Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(51)

I run a finger across my lips. “Done.”

Lucy doesn’t really get it, not yet at least. But I want her bad enough that I’d dress up as a woman if it got her clothes off and us on her bed.

For all her worry, the apartment is dead silent when she opens the door. Her roommates are either hiding in their rooms or they’re at dinner. Given the quiet in the apartment, I’m guessing dinner.

I help Lucy out of her coat, then take mine off and drape it over my arm. I’m not sure where she wants me to put my stuff.

“You can hang your jacket up and, um, take your boots off?” It’s more question than instruction.

I like that she’s unsure what to do with me, that this event is foreign enough there’s no practiced routine of where the visitor’s coat and shoes go. I toe off my boots and drape my jacket over hers.

“Do you want to watch some TV?” I ask, trying to give her an out and desperately hoping she doesn’t take it.

“No. I don’t want that, do you?”

“No.” I lean down and brush my lips across hers because it’s been a while since I’ve kissed her and I need to feel her sweetness against me. She sways into me, her body telling me all I need to know. “Lead the way,” I mouth against her lips.

“First door.”

A floor lamp flicks on when she hits a switch. Her room is small and white, and I feel sort of like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians. “Your bed is really small,” I say inanely.

“Maybe you’re too big,” she suggests.

I give her a cheeky wink. “Said no guy ever.”

Fortunately, she laughs. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No.” My need for food, water, football? They seem like distant desires in the face of the fierce ache I have for her. I feel like I’ve wanted to touch her for forever, even though I’ve only known her a few days. When she starts to pull her sweater over her head, I stop her. I sit down at her desk chair, which feels miniature. I pat my leg. “I would like you to come here.”

She walks over and stops in front of me. I position her between my legs and lay my head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. It flutters, excited and nervous against my ear. My own pounds like a herd of stampeding horses is trying to escape from my chest.

With shaky fingers, I slide her sweater over her head. Underneath she wears a thin silky thing and no bra. Her pert nipples poke against the fabric. I run my hands up under the material, tracing the bumps of her spine, the jut of her shoulder blades. Her eyelids shutter down when I reach the tender base of the back of her neck.

I don’t want to rush this. I might not get another chance to touch her again.

The tiny strap of her top slides down her shoulder, the fabric snagging on one erect peak. My mouth waters, and I can’t wait another second without laying my mouth against her bare skin. I nudge the fabric down with my chin. She helps me by wriggling her arm out from the strap, first one and then the other.

I take another moment to admire her. “You’re beautiful,” I say, unable to keep the reverence out of my voice. “So beautiful.”

Her fingers find their way to my scalp, scratching and scraping through the strands then lightly pushing me forward.

I blow a stream of hot air against one nipple and then the other. She shudders, and it’s like a live electric feed running from her body into mine.

Fucking Christ, but I want her so damn bad.

I take one succulent tip into my mouth and cover the other with my hand. She’s smaller than I expected but twice as delicious, and as I swirl my tongue around her nipple, I can’t help but think she was made perfectly for me.

Her fingers sink into my scalp, pulling me closer. We both shift. I slide to the edge of the chair; she straddles me. I keep sucking, and she keeps pressing closer and closer.

There’s a moan that fills the air, a guttural sound of need and want. I don’t know if it’s mine or hers. It’s probably mine. In my life, I can’t remember ever wanting anything as much I want her.

I’ve hungered for wins on the field, championships, success, but never a person. Not until Luce.





19





Lucy




The suction on my nipples is making me dizzy. I can’t recall if I’ve ever felt this much pleasure from having my nips sucked. I swear I can feel it between my legs with each deep pull.

I never really doubted he’d be good in bed. He knows all too well how to use his body to maximize its athletic ability. And sex is an athletic event. But guys can be selfish, and no matter how well they know their own bodies, it doesn’t mean they care to know how to work another’s body.

But Matt isn’t selfish in any way. He’s incredibly giving, and I enjoy being a recipient of that benevolence right now. Any other guy would have me on the bed, my jeans down around my ankles and my panties pulled aside. Which is not to say I don’t want to do that with Matt, but his unhurried manner is a welcome surprise.

Him kissing my breasts isn’t a step toward a good f*ck. It’s just pleasurable and wonderful in its own right. Just like our first kiss. Just like sitting on his bed and talking. He savors each moment.

And I can tell by the press of his erection against my stomach that he’s enjoying the hell out of this. I rock against him, relishing the pressure of his dick, even through the layers of denim and cotton.