacial approach to the sweet junction of her legs.

Solomon was on autopilot. The heat, darkness, and scent had awakened something primal in him and he throbbed intensely. He felt Logan’s hands fall into her lap, accompanied by what had to be her book. She and her coach were chatting, but he was no longer eavesdropping. He managed to keep his body almost completely still, extending his neck to its fullest, sliding and ever-so-slightly turning his head. His lips were now up past the part of her legs that even short shorts would cover, and Logan’s skin was as soft there as rose petals. He continued to kiss her, feeling her leg muscles tense and relax. He also felt pressure from her hands struggling, but not too hard, to redirect him. What little air available to him was thick and humid, and there was no denying what her body wanted, if only she could hurry her coach out of the room.

Logan gave up and stretched her arms over her head, bringing her other knee up into a bent position, which actually did an even better job of obscuring Solomon. Logan was having difficulty following anything Coach Pressley was saying, and she feared her face might be flushed. Her mind screamed to close her legs, to do something, anything, but she didn’t dare move her ankle from the jerry-rigged platform on which it was elevated, and her body wasn’t listening to her mind anyway. Something was boiling inside her, and without some way to release it, she felt her very soul might explode.

Solomon sensed movement in the room, and an exchange of greetings, Savannah’s voice unmistakable among several others, and he decided to use the distraction to make his move. He needed to twist slightly anyway to get his shoulder out of an uncomfortable position, and he wound up right where he wanted to be, hopefully unnoticed by anyone save Logan, his face as deep as it could be between her legs.

He could feel how wet she was, and the heat, already stifling, had become a sauna. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead, one of them rolling down to the bridge of his nose. Her shorts, a comfy, loose pair of basketball shorts she liked to sleep in, were the only thing between Solomon and a pair of panties he’d helped to ruin.

Logan was relieved when the door opened and her three roommates entered, joined by Leah Beierle. Leah covered for her friends, explaining to Coach how they’d all been in her room doing some late night game-planning for Colombia. Savannah, Alyssa, and Tara all did their best to feign fatigue, yawning and stretching and proclaiming how happy they’d be to get some sleep. Coach Pressley didn’t buy it completely, but she decided that since there didn’t appear to be any guys or alcohol involved, and everybody was present and accounted for, that no harm had really been done.

As the group finally walked into the adjacent room, the lovers were finally alone.

Logan surrendered. Her body was aflame, and Solomon had to stay where he was anyway. He might as well finish what he started. She snuck a hand down below the comforter and pulled the leg of her shorts up and to the side as best she could, then hooked a finger onto the crotch of her sodden panties and moved them out of the way as well. It wasn’t ideal, or even all that comfortable, but it was happening. It had to.

She tried to listen for them in the other room, to make sure they weren’t coming back where she was complete putty in Solomon’s very experienced hands.

She wouldn’t have been able to stop, even if she wanted to.

Solomon was pleasantly shocked when a sliver of light revealed Logan’s hand under the comforter with him. He expected her to cover herself, to block his access and put an end to his fun. Instead, he felt her hand lovingly caress his cheek and then he felt fabric moving across his nose. Logan rolled her hips forward gently, and she was his.

Logan’s eyes were glazed and she worried that somebody would think she’d been getting high, but she was too far gone to really care. Nothing mattered except getting her climax. She bared herself as much as was possible, given the circumstance. Logan took advantage of what might be only a brief absence and laid her head back, closed her eyes, and let herself ride the building wave.

Solomon had always been good at this, but it had, of course, always been foreplay. There had been anticipation of something more, which seemed to take the focus off the incredible pleasure Logan was receiving. This time she held back out of deference to her roommates, who certainly weren’t expecting to walk into a porno, but her body was fully attuned to what was happening and eager to feel it fully.

Suddenly, she heard their voices again and although she should have Solomon stop what he was doing, she just couldn’t. She needed it. There was nothing she could do now.

“So, did you manage to get lover boy out before Coach showed up?” Savannah asked, absent-mindedly, while searching for something on YouTube that she wanted to show to Alyssa.

