Текст книги "Quarterback Bait "
Автор книги: Celia Loren
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A Stepbrother Romance
By Celia Loren
Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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QUARTERBACK BAIT
A Stepbrother Romance
By Celia Loren
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Elven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter One
Ash
“FUCK!” I cried, as a second—then third—ice cube slipped down the back of my tank top, gliding along the canal created by my shoulder blades. Pain and pleasure co-mingled on my spine as the opaque shards shot off my ass and onto the floor, where they instantly began to melt into pools. I whirled around to slap my girlfriend Melanie upside the head, pinning her for the culprit—but when I turned, I saw someone else. Someone strange, yet achingly familiar. Him.
“You looked hot,” he said, bending to close the distance between his mouth and my ear. “I acted on impulse. Please don't be mad.”
“It's you,” I blurted, realizing in the same breath that this wasn't a completely appropriate remark because we'd never been introduced. I'd simply been watching him from across the room as he was shaking the brown hair out of his eyes. Or raising his muscular arms overhead, into a stretch. But instead of squinting at me like I was a lunatic, the ice-cube-dropper smiled with half of his mouth and both of his eyes. Someone jostled him from behind, and he took a single step closer, pushing himself into my orbit. The trail of moisture was slick and cool on my back, but just as suddenly became hot again. He leaned forward and touched me, his fingers dancing lightly across my elbow.
“I've seen you around,” I elaborated, flicking a purple strand of hair out of my eyes. The purple streaks were the latest in a series of ill-advised rebellions, meant to make me—an otherwise mousy girl—stand out in a crowd. But I apparently, miraculously, didn't need any help in that department. Because here he was, talking to me.
“I've seen you around,” he countered, affirming that this was probably a dream. I watched the beads of sweat bloom along his forehead, pushing away from the dark roots at his scalp. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a superhero chin; yeah, of course I'd seen him around. He was the hottest guy at this shitty house party, no contest. Searching his face, I discovered a dimple, lurking in the crevice of his left cheek. I bit my tongue with glee at this small signifier that he was a human, with an endearing flaw.
Somewhere back on earth, an iPod DJ put on a 90s throwback jam—something I recognized from one of Anya's mix CDs. Steal my sunshine...something something. His face broke into a loopy grin at the chorus, and he rolled his eyes.
“I fucking hate this song.” His fingers fastened around my elbow, and his eyes asked the question first. “Wanna dip?”
I pretended to quick-scan the room for Melanie, knowing all the while that not even the girl code could stop this ball rolling. I shrugged coolly, then nodded assent. His fingers fluttered down my arm, then grabbed my hand. He turned and pulled me toward the door.
I followed him through the hallway like Eurydice—a quiet, hopeful ghost. He never once turned back. After we'd woven through a dozen drunken hallway stragglers and two corridors, we landed at an industrial door, marked with red stencil: “ALARM WILL SOUND. ROOF ACCESS RESTRICTED.” He turned to smirk at me before placing the heft of his round, muscular shoulder against the frame. And when the door finally creaked open, the alarm didn't sound—which made me laugh. It was like the whole world was complicit in this...whatever. Giddy, I took the stairs two at a time behind him, sneaking glimpses at his taut ass as we climbed. There was first a narrow staircase, and then a rusty ladder. He whistled all the way up.
“Ta-da!” he cried magnanimously, spreading his arms as soon as I'd thrust my head into the air. And there was Austin, sprawled out around us like a postcard. The low buildings and the heavy air seemed to bend over the rooftop, like fruit-bearing trees. Seeing me struggle with the final rungs of the ladder, he leaned over. He encircled my waist with both forearms and hoisted me up and out. I felt my nipples firm against my top as our chests smashed together. The air briefly abandoned my lungs. We were both dampened with sweat, and I could feel the meaty expanse of his pecs, his abs, the coiled splendor of his engaged sinews wrapped around me. I let myself be deadweight in his arms for a second. (Okay, more than a second.) And when my feet touched ground again, I held myself against him. I allowed my hips to suggest the slightest pressure against the crotch of his jeans. I told myself—that suddenly tiny part of myself that still clung to reason and social mores—that it was the alcohol, even though I'd only had one-and-and-half Mike's Hard Lemonades.
