An outtake from my story, Not Just Yet, but Almost. Takes place just after Chapter 12: A Very Rocky Christmas

"Good night, Pay, Merry Christmas," her mother called to her down the hall as she entered her room, quickly kicking off the high heeled pumps that had looked fabulous, Kaylie's word, not hers, with her dress. Fabulous they may have been, but they pinched her pinky toes and she was sure that there were blisters; she was just too tired to look. The original plan had been to stay the night at Kaylie's, but Emily had pulled out, wanting to spend some time with Damon and Lauren had dragged her father home, hoping to forestall any plans he had with Summer, so Payson took a rain check, not really needing to spend the night listening to Kaylie rant about how she did not like Austin Tucker and drop not so subtle hints that if Payson wanted him, she could have him.

She sighed and put her hand over the charm that rested in the hollow of her throat. The gift had been perfect. It represented them in so many ways; Payson felt like her old sixth grade English teacher would have had a field day with all the symbolism. First, it was the gift itself, real, tangible evidence that there was something between them, even if they hadn't defined it with words. Then it was the pendant itself, a subtle gift that could be interpreted two ways, much like their real life relationship. On the surface, it was a representation of her, Aphrodite and Ares, the Olympic gods of love and war, the grace and power that defined her as a gymnast. Looking deeper, the second meaning belonged to just her and Sasha, two Olympians – that was the idea anyway – with a forbidden attraction for one another, lovers, being kept apart by circumstance.

Who knew he was such a romantic? Who knew I was? She smiled to herself. Where had this mushy, dreamy girl come from? She was the practical one, the girl who kept her feet firmly planted on the ground, but one man had changed all that. She quickly slipped out of the dress and threw on another new pair of Victoria's Secret pajamas. They sent her new things every few weeks, which was nice, although she never knew there were so many variations of underwear and sleepwear. She fingered the pendant for a moment and decided to take it off while she was sleeping, the chain looked delicate and she didn't want to risk breaking it. Undoing the clasp, she closed her eyes and remembered how he'd fastened it just hours before and placed a soft kiss on the back of her neck. The brief contact had made her entire body shudder in response.

Payson was sure this wasn't normal. People just didn't click physically like they had. Maybe it was because he was experienced; she bit her lip at the thought, because whenever Lauren felt the need to describe, usually in excruciating detail, her physical relationship with Carter, what she said certainly didn't match up with what Payson felt when she was with Sasha. There was nothing to compare it to besides the kiss she and Nicky had shared that night in L.A. Her first kiss and it had been perfect, her stomach flip-flopping pleasantly, a small shiver running down her back, but when Sasha kissed her, she felt like she couldn't get close enough, like her entire body was on fire and every second the blazing heat grew until she could barely stand it.

She was a science nerd and if she hadn't dedicated herself to gymnastics, she knew she'd probably have closeted herself away in a lab somewhere, so Payson knew enough to know that it was simple biology, that in a world with nearly seven billion people, they had stumbled upon each other and that their bodies were reacting chemically to the presence of an ideal partner and for her that made it that much more exciting and terrifying. Who finds the person they're supposed to be with at seventeen and how does it last when that person is nearly ten years older? It isn't supposed to last and when it ends, it won't end well, we both know that. Austin had called her a Lolita, or rather implied it, but that wasn't what going on. She read that book; Lolita was a twelve year old bitch and her "lover" nothing more than a sick child molester. If this happened two years from now people would have raised their eyebrows, but nothing more. The age gap wasn't unheard of; her own father was seven years older than her mother.

She sighed, but maybe they were the exception. Maybe in all the dysfunction and drama that came along with the Rock, maybe the most taboo and unexpected relationship of them all would be the one to endure.

She closed the clasp on the gold chain so the pendant wouldn't fall off in her jewelry box and ran her thumb over it lovingly, but in doing so felt a small rough patch on the back of the charm. Turing it over, she realized that it was engraved. He didn't say anything about an inscription. I wonder what it says. She stared at it carefully, but her room was too dark to see clearly. Stepping closer to the light she held it up and saw the words, Inima mea este a ta.

Payson had studied French as part of her home schooling and Romance languages were all very similar, so thinking hard, she muddled a translation, "Something mine is to you? Was to you?" she muttered, shaking her head. That's definitely not it and if Sasha had it inscribed, well then it was probably Romanian, not French.

She sat down at her desk and turned on her laptop, an object that hadn't gotten much use since her comeback. Thank God for Google Translator, she thought as she opened up the website and typed in her letters, setting the current language to Romanian and asking the site for an English translation.