Caught off-guard by the question, Logan stammered her reply. “Wh-what? Oh, oh yeah, h-he just left before she…right before she got here.”

“You okay?” Alyssa asked, sensing that Logan might be in some sort of distress, having no idea how far she was from the truth.

“Fan-
tas-
tic.” On the middle syllable, Solomon had found Logan’s clit, flicking it with his tongue. She sucked in a breath as she struggled to maintain her composure.

Savannah gave her a quizzical look. “You must have taken some muscle relaxers or something. You’re acting weird.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Trainer gave me something,” Logan explained, starting to gently writhe beneath her comforter.

Solomon worshipped at the altar of Logan’s femininity, licking, kissing, and sucking as fervently as he could without revealing himself with too much movement. There was something so naughty about it, so wicked to make Logan come right there in front of her friends, but he wasn’t about to stop, not even if the president of the IOC walked in wanting to award him a gold medal. He redoubled his efforts to send her over the cliff, swirling his tongue on her clit, round and round.

Logan stiffened, staring at the ceiling. She was close, and it could happen the moment she let it. Or it might just happen anyway whether she was ready or not. Somehow, if she could hold out another second, maybe two, everybody would leave, she tried to tell herself. But alas, it was not to be. Mercifully, Alyssa got up and walked to the bathroom, getting her things ready to take a shower when Tara finished. Savannah was much more interested in her computer than in Logan.

It was now. It had to be. Logan bit her bottom lip as hard as she dared without drawing blood and she let the waves of orgasm wash over her. Her mind flickered to signs she’d seen at Myrtle Beach that explained how to escape a riptide, and she wondered if there was a way she could get herself caught in this riptide and be swept out into Orgasm Ocean forever. She trembled and ground herself against Solomon’s handsome face, abandoning any pretense of civility. She managed not to yelp or groan, and she was proud of herself for that, at least, although a bit ashamed she was so lewdly enjoying herself just a few feet away from her unwitting teammates.

Solomon eased himself away as the ripples rolled through her, too sensitive for him to continue his assault. She sighed contentedly, reaching beneath the comforter to clasp his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Damn, girl, I want some of whatever painkillers or muscle relaxers they gave you. I’ve never seen you so relaxed,” Savannah said from across the room.

“I definitely feel pretty groovy,” Logan admitted, laughing. Knowing she’d have a tough time getting Solomon out of the room without anybody knowing it unless he stayed hidden until all her roommates were asleep, she decided to take advantage of the fact that only she and Savannah were within earshot. “Keep a secret?” Logan asked, already knowing the answer.

“I
knew
something was up with you. Spill it!”

Logan waited a moment, hearing the water in the shower start up again, indicating that Alyssa would be gone for a few minutes at least; Logan did
not
want to expose a seventeen-year-old to her debauchery. Logan covered her face with one hand and pulled back her blanket with the other, revealing Solomon, sporting a Cheshire Cat grin.

“Logan!” Savannah looked as shocked as Logan was mortified, and Solomon looked nothing but pleased with himself. “What the…”

“Lori sent me a text that Coach P was coming and he was still here and I didn’t want to risk getting caught and then the next thing I knew she was here and…” The words spilled out of Logan’s mouth so quickly that they threatened to trip over one another and wind up scattered all over the floor.

“You two are cray cray. That’s all I know,” Savannah shook her head, laughing. “I bet in a few days when events start wrapping up you two can get a private room.” Savannah stuck out her tongue at Logan.

“Forget that, how do we get him out of here now?”

Just then, Tara emerged from the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel, glad she’d taken her pajamas in with her. “What in the…where did he come from?”

“Under the blanket. The whole time. Yep,” Savannah explained while Solomon and Logan stared at each other hungrily, both wishing they were somewhere, anywhere else. And alone.

Tara’s jaw dropped. “Lowery!”

“Okay, okay, okay can we please just figure out how to get him out of here before another coach shows up or the twins decide to drop by?” Logan implored her teammates.

Tara walked out into the hallway, peering down the stairwell and coming back in to report that the coast was clear. “Make a run for it now. Assuming, of course, that you got your good luck kiss?”