He tilted his head back and smiled, not releasing his grip on me. For the first time, I braved full eye contact. I searched his rich brown irises for some shade of explanation, but the only thing his gaze contained was joy. Joy, and just a tinge of mischief. And a passing resemblance to some movie star...that guy from Mad Men, maybe. His palms drifted down my back.
“This is a pretty involved...move,” I murmured, pressing my lips together as soon as the words were out. “You do this a lot? Bait a girl with ice cubes and then drag her to a roof?”
“That makes it sound like I'm a murderer,” he said, smirking. His hands discovered the small of my back, and began to knead my lower muscles. Of their own accord, my lips parted with pleasure.
“Aren't you? A lady-killer?”
“Boo. Don't quit your day job.”
“Don't you quit your day job. This whole Prince Eric thing won't last forever, you know. I sure hope they're teaching you some marketable skills at this school.”
He cocked his head and arched an eyebrow. The hands continued to drift, slowly, slowly, until they found my hips. Then he began to shift from foot to foot, pulling me into a sway. I realized we could still hear the strained sound of the sunshine song from two floors below. My stomach flipped. This was happening.
“It's not really fair,” he said, bending toward me again. “You know who I am, but I don't know who you are.” Hands on the curve of my ass. Hands pressing further, coming to rest on my cheeks, beginning to massage the crease where my thighs met my legs.
“Who do you think I am?” I whispered. Our faces had become close during the half-assed dance. He spoke the next words into the damp crook of my neck. I felt drunk, but I wasn't. The whole evening had already taken on the ethereal quality of something half-remembered from a dream.
“I think you are a girl...who doesn't do this kind of thing so often.” The tickle of his words on my bare skin sent a fierce jolt down my spine. I became aware of a pulse in my groin. My heart beat fast. “And you're a girl...who's beautiful. But maybe doesn't realize it.”
“And you're a boy who knows how to work it.”
He pulled back from me, holding my waist at arm's length. I watched him watch me, drink me in from tip to toe. I wasn't afraid. But before I'd quite articulated the want, he'd pressed himself close to my face. One hand slid up my back, and buried itself in the thatch of my ratty black and purple hair. He peeled me away from him slightly, tugging on my tresses, then swan dove onto my mouth.
His lips were soft but needy; they mashed against mine with furious intent. When I allowed my eyes to flicker open I saw that his gaze continued to probe me, unashamed. I let out a soft moan, and sank further backward into his hold.
When he resurfaced, I started to laugh again. It was just too bizarre not to. I doubled over, inelegant, and rested my palms on my knees. In another second I realized that this stance afforded him a prime look at my low swinging cleavage, so I righted myself.
“I'm not a boy, you know,” he said, pushing his hair back from his eyes. He took a big step toward me, invading my space once more. This time I held my face away, even though I desperately wanted to feel his lips again. He noted my movements and placed two comforting hands up in space, as if to say, 'Don't worry'—but then his eyes narrowed.
“Sweetheart, I'm a man. And when I take you for real, you won't be able to move after. You won't be able to speak. I will make you liquid with wanting me. I will suck you dry and fuck you senseless.”
I swallowed. In a wave, my hot center was slick. I swayed on my heels. This time when he advanced on me, I let the perfect stranger kiss me for a long, luxurious while. His arms flitted about my ribcage, unsure where to settle. I felt his erection straining through his pants, and slid my palm up against it, surprised at its girth.
Below us, another song ended—to the apparent distress of the other partygoers. We broke apart. My lips felt raw, but I was starving for more. And at the same time, I was furious.
“You shouldn't fucking talk to strangers like that,” I said, swatting him away. Turning my back, I let my eyes shift over the ragged skyline of my newest hometown. So far, Austin seemed like plenty of other places in the Southwest: hot and Spartan, with occasional pockets of culture. I'd been moving all my life, and never made attachments a priority. As sexy as this mystery dalliance was, I wasn't about to change my policy now.
He came to stand beside me, keeping a respectful distance. We didn't look at one another.
“I'm sorry,” he said sincerely, after the clattering in my heart had begun to die down of its own accord. All I had to do to stay abreast of the spell was not look at him, or any part of his perfect body. We'd had our fun. “I didn't mean to—I mean, I did—I felt something strange back there, is all.”
