SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(87)
I got home after the race and the restroom escapade feeling terrible, lovesick, and sexually frustrated. I ran a hot bath to rinse off the smoke and gasoline that seemed to have saturated every pore of my skin. And also, maybe, wash James out of my system. It didn’t work immediately. Every garment I removed made me wish he was undressing me.
I slipped out of my blouse, watching myself in the full-length mirror, and I ran my fingers softly along my waist, envisioning his fingers moving over my body. I unzipped my skirt and let it slide down off my hips, wishing it was him pushing it off me. I unhooked my bra, holding the cups against my breasts and picturing his lust filled eyes on me as I unveiled my pointed nipples. I pushed my hands under the flimsy material of my panties, caressing the baby-smooth skin, and imagined his fingers tracing the soft folds of my pussy, sending the most delicate of sparks through my pleasure centers as they brushed against my swollen, aching clit.
Like I said, I was frustrated. I whipped off my underwear and relaxed into the hot bath. I could feel the steaming, soapy water lifting the sweat and grim from my skin, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in my body. With a strong hand, I got myself off in seconds. But it wasn’t the same. When the fireworks faded, it had done nothing to fill the hole inside me.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I couldn’t seem to retrieve my old, professional, detached self. I decided I was crazy. James was not in possession of the world’s only cock. There was enough man-meat out there to take my mind off him. I just needed to stop acting like a heartsick schoolgirl. Sure, it felt bad right now, but it’d feel ten times worse if we tried to stay together and were ready to tear each other’s heads off in six months’ time. In two weeks, I was sure to be like ‘James who?’ Guaranteed.
My cellphone rang, waking me from my deep thoughts. I checked the caller ID, and it was Derek. Well, how about that. We had a short conversation. He was sorry about the other night, blah, blah, blah. He deserved the punch in the face, and could he come over? I decided he might be able to help me out of my current dilemma. I told him to come on over, and twenty minutes later there was a knock at my door.
I’d finished my bath, brushed my hair but left it wet, touched up my makeup, and simply left my white towel robe on when it came time to answer the door. He was standing there, hunched over, as I opened it, a look of painful remorse painted on his face, which slipped into slightly eager surprise when he saw me fresh from the tub and nearly naked.
I invited him in and fixed us a drink. He seemed a little lost for words as he sat nervously on my couch.
“What did you want to talk about?” I prompted him, handing him a glass of scotch.
He sipped his drink nervously. I sat on the couch next to him. There was space between us for a whole other person, yet he was fidgeting. His eyes wouldn’t settle. They flitted from the silent TV, to the window, and finally to where my robe opened to reveal the naked, smooth thighs of my crossed legs.
“I know you hate the word,” he began, “but I feel like we have too much invested in this relationship to just let it go.”
“So what do you suggest?” I asked. I had missed him. I’d missed his thick brown curls I used to love leaning my face against as we watched TV. I’d missed his peculiar apprehension every time we were together, even making love for the thousandth time, the way he let me lead and direct him, and the enthusiasm with which he would try to please me. Of course, at the end, that drove me mad, and I longed to be taken. Like James did when he pushed me over that wall…Ugh! Enough!
“Let’s go back, back to when we only saw each other a couple of times a week. Zero commitment. That was what you wanted,” he suggested.
“Uh-huh.”
“And if we really can’t get enough of each other”—he was warming to his subject now—“we just booty call. Sound like fun?”
“Is that what this is?” I smiled. “A booty call?”
“Well, I…” he stammered as I stretched my foot out and rubbed my toes against the fly of his slacks. “I guess…”
I deftly hooked his zipper between my toes and pulled it down, then slipped my foot inside his pants. Yup, he was already hard. I removed my foot and leaned across to him, pulling him up by the hand. I turned around, one knee on the couch, one foot on the floor, and presented my ass to him. I took his hand again and touched it to my pussy.
“Feel how wet I am, baby,” I breathed as his fingers slid into my slippery hole. “I’m so ready for you…Just put it in.”
He needed little more encouragement. I heard his pants drop to the floor as he pushed up my robe. I felt his smooth tip against the slick entrance to my pussy a second before he drove himself hard into me. I wasn’t quite as ready as I let on, and his thrust knocked the wind out of me. But as I recovered, he pushed himself back in, and I wondered why he was only fucking me with half of his cock.
“That’s it, baby.” I tried whispering some encouragement. “Give it to me good and hard.”
He started pumping, his hips slamming against my butt, but I didn’t feel the same satisfaction. I didn’t feel full or stretched the way James made me feel. I couldn’t feel him throbbing, couldn’t feel every thick vein and ridge of him. It was so disappointing. Derek wasn’t small—far from it—he just didn’t feel that hard. He jammed himself in and out of me, and I let out some soft moans to keep him excited, but I was still waiting, hoping he’d grow some more as he got closer.