My heart is yours.

There it was, clear as day on her screen. There was no misunderstanding it or reading it the wrong way or any possibility for misinterpretation. It was a declaration, as much as if he had said it to her face. Why didn't he say it to my face? She sat down on her bed and thought. Because if he said it, then he initiated it, if he said it to me, he's pushing. This is a way to give me an out, a way to let me think about it. No pressure, no expectations, simply letting me know how he feels.

It was stunning, frankly, that he felt this way. Attraction was one thing, but this was something else entirely. Sasha Beloff could have anyone. He played it cool most of the time, but in reality, he was an international superstar, hiding himself away in cozy Boulder, Colorado, when any National gymnastics program would jump at the chance to have him coach. She'd once asked him if he'd ever Google'd himself and he obviously hadn't, but she had. His reputation with women was legendary. M.J. Martin had just been the tip of the ice berg. Actresses, models, two Russian tennis players, and who knew how many others and now her?

Why me? No, that wasn't right. Why not me? I'm just as pretty as any of those women. I'm in the bloody Swimsuit Issue of Sports Illustrated. Whoa, easy there, starting to sound like him. I am, though, just as pretty as they are. Not just that though, we have so much in common. We talk about things, not just gymnastics. Just a few days before they'd discovered their mutual and hidden love for Nat "King" Cole, one morning they'd found themselves comparing the merits of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, a conversation she was sure had shocked the hell out of him, and those were just a couple of examples. They never ran out of things to talk about.

So what would he say about this one? She closed her eyes and his voice rang inside her head, Sleep on it, Payson. Things will be clearer in the morning.

She lay back on her bed and closed her eyes, exhaustion from the day finally winning over.

It was not a restful night's sleep. She tossed and turned, waking up every half hour or so, when at four in the morning, something inside her finally clicked. She rolled out of bed, turning on her laptop and opened up the translator again. Typing in what she wanted to say, she quickly had it translated and then used the text-to-speech button and had the computer teach her how to say what she needed to say to him.

Repeating it over and over again in her head, she showered and grabbed her car keys. She jotted a quick note to her mother about going to the gym, although she knew no one would be up for hours. It was the day after Christmas and the Rock was distinctly closed. She was depending upon her reputation as the "most intense person ever" as Becca often mockingly called her, to be her cover.

Sasha arrived back home from the Cruz's Christmas party feeling more out of sorts than he had a in long time. He loosened his tie as he entered the trailer and placed the lone Christmas present he'd received on the small ledge at the head of the trailer's bed. There were a couple of other picture frames there and it blended well. He stripped quickly, tossing his clothes into a pile he'd eventually take to the dry cleaners; he pulled on a pair of worn pajama pants and threw himself on his bed.

He picked up the frame, and pushed the button twice, the touch screen keypad appearing, waiting for his password. Then the pictures appeared. It was virtual kaleidoscope of moments from the last several months, including a few private memories, them together on the plane home from Rotterdam, a picture she'd taken of them fooling around with her camera after a late night practice, one that looked as if she'd taken by accident as he kissed her, the perspective coming from somewhere near her hip. She's pretty good at this photography stuff, he mused.

The very last photo was the picture from Sports Illustrated. He threw his head back onto his pillow with a groan. She knew exactly what that picture did to him. He felt himself stirring and though he knew this is what she planned when she uploaded the picture for him, he felt – at the risk of sounding like a sixteen year old girl – creepy. When they were together, everything was perfect. No exaggeration. When he had her in his arms, he felt like he found the person he was supposed to be with. When they were apart, he felt like a dirty old man.

Intellectually, he knew that wasn't the case. His intentions were honorable, despite the timing. When he closed his eyes, he could see a long road ahead, long beyond the Olympics, visions that would have been normal for a man at his stage of life, if things were very different. He saw a house, in England maybe or California, somewhere notBoulder, Colorado. He saw a wedding in a lovely green garden. He saw her lying in a bed, her shirt pulled up exposing a swollen belly, his hand running lovingly over it. He saw little fair haired children, running around in a park, while they watched affectionately from a bench, their hands entwined together.

He shook his head roughly. He was being absolutely foolish. Even if they managed to keep their relationship a secret, even if they got through the Olympics and she won gold and everything they'd talked about came to pass, it was no guarantee that she would still want him? Why would she want you then, Beloff? You'll just be her old coach, someone she knew before she conquered the world. Well, that was enough to stifle his desire.