“And you always follow your impulses.”
“Most of them, yes.” He inched closer.
“I don't know who you are, you know,” I said, having regained some composure. “You probably just have one of those faces.” I extracted a Virginia Slim from the shiny silver case in my jean pocket, and pointed its earthy end in the direction of the skyline. In a single fluid gesture, he removed a Zippo from some interior fold in his vintage letterman jacket and lit me as I pulled.
“You shouldn't smoke.” That's when I saw it again—the familiar glint, in his eyes. The electric jolt that had made me recognize him from across a room at a frat party. I had this uncanny sensation that he was both an illusion and someone I'd known for years.
“Okay, who are you, actually? Some townie hotshot? Cause I could care less.” To prove myself, I blew a long stream of smoke in his face. He didn't waver, but his eyes implored me. Then his gaze shifted. His beautiful, dark eyes became...quizzical.
“You're serious, aren't you?”
“Are you an actor or something? Because my Mom has dated actors. Actors are the worst.”
“Hmm. This is interesting.”
“Are you...a...cowboy?” The iPod cranked up again, emitting another fey dance song. This was one I recognized, by the Scissor Sisters. I realized I was holding my breath.
“How about this? If you hang with me tonight, I'll tell you my name when I drop you home.”
“All tonight?”
“All tonight. It's a party, isn't it?”
I laughed. When he loped towards me again, it was in a companionable way. I decided to stop asking questions, and just give in. He wrapped his arms around my midriff and gazed at glittering Austin, placing his perfect chin on my shoulder. He pressed his lips lightly along my collarbone, and I pressed my ass into his rigid crotch in return. I giggled again. I felt electric with possibility, just staying in space with him.
“Attention must be paid, you know,” he murmured, his lips tickling the side of my cheek. I giggled. The faintest echo of stubble ran along the underside of his superhero chin. “This kind of thing doesn't happen every day.”
“I actually think strangers do make out at parties every day. That's kinda why parties exist.”
“This isn't that,” he said. His fingers splayed around my stomach. I sank into the touch and said nothing, not wanting to admit that he was right.
If this is college, I thought to myself as he rocked us into a lull, then bring it on.
Chapter Two
Landon
Denny's got the kind of voice you can hear from across busy intersections—like, he'll say hello like he's yelling at you over tarmac. So when I heard my name in that thundering call, I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the ladder. Her hand felt crazy tiny in mine. I'd already done a weird thing and named her in my head: Doll. Not because she looked especially like one or because she was stiff and creepy, but because there was something almost untouchably beautiful about her face, and also something that reminded me of being young. But for the smoking and the effect and those massive, perfect tits, you could have pinned her at twenty—but I'd never minded a younger girl. Which was probably some seedy shit I'd inherited from the old man.
As we lurched down the corridor, giggling like drunks—even though I'd abstained all night, since Coach was really starting to come down on us about the partying—I heard other familiar voices start to call, Landon! Landon! But there was suddenly nothing I wanted to do less than go play Flip Cup with a paper crown on my head, or stand inside a shoulder-to-shoulder circle of fawning, sophomore Alpha Gammas—end-of-junior-year-blow-out be damned. The thing about all those girls who had it bad for the football team was that they had a way of making you feel replaceable. Even when, say, Tracy Johns was foisting a blow job on me during Monday's half-time, there was this crazy look in her eyes, like she couldn't even see me. People, I've found, tend to see the capital letters: Landon Sterling, Quarterback. Landon Sterling, Favorite for the Broncos. Landon Sterling, Draft Pick, Homecoming King, Preacher's Son, Landon Sterling...Great On Paper.
Which is why I was so drawn to this little creep. I watched her walk into the party from across the room, with that punk freshman Melanie Something who's somehow in with all the frats. Doll clearly didn't know a soul in the room, but she held her chin level to the ground, and walked with her chest out in a way that didn't seem designed to draw male attention. (Though it hella did.) I watched her laugh like a hyena at something her friend said, and then I watched her slap at a mosquito bite on her otherwise spotless, soft-looking arm, and then I watched her peel the label off her Mike's Hard while apparently so bored by something Joey Fontenot was saying that she couldn't even fake a smile. I liked the way she carried herself, so I zeroed in. And then suddenly, somehow, we were talking, and she was saying yes to all these things I expected her to say no to—but not like Tracy Johns. She was looking into my eyes, she was trying to figure me out, she was thinking about it. And I was trying to figure her out. And then, so soon after, she was touching me.
