My penance. My punishment for taking something that had never been mine.

“Ransom…oh…what…Oh!”

My fingers dipping deeper, tongue flicking fast, Red only became wetter and she dug her fingers so hard against my sheets that her knuckles turned white. “Squeeze my fingers.” And she did, tight, her inner muscles greedily gripping around my fingers and then the memory came back, like it always did. That small body, that sweet, sweet taste, the first I’d ever had.

The way she’d call my name, how she’d tasted on my tongue. That memory crippled me. Every damn time. The memory stung, but I opened up and let it in, taking that pain, cradling it—Emily’s tight, wet body gripping my fingers, pulsing against me. How fascinated I’d been by her reactions, by how responsive she was. I had felt like a god. I’d felt powerful and strong and so very astounded that it was me, the clumsy, senseless sixteen year old that made Emily writhe against my fingers. Me that had her pulling at my hair, pushing me deeper into her body. Me that she loved.

The same me who had wrecked everything.

Red’s climax was hard and I took her scream, her arching, quaking body, her pulsing wetness, and let her ride it out with my fingers still deep inside of her. Then I slowly slipped out of her drenched pussy, and laid my hand flat on her mound, helping her to ease down. Once she was calm I took the opportunity to dry my face, to scrub my palms into my eyes, hoping that the memory of Emily would fade; hoping that her face, her taste, would finally be erased by the girl lying next to me.

But she always came back, my girl, my favorite redhead. Her voice, her touch, the smell of Emily’s hair was embedded into my skin, every recall of her, every devastating memory was part of my body, ran deeper than my cells.

There was no erasing her.

Maybe it was the red hair. Maybe it was the freckles, but for the hundredth time it seemed, touching another girl, tasting someone else’s body, hadn’t managed to pull Emily from my thoughts.

I didn’t think anyone ever would.

When the girl’s breaths evened out and she rolled to her side, I took her hand, laid next to her. “When you’re alone, when you want to feel this again, touch yourself deep.” I picked up her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Use those beautiful hips to ride your fingers.”

“O…okay.”

I liked that she was shy again, as though she was just realizing that it was her voice that shouted out into the room, her body that had washed over in pleasure. But the blush didn’t return.

“Don’t ever let anybody tell you what your body needs. Only you can know that and don’t you settle until you find someone that will give you what you need.”

“Ransom…”

I shook my head, knowing what she’d say. Knowing what the pull of her frowning lips meant. Sympathy. Pity. I’d seen it a hundred times before. “I’m good, sweetheart, really.”

“You…you were crying.”

It would be so damn easy to talk to this girl. She didn’t know me. She knew nothing about my folks or my baby brother or that my mother was about to have another one. She didn’t know about the years Mom and I spent in Nashville, how I’d know football superstar Kona Hale was my father since I was thirteen. Red didn’t know about all the fuck ups I’d made. She didn’t know about my anger and my need to excel.

She didn’t know about the biggest shadow clouding my life. It had nothing to do with having successful, famous parents or the Great Love of theirs that the media loved to wax on and on about.

Red only knew what her friends had told her about me. She only knew that I was the first person to make her come. She knew nothing else, and sometimes it was easier telling a total stranger about all the bullshit weighing you down than your own blood.

But I couldn’t take the pity.

Finally, I reached down to drop a quick kiss against her lips. “Nah, sugar. Just a little sweat. You’re sweet to worry, but I’m fine. Really.”

“You look, I dunno. So lost.” Eyes snapping to hers, that defensive anger shot into my blood, but I pulled it back, reminding myself that she had no idea who I was. She was worried about me, a complete stranger worried about me. If she only knew how misplaced that concern was.

“I just thought maybe you would want…”

But I cut her off, standing to pick up her clothes. She dressed in silence with me waiting for her near the door. It was a little harsh, but seemed to work. They’d come for a release. I’d give it to them gladly, easily. There was no need to linger.

“Thank you, really.” Red looked me in the eyes, all the hints of shyness now absent from her features. She reached for my face, likely meaning to comfort me, but I pulled away from her, catching her hand before she did. Another smile and a single nod and the redhead didn’t try again. “You’re a good person, Ransom.”

Behind my closed eyelids, I said a little prayer, wishing that it could be true, and Red took her cue, leaving my room with the smell of her climax and the scent of lilac perfuming the air.

“No, sweetheart. I’m not good at all,” I whispered after her.

You didn’t get choices at this place. You got insistence. The staff meddled, they treated us all like celebrities because we dominated on the gridiron. I’d never get used to it no matter how much time I spent on the field.

In my room there was quiet, or at least there was the promise of it. But with that solace comes the eager demands thrown at me with a look, by the nagging tone of my teammates and that constant reminder in my father’s voice that this time in my life will only come once. Dad had lectured long about bonds to be made with the men who’d battle on the field right next to me. He’d sworn those friendships would last a lifetime. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I went back out to join the revelers.

“I’m telling you man, this ain’t some common titty bar.” I hated Trent Marshall’s stupid grin and the loud pitch of his voice over the club music. Earlier tonight, he’d sulked, pissed that Red’s friend hadn’t been interested in him. It was his idea that we all leave the crowd at the campus party.

Trent’s stupid laugh made my eye twitch and I tried to hold back the glare as that laughter kept getting louder. He had sandy brown hair cut scalp short except for a stupid layer of fringe that he’d flip out of his eyes with a toss of his head like he couldn’t bother with a trim or to manage his shaggy bangs with his fingers. No matter how much of an idiot he looked like, Trent wasn’t wrong. Summerland’s Burlesque Review was anything but a strip club. I’d only been there twice before, but each time felt that as soon as we moved behind the mahogany doors, we’d jumped back in time.

Every corner of the club was draped in rich, red textures like it was circus day at the Moulin Rouge. Red velvet draped the walls in fat swags, hardwood floors looked like melted chocolate under the deep, billowy couches. Settees cornered around the round stage in soft, black leather. Even the bite of sweet pipe smoke and very old bourbon added to the character of the place almost as much as the showgirls in their corsets and fishnets, or the aerialists overhead outfitted like glittering elves, swinging from the rafters on trapezes festooned with silks.

Marshall’s obnoxious whistle at the brunette on the stage dancing behind a white fan brought my attention back from the atmosphere and reminded me that I was in the company of a jackass.

Mike Richard, a thick lineman with no neck and more hunting dogs waiting for him back in Mississippi than any one man should have, nudged Marshall, tugging on his shoulder when the idiot got a little too close to the entertainment. “Easy, man. You’ll get us tossed out.” But Marshall didn’t listen to Richard and he continued to wolf-call at the woman on the stage.