“Got it, yes I did. Logan should have extra special luck, too,” Solomon smiled at Logan knowingly and she pulled the comforter up over her head, hoping that the entire evening had been a dream. Well, maybe not the orgasm, but all the rest.

Solomon laughed at Logan’s ostrich act and left stealthily, wishing the team a win against Colombia before departing.

From under the comforter, Logan pleaded her case with Tara and Savannah. “Can we agree to never, ever talk about this again?”

“Talk about what?” came the voice of Alyssa, having just wandered into the room, freshly scrubbed. Her three elder teammates burst into raucous laughter, and soon thereafter it was lights out.

T
he USWNT cleared
the Colombia hurdle without much trouble, easing to a 2-0 victory in Logan’s absence. The quarterfinals awaited, and a matchup with neighbor and rival, Canada.

Solomon’s match with the Russian went exactly like the previous two had gone. Try as he might, throwing or taking down the Muscovite proved as easy as doing the same to an oak tree. Nothing Solomon did seemed to bother the Russian, and although he defended well, near the end of the round Solomon became noticeably fatigued and he found himself sent crashing to the mat. The referee signaled waza-ari, meaning the match wasn’t over, but since Solomon had failed to score, if time ran out, he’d lose the match. The seconds ticked away but nothing changed.

A loss to an older, more experienced opponent, a gold medal favorite, was nothing to be ashamed of but once the Russian’s hand was raised, Solomon couldn’t hold back the tears. He made eye contact with Gavin and the two men embraced next to the mat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Uncle.”

Gavin held Solomon at arm’s length. “Sorry? Are you crazy? Sorry for giving me the athletic highlight of a lifetime? My own nephew in the Olympics, kicking ass? I’m nothing but proud of you! You’re my hero, Solomon!”

The two men embraced again, Solomon finding family in the crowd with his eyes, seeing all of them clapping, cheering, and giving him the thumbs up sign. Losing wasn’t something he was used to something he hoped he’d
never
get used to. His heart swelled watching the Fijian flags slice through the air and the smiles on the faces of his friends and family.

As fate would have it, Adonis DeCarlo took the mat next, operating out of the same corner the stewards urged Solomon to vacate in order to proceed with the next match. Two minutes into the match, Solomon watched Adonis catch his South Korean opponent in an arm bar as the two scrambled for position on the mat. Waiting until absolutely the last moment before his elbow joint was painfully dislocated, the South Korean was forced to tap out, signaling a surrender that sent Adonis to the semifinals.

Adonis would meet a Cuban, while the Russian who beat Solomon was scheduled to face the Japanese judoka in the semis. As he left the mat, Adonis couldn’t help but smirk at Solomon as he strutted past him, knowing he’d finally, irrevocably buried his rival.

Solomon broke into a light jog, winding up right in front of Adonis. “Beat the Cuban or you’ll be seeing me in the repechage, buddy. Can’t duck me forever.”

“Does somebody want to get this
loser
out of my face, please?” Adonis implored, to no one in particular. Gavin interceded on Solomon’s behalf, hustling his fighter away before tensions escalated.

“You have another fight in an hour, you numbskull. Don’t get yourself disqualified.”

Solomon laughed. “I’m fine, Uncle. I’m cool, I promise. I’ll be ready.”

In Olympic judo, two bronze medals are awarded, to winners of a tournament called a “repechage.” Two quarterfinal losers compete for the right to advance to a bronze medal match against the semifinal loser from the opposite side of the bracket.

If Solomon could beat an Israeli opponent, a special forces soldier with a nasty reputation for preferring to break arms and choke opponents into unconsciousness rather than take them down or throw them, he’d be in the bronze medal match against the loser of Adonis’s semifinal against Cuba.

Solomon felt jitters like he’d never felt in his life, even when he sent that first e-mail to Gavin so many years ago.

He was as close as any Fijian had ever been a to an Olympic medal, and the chance could well come against the judoka he’d been dying to face for more than two years.