The way this girl kissed was like nothing I'd ever felt before—she was urgent, but also curious. She'd let me hold her silky arms, she'd let me grope her ass...but I still never got the feeling that I'd sealed the deal, or anything. My Dad has a geeky religious word for it—presence. She was very present under my thumb, she was present on that roof with me. Her mouth tasted so sweet. And then we were running like clowns, and her laugh was like some bird call, and she was tripping into my Saab, slamming the passenger door tight. We looked at each other. I put my fingers on her freckles, and thought: fuck, do I want this girl.
She leaned in and kissed me, harder this time. I tucked her dark hair behind her ears, cupped her chin with both my hands, and reveled in her smallness. When she opened her soft mouth to mine, I let my tongue press inside. I wanted to feel every piece of Doll. My cock had been hard through the whole awkward run down the hall, and at that moment it seemed like it could burst from wanting. I took her dainty hand and put it on my manhood. She was tentative at first, but then she started to rub me like a pro.
I worked my way down her pale, perfect neck, thinking that she was the exact color of the moonlight pearling my car seats. I sucked on her neck—slow at first, then hard. She made little sounds at the back of her throat, and let her head collapse against my hand. With a draining thrill, I worked my other hand down to her swollen tit, where I could feel a nipple grasping through the fabric for my touch. I wanted to tear the shirt clean off. It's not like I'm some big one-night stander, but for whatever reason I literally couldn't get this girl naked fast enough.
“Wait,” she breathed, her voice like a bell in my ear. “Should we...go somewhere?” As soon as she said this, she hoisted herself up over the gearshift and draped herself over me. She weighed next to nothing, but the pressure on my cock was too great. I worried for one impossible second that I would come, right there in my pants, just from holding her. I tried to send my mind away from the precarious situation—Naked old people naked old people puppies crying, parkas...
“Do you want to go somewhere?” I asked, heart beating hard in my chest. I sat up against her, hoping she'd feel the rock wall of my muscles. She kissed me lightly on the mouth, smiled, and seemed to consider something.
“Beer,” she said finally, as I worked my way around to nibble on her ear. “We need beer. I know this place on Kerbey Lane.”
“If you want beer, there's a closer spot.” If this was to be the obstacle to our fucking, I was prepared to shoulder the burden. I patted the seat beside me and fumbled for my keys. As she climbed off me, smiling, I got a whiff of her fruity shampoo and an echo of Virginia Slim. The combo made me achy. Ever since I quit smoking, even the hint of tobacco sends me spinning, just like the smell of sex.
I could hardly focus on the road as we ventured out into the city proper. She started up giggling again, huddled her tiny legs up against her chest. I was trying to think of some well-lit place where we could go, some room where I could see her whole body splayed out in light. The apartment was out of the question—Kyle had “booked” it hours in advance. And even though we'd broken up a full two weeks before, my bros were so used to me shacking up at Zora's place that they tended to invite friends over to use my bed. But something about Doll made me think I needed to take her somewhere special. Like, she maybe didn't have another place to go.
“So where are you from?” I asked, more to kill the charged silence than anything.
“Uh-uh. No personal details, remember? Like You've Got Mail.”
“Is that what we agreed to?” I kept my follow-up question to myself: what the fuck is You've Got Mail?
She reached across the seat and put a cool palm to my forehead. She leaned over and took my earlobe lightly between her teeth. “At the end of the night. Remember?”
Fuckkkkkkk.
The car practically skidded into the gas station lot, and I had my seatbelt undone before I'd put us in park. Doll stayed still, her brow furrowed in the direction of the neon sign.
“This isn't the place I said,” she murmured.
“No, it's better. It's closer to where we're headed.” Thinking quickly, I'd decided on the player's locker room—no one would be there at this hour, and with my key I could get easy access to the comfy couch in the PT Gym. We could turn on all the lights. I could drag her wet clothes off with my teeth. I could take her soaked panties in my mouth. I could...