Whenever they were apart, the doubt began to seep into his skin. And then you went and got that bloody charm inscribed. What were you thinking? You were thinking maybe if you scared her enough she'd run away? Maybe she'd back off? He shook his head. No, you were hoping that maybe she'd foolishly and to her own downfall, feel the same way. Not that she'd know what she was feeling anyway. She's seventeen. Even if she does love you, will she know it? Or will it scare the hell out of her, like it scares the hell out of you? You love her, Beloff and by now she probably knows it. It's over. She'll call it off and that'll be that. You'll go back to being just her coach, the man that will guide this infinitely talented athlete to the Olympic gold and then you'll bow out gracefully.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the digital clock on his wall. It read 2:34 a.m. in neon green numerals. He needed to try and get some sleep, but he knew it wouldn't be forthcoming. He closed his eyes and tried a technique that used to work the night before a big competition. He relaxed every muscle in his body and then starting at his toes, proceeded to flex each muscle in his body, holding the flex for ten seconds before releasing and moving higher. By the time he reached his abs he could feel it working. Then there was nothing, until he jerked awake to the sound of someone pounding on the door to the trailer. His eyes drifted to the clock on the wall, 4:32 a.m. A strange feeling of déjà vu overtook him and he tried to focus. He slid his feet off the bed, the floor cold under his bare feet. A shiver went through him as he crossed the entire trailer to the door and pushed his open, leaning heavily on the doorframe and squinting into the early morning light.

The sun glinted off her blonde hair. She looked exhausted and beautiful all at once. "Payson?" he asked, his voice still raspy from disuse.

"Şi a mea este a ta," she said. "Sasha, şi a mea este a ta," she repeated and stepped into what little space there was between him and the edge of the trailer doorway. Her lips met his is a fiery kiss. For the first three seconds, she was the one in control, taking the lead in a way that he could not, but then feeling the desire for her within him bubble to the surface, he took control. He was by nature a dominant man and it spilled over into most aspects of his life, but no more so then when he was with a woman. He bit down on her bottom lip and then quickly invaded her mouth with his tongue. He pulled her closer, spun them around and slammed the door to his trailer shut. Taking a step forward, he forced her up against the counter of his tiny kitchen, one hand bracing himself against one of the cabinets, the other at her hip, slipping under the bottom of her tank top, stroking at the soft skin there. He pulled his lips from hers and latched onto her neck, the urge to brand her with his mouth overwhelming him.

She threw her head back, banging it against the cabinet, but the noise she made was a groan of pleasure. "Oh, God," she cried out as he found the particularly sensitive spot just behind her ear. He could feel her shudder in his arms. Her hands were at his back and he could feel her short, blunt nails digging into the skin, leaving marks that would probably burn in the shower. He could feel her nipples hardening beneath her tank top, rubbing against his chest. Good girl, no bra. He brought his mouth back up to hers, kissing her lips, but not deepening it. He pulled back and sliding his fingers to the hem of her top, tilted his head at her, silently asking for permission. He saw her inhale deeply and then lift her arms over her head, waiting. With a painful slowness, he lifted the soft material exposing her smooth, creamy skin mere centimeters at a time. Finally it slipped over her head, sending her hair cascading over her shoulders, partially covering her. Her eyes never left his and it was her constant gaze more than anything that was turning him on now. He pulled back even more, taking her in and she challenged him with her eyes again.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, moving in again, kissing her lips softly, one hand burying into her hair, pulling it away from her body, the other drifting up to cup a breast.

She gasped at the unfamiliar contact. This is what it feels like to have a man's hands on you. Not some fumbling boy, a man, who wants you, he thought, flicking his thumb over her already erect nipple.

"Sasha," she said, not frenzied or panicked, but lovingly whispered into his ear.

He practically growled, the sound of his name falling off her lips in pleasure did something to him he hadn't expected. It made his stomach clench and his knees weaken. Their lips met again, this time with much more urgency than before. He felt her breasts press against his chest, her smooth skin rubbing against his, their nipples brushing once and then again. It was too much.

They were both world class athletes and extremely coordinated, but the five steps it took to get from his kitchen to the back of the trailer to his bed were eluding them. They crashed into his kitchen table, the wall that separated his bathroom from the rest of the trailer, the edge of the shower stall and then finally they fell together, towards the soft mattress, him spinning them around so she would land atop him. They stared at each other for a moment before she started to giggle.

He raised his eyebrows. He'd never heard Payson Keeler giggle before. He'd heard a full throated laugh and her sarcastic scoff, but never a giggle. He couldn't help it, he joined in her laughter. "What a pair we make," she said, burying her face at his neck and inhaling.