Solomon asked Gavin for some privacy, and he found a corner of an empty locker room and prayed like he’d never prayed before. He prayed for strength from his father and courage from his father. He gave thanks for Logan and asked God to bless a future with her, if that was in the cards. The butterflies in his stomach disappeared, one by one, and he felt the fury of the storm coursing through his veins. Somewhere in the bowels of the stadium he knew his opponent was calling on his military training, recalling his own path to the brink of a medal. Solomon also knew that it mattered not. Once the two men set foot on the mat, Solomon knew, he
knew
, that if he fought his fight, it made no difference what the Israeli did. He traced the tattoo on his forearm over and over again, breathing deeply, controlling his racing heart.

Gavin summoned Solomon to the mat, and the coach liked what he saw from his fighter. A storm brewed behind Solomon’s eyes, but he was in complete control of it. He bounced on the balls of his feet, barely able to contain the energy crackling within. By contrast, the Israeli looked indifferent, almost bored. He might as well be a man preparing to take a nap.

As Solomon completed his final pre-match stretches, he caught a glimpse of blonde in the crowd, curls that could belong only to the most beautiful girl in Rio, Logan Lowery. She’d been busy with her match earlier, but somehow she’d gotten word that Solomon would be in action again and she’d found a spot among the spirited Fijian rooting section.

Solomon hoped to see her brilliant smile, but instead he saw only fire. Her face wore a mask as intense as his, and she lifted a hand, balled into a fist toward Solomon, urging him to make the most of his opportunity, to make her proud, to take what was his.

Solomon required no further inspiration.

When facing a new opponent for the first time, as Solomon was doing in his repechage semifinal against the Israeli soldier, custom was to be cautious and play defense, craft a plan of attack based on the give and take of early clinches. Rather than take things slowly, however, Solomon was on the other man with the force of a tsunami.

At first, the other man retained his placid demeanor, going through the catalogue of counters to whatever Solomon tried. When the action crashed to the mat, however, Solomon noticed a look of confusion, bordering on fear, on the other man’s face as they grappled for position. Solomon spun his hips over and around, taking hold of an arm, and falling back into a textbook arm bar. Rather than the instant submission that usually accompanied such a hold, the Israeli battled, trying to flip over, pull his arm free, anything to escape the hold. Only when Solomon lifted his hips from the mat to increase the torque did he feel the referee’s hand tap his shoulder to indicate he should release the hold. He’d won!

Containing his jubilance, Solomon congratulated his fallen foe, thanked the referee with a bow, and waited to have his hand raised. Leaving the mat, he was surrounded by his coach and family, tears glistening in many of their eyes. He waded through the crowd when he spotted blonde hair among the almost universally dark tresses, embracing Logan, who whispered in his ear. “You were a
very
bad boy last night. I didn’t realize that was the kind of kiss you wanted.”

Solomon’s olive skin flushed crimson recalling the events in Logan’s room, under her comforter.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you in front of your friends,” Solomon whispered back.

“Pfft. They’re just jealous.” Logan and Solomon kissed before Logan slipped away, leaving him with one final whispered message. “You have to sleep tonight. As much as I want to see you, get some rest. We’ll talk after you win your medal tomorrow.”

Solomon could live with that. For now, he and what seemed like half the population of Fiji had some celebrating to do. A native son would be fighting for an unprecedented Olympic medal in just under twenty-four hours.

After a shower, Solomon and Gavin settled in to watch the final 90 kilo judo match of the evening, the semifinal between Adonis DeCarlo of the United States and his Cuban opponent, a veteran of three previous Olympics, with two medals in his trophy case back in Havana. The Russian who’d bested Solomon had beaten the Japanese champion in his semifinal, and he’d await Adonis or the powerful Cuban in the gold medal match. The loser would settle for a shot at bronze.

Adonis battled admirably, even catching the Cuban with a waza-ari, but experience was too much too overcome, and with Logan’s teammates, the twin sisters of Adonis, watching, he was thrown frightfully across the mat, landing with a crash, with the referee signaling for an ippon. Victory for Cuba. Also victory for Solomon. He’d now get his hands on Adonis DeCarlo, with the whole world watching.

And with an
Olympic fucking medal
hanging in the balance.