“Come on!” I said, shaking off the impure thoughts. If the old man could have seen me then—oh, he'd probably have keeled over and died. Pastor Sterling's progeny, following his dick to certain doom. The thought of his face all angry with talk of hellfire made me laugh to myself.
“I have to come with you?” Something in her tone then made me suspicious—it was something I shoulda caught, in hindsight. But instead of thinking with my brain, I shut my door, walked around the car, and opened her passenger side door like a Prince's henchmen or some shit. She looked at me with her brow all scrunched up. It was super adorable. After a final prod, she took my hand and followed me into the store.
We drifted around the aisles, forestalling our foreplay. She pretended to hide behind the rack of softcore porn mags, and I pretended to look for her. When I had her cornered, I grasped her middle and picked her up. She giggled like a schoolgirl. It felt so natural and good, like we were high school sweethearts.
“You kids watch what you're knocking over,” yelled the harpy at the register—this older woman in a tent-like zebra print muu-muu and cat-eye glasses. She sneered at us over a copy of UsWeekly and a slushy the color of eggplant. Doll rolled her eyes at the intrusion, and pinched me on the ass.
“Oh, you little...” I chased her, fingers reaching for the soft, exposed piece of her back that her tank top had ridden up around. I sank my fingers into her flesh and she squealed again. The cashier flung her magazine down on the counter, and it made a wet flop of a sound.
“Y'all are gonna have to piss or get off the pot,” Old Ironsides hollered. I swallowed, and mustered the wherewithal to select a six pack of Modelo from the sweaty case at the back of the store. Doll clung to my heels like a puppy as we approached the register. (Another thing that might have been a clue.)
The lady peered at us as she rang up the drinks, and finally hovered for a second before opening the cash register. “Okay, kiddies,” she said, sighing. “Let me see some ID.”
I rolled my eyes, but was secretly pleased—it was happening less and less these days, my getting carded. It was the kind of thing that reminded me of how college was going to end soon. As of today, I had a mere two semesters left at UT, and to my shock and slight horror, everything everybody'd told me about college had proven mostly true. I was worried that I would be leaving the best years of my life behind on graduation day, the very best of me to wither in the dust. And if I didn't get drafted, there was no way my half-assed Earth Sciences degree would amount to a hill of beans. It was good to be young, so if I had my druthers? Young I would stay.
I slapped my ID down on the counter, coyly shielding its contents from Doll so she couldn't catch my name. Our game was so hot. I couldn't wait to—
“You too, missy.”
“What? What's that about? I'm the one paying.”
Crusty leaned over her counter. “And I'm the merchant, son. I've got a theory that you two are about to engage in dangerous behavior, and I've got a theory that missy here is jailbait.”
“Oh for fuck's sake!”
“I can refuse service to anyone I want to, y'hear? No skin off my nose, even if you are a living legend.” She gestured sarcastically at the rack of local papers by the door, each surely proclaiming my skill with the pigskin. I looked at Doll, and rolled my eyes in a give-the-old-bag-what-she-wants-so-we-can-get-outta-here kinda way. Then I let my eyes drift down to her perky nipples, which had come out to play in the air conditioning.
Doll approached the counter all slow, then pulled her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans. She could have just said 'no.' She could have pretended to be from Mexico, or something—though that might have been a harder con to pull, considering that pale skin. But it's a credit to her composure that she just slapped her ID down on the counter and looked Crusty in the eye. I'd already reached up to grab the Modelos when the lady shook her head slowly, her lips pursing.
“Not. Gonna. Cut. It,” she breathed, yanking the beers back. “And Mr. Jock Boy? You need to take little bit here straight home, before I call the police.”
When I turned to look at her—proud, angry, her chin a pillar of defiance—I still couldn't see it. I mean officer, I swear, she looked twenty-four. But I felt my hard-on wither all the same.
“How old are you?” I asked, willing her to look at me. Willing it to be some kind of joke. 'Cuz of all the girls I'd ever met, did it have to be this one, universe? This one, with her beautiful body, her perfect lips, that Mona Lisa smile?
“I'm seventeen,” she said, smiling sadly. And I swear, my heart stopped.
Not. Gonna. Cut. It.
