The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(55)

That happy trail leads to a place I want to visit.

I reach between us, grasping for the hem of my top, pulling it up and over my head. I want to feel him, every hot inch of him. Tossing my shirt aside, I lean back against the plump pillow, inviting him to look his fill.

He does, eyes burning in the dark, gaze fastened on my breasts, hands hovering.

Head dips.

Elliot’s hot mouth latches on and sucks at my nipple, the whole thing—not just the tip—curling my toes. Tongue swirling, he sucks while I dip my chin to watch, the desire between my legs igniting into tiny sparks of pleasure.

I get off on having my boobs played with, love when they’re being sucked on—and suddenly it’s not enough. I want the dull throb between my legs to burst into an agonizing blaze.

Suddenly, my shorts are an annoying, cumbersome burden, a barrier I can’t wait to dispense of, now desperate to feel his skin against mine.

Mouths fastening together, we shove down the waistband of my shorts until I’m entirely, delightfully naked.

My hips begin a slow roll. I part my thighs so he can fit himself between my legs, his dick snug, mesh shorts dampening with every push and pull, in and out.

Dry-fucking.

His massive, gorgeous hands grasp my waist, tugging. Grapple at my ass, harder. Sucking. Grinding. Licking.

Kissing.

Dreamy. Awake.

He scoots to the center of the bed, hauling me on top, huge paws skimming up and down my bare torso. Sliding to my backside, teasing my spine. Squeezing my ass cheeks.

I lean down to kiss him, hair falling in long waves, and he grabs a handful, holding it back, out of his way so he can see my face.

I grind on him through his shorts, the thick head of his penis rubbing the swollen clit between my legs. He might be wearing shorts, but they’re thin, and the head of his dick creates a glorious, unbearable friction I haven’t felt from a man in who knows how long.

Months. Years.

Never—not at a conservative Catholic college.

We dry-hump like horny teenagers until we’re both panting quietly, quick breaths masked by the sound of the television. Elliot’s hands massage my breasts, squeezing gently, head tipped back in ecstasy as I ride him.

We want more.

But more isn’t enough.

Lazy and slow and still in a daze, he raises his hips. Shucks his shorts down, not all the way, just enough for me to slide onto his hot, thick erection.

Bare.

Easing onto his dick, I impale myself on its round-tipped perfection.

G-Gasp.

Because…

Oh.

My.

God.

Our mouths fuse as he thrusts up, going deeper, over and over and over until I’m a useless, weightless ragdoll, rocking back and forth. Hair falling down my back, hands on his knees for support, I’m lost in myself.

And him.

Lost in the sensation of my own sexuality, finally getting what I want. Giving him what he wants.

And what he wants now is me on my back.

Flipping me onto my back in one instant motion, Elliot drives into me methodically, sedately, spreading me wider, hands holding my thighs apart.

Silent fucking perfection.

Slow, unhurried thrusting.

I’ve never heard myself whimper before, but I do, in time with Elliot’s grunts. Our sounds primal.

When I raise my arms to push against the headboard for support—to prevent my head banging into it—he rises to his haunches, dragging me farther onto his pelvis, driving into me on his knees, brows creased. Concentrating on every deep, deliberate thrust.

His body tenses at the same time I throw my head back, mouth falling open, the waves of my orgasm pulsating around his cock. We come together, his face buried in my neck, teeth biting gently into his shoulder. Cock throbbing, spilling himself inside me.

I can feel it, warm and wet and breathtaking.

Intoxicating.





Elliot



Holy shit.

I’m naked.

It’s morning. I’m in bed with Anabelle, and I’m naked.

Worse yet, I glance across the mattress at my slumbering, sleeping roommate whom I fucked in the middle of the night. Sweep an embarrassed hand down my face, groan.

Pass a hungry gaze over her body, because Anabelle is still naked, too.

Bare-assed naked.

Beautiful.

I allow myself the luxury of checking her out; her tits are incredible, rosy-tipped nipples playing peekaboo with the edge of my navy sheets. Dark brown hair fanned out on the pillow in messy tangles. She stirs, arching those beautiful breasts in my direction.

I glance down the length of my body at the exposed, half-hard woody begging for permission to stiffen against my inner thigh. I must have gotten overheated and kicked the covers off at some point while we were sleeping—after we finally dozed off—and I feel an embarrassed blush spreading throughout my body at the memories assailing me from last night.

Leaning, I reach for the quilt, concealing my junk, unsure of how Anabelle will react when she wakes up and sees me lying here buck-naked.

For now, I’m content to watch her, shoulders and clavicle and plumped cleavage. Pale, creamy perfection. I don’t know how long I lie here, quietly fighting the temptation to reach over and touch her, but eventually she stirs, lashes fluttering against her pink cheekbones.

Blue eyes focus in my direction, drowsy, gleaming.