"You smell so good," she said, inhaling again. "Brandy and that cologne you wear, Irish spring soap and gym chalk," she mumbled against his skin, peppering his neck and collar bone with wet, open mouthed kisses before placing one in the center of his sternum. Her eyes shifted focus and then looked up at him, their eyes meeting as her tongue darted out and swirled over his nipple quickly.

She didn't know what made her do it. She hadn't really thought about it until suddenly her mouth was over his nipple and she was sucking lightly before biting down softly. He'd been watching her; he threw his head back, his breath suddenly harsher. "Payson," he whispered.

At the sound of her name, she looked up at him. She had never felt more powerful in her life. Not at the top of any podium had her entire body sung in this way. She crawled up his body, straddling him and moving her hips in a slow circular motion. "Payson," he called out, louder this time, his hands grasping her hips, clenching hard with each circle she made. She knew that an imprint of his hand would be there tomorrow, five small bruises across each hip that would tease her every time she looked at them.

Suddenly, he surged upward, kissing her again, their bodies pressed completely together. Then she was on her back, looking up at him in silent outrage, "Turn about is fair play, love," he said, kissing her lips and then trailing downward, to one shoulder then the other, tracing the small space between her breasts with his tongue. Impatiently, she buried a hand in his hair and steered him toward her breast, "Patience is a virtue," he whispered against her skin.

She realized what he was doing then. His eyes locked with hers, just as she had done, his tongue moving slowly over the tip of her breast, then circling gently. Payson felt her toes begin to curl, as their hips continued the circles she had initiated. His mouth then closed around the hardened pink tip. He suckled her, as his other hand anchored itself to her other breast, massaging gently. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably and then, as his teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive flesh, the burning warmth that had been simmering heavily between her legs suddenly exploded. Her eyes slammed shut and she saw stars as she arched against him, her throat catching and then sound being forced through as she vocalized the feeling surging through her body. Her head was spinning and her breath wouldn't slow, but she managed to open her eyes to see him staring at her in awe, small droplets of sweat dotting his forehead.

His mouth was agape, "Did you just…did you?" he asked, blinking rapidly as he if didn't believe what he'd just seen.

She nodded, placing a hand on her forehead, "Yes," she said. "I definitely did." She swallowed roughly, her throat incredibly dry.

"Wow," he said, in utter disbelief. "I've never seen…"he trailed off, Payson guessed to avoid using the comparative. "I barely touched you. Christ, that was incredible."

"I've never been able to before," she told him, still trying to catch her breath. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, pressing their bodies together again. They were both slick with sweat, but Payson wanted him close. "Wait, you didn't," she began, but he silenced her with a small kiss on her lips. "Show me," she said, when he pulled back. "Show me how."

"Too late, love," he said and she noticed that the hardness she'd felt pressed against her was gone, replaced by a warm stickiness. "I have never lost control that quickly in my life," he admitted, though he didn't seem embarrassed, just impressed. "Not since I was twelve years old. You were just too much for me, Payson," he said, kissing her cheek and then her neck. "Amazing."

A few moments later, the closeness was still wonderful, but the stickiness was uncomfortable. "Do you have another set of sheets?" she asked, shifting away from him and standing up. She spied her tank top on his kitchen floor and put it on.

"Yeah, in that cupboard," he said, motioning towards the small storage space she was standing next to. He stood and stripped the linens off the bed, tossing them into the same pile he'd thrown his suit in only a few hours before. He grabbed a new pair of pajama bottoms and tossed the others into the pile as well.

She brought out a fitted sheet and a top sheet, tossing them to him and smiled. "There's only room for one person to make the bed, Sasha," she said. "I'll just stand here and admire the view." He laughed and set about putting the fitted sheet on the mattress. She watched him, the muscles in his back bunching and flexing as he reached for the edges of the bed. Then he stood to put the top sheet on, with a flick of his wrists he spread the sheet out, as she admired the broadness of his shoulders.

"Are you done ogling me?" he asked when saw her staring openly and appreciatively.

She shook her head. "Not by a long shot," she said, taking a step towards him. He opened his arms and she fell into them gratefully. "Thank you," she said.

He looked down at her, obviously unsure what she was thanking him for. "Inima mea este a ta," he said, placing a hand over the necklace he'd bought her.

He smiled and Payson knew in that moment, he was it. This was the man she wanted, now, after the Olympics, forever, a wedding, children, and a life. Together. It thrilled and terrified her. It was too much, too soon. This wasn't supposed to happen yet, but then she looked up and he was still staring at her, like she was his world.

"Şi a mea este a ta,"she said.

He was her world too.