This girl is killing me. Death by foreplay.
The second she’s out of the door I jump in the shower and jack off to the image of her. Her creamy legs wrapped around me, her curvy hips rocking into me, her huge tits in my mouth, the fire in those brown eyes as she comes on my cock.
It takes all of two minutes to shoot my load. I haven’t come that fast since high school. I cut myself some slack considering she has been torturing me all week. I’m hoping indulging in the fantasy will get her out of my head.
It doesn’t.
Getting her out of my head is a lot harder than getting her out of my bed. A single shower rub-n-tug isn’t enough of a release. I’d planned on blowing off some steam with Jessie last night, but Elizabeth is an epic cock block. I rinse off and hop out of the shower, already getting another chubby thinking about Elizabeth in my lap last night in that dress and her stupid damn sneakers.
Thoughts of her plague me all day. Some aren’t even X-rated.
Most are.
As I make myself scrambled eggs, I wonder what she eats for breakfast, given her complete lack of culinary skills. Has she ever had s’more Pop-Tarts? Bet she’d like them, being a chocolate fiend and all. Rich people probably don’t eat Pop-Tarts. They eat those fancy toaster strudels. Then again, she does have a pantry full of ramen noodles. My mind drifts to thoughts of bending her over her kitchen island, which I suspect is the perfect height, and pounding into her from behind.
At the gym, I wonder how she keeps her trim figure. Is she a runner? Yoga maybe. Please God, let it be pole dancing classes. Fuck me. Now my dick is hard in a room full of sweaty dudes.
Flipping through TV channels after dinner, I pause on some black-and-white flick and wonder if she only watches old movies. She didn’t react to my Scarface impression. Maybe she’s never even seen it. Maybe we can watch it at her place while I fuck her on the couch. Then eat some Pop-Tarts.
I may have been thinking about her all day, but I’m proud to say I resist the urge to text her. She’s probably still pissed anyway. I was kind of a dick. I jack off again before bed, picturing taking off her little pink cotton panties with my teeth. I wake up the same way I fell asleep, smelling her on my pillow and yearning for the warmth of her. I jerk off a third time in twenty-four hours to dreams about what I want to do to her body. This is getting downright pathetic.
Nothing seems to work. Lying in bed Sunday morning with my heart racing and my cock still sticky, she’s all I’m thinking about. This is fucking weird. I’ve never been this hung up on a girl before. Of course, my dick’s never been stuck in purgatory this long before either. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but abstinence makes the cock grow harder. When I agreed to this stupid sex tutor shit, I didn’t realize how much of a fucking torture the tease would be.
I need to fuck Elizabeth before I go insane. I’m a starving man staring at his favorite meal, luxuriating in the aroma of what I can’t have. I remind myself that I’ll fuck her soon enough then it’ll be fine. That’s all this is, a momentary obsession. Fuck Devin and his Bo Peep bullshit. I’m not that kid anymore. Soon she won’t hold any more allure than any other girl I’ve fucked and walked away from. I just need to have my fill of her first.
I give up trying to hold back and shoot her a text. Maybe we can add sexting to our trip around the bases.
Me: How’s that homework i gave u coming?
Goose: Homework?
She responds quickly. A good sign, even if it’s just one word.
Me: Something black and lacy…
I wait for about twenty minutes, but she doesn’t write back. Against my better judgment I double-text, hoping she doesn’t read the desperation between the lines.
Me: Shoot me some pics and i’d be happy to check your work ;)
Nothing. Guess she’s pissed. I refuse to write again. Two unanswered texts is bordering on loser territory, but three is straight up pathetic. I can’t help myself from checking my phone every five minutes like some ridiculous teenage chick, hoping for nudes. Around lunch I cave and text again with something she’ll have to respond to.
Me: We still on for Tuesday?
She doesn’t write back. For hours. It’s six o’clock now and I’m angry. Maybe I was a dick yesterday, but that’s no reason to play these games. I’m not putting up with three more weeks of her pouting just because I don’t play the doting boyfriend. I’m not her boyfriend. She can’t say she’s fine with that then flip out. I grab my keys and head to her place, determined to either get her to talk to me or quit this charade.
I don’t knock, waltzing right into her apartment like I own the place. Why give her another chance to ignore me? She’s standing in the kitchen and our eyes lock immediately. Her face flashes with the same panicked expression she always gets when I push her boundaries. I cross my arms and give her my most devious smirk in response. I’m surprised when she rushes toward me instead of her usual running away and hiding.
“What are you doing here?” she grumbles, as if my presence is an insult. I don’t bother answering. I reach out and grab her, palming her ass with one hand and pulling her against me. I kiss her hard. Fisting her hair, I tilt her head to slide my tongue between her open lips and deepen the kiss.
This isn’t like our PG-13 make-out sessions. It’s possessive and dominant. I’m claiming her mouth and telling her I will not be ignored. It’s a war, her body our battlefield and my tongue the invading army. She’s rising to my challenge as our mouths crash against each other, fighting for breath. I’m lost in the passionate struggle when the sound of someone else stirring in the room rips her attention from me. She pulls away and my eyes search for the source of the distraction. It’s a man. I’m instantly defensive.
Elizabeth turns her back to him as she tries to calm the flush of her cheeks. Whoever this guy is, he has Elizabeth discomposed, and not in the fun way I do. Her face is a mix of shame and terror. Without thinking, I step between them, shielding her from his sight. No one gets to make Goose uncomfortable but me.
The guy is older, maybe late fifties judging from his gray hair and the prominent wrinkles on his forehead from what I assume has been a long life of scowling. He clears his throat as he stands from the couch and buttons his suit jacket.
“Good evening,” he says with a professional detachment.
“Evening,” I answer.
“And may I ask who you might be?” He is polite enough, but I recognize the stern challenge in his eyes. We’re like predators stumbling on each other in the jungle, deciding if the other is a threat.
“Austin Jacobs, Elizabeth’s boyfriend.” The words come out in one steady breath, without hesitation.
Why did I fucking say that?
I don’t need to tell this guy anything about my relationship, or lack of one, with Elizabeth. For some reason I have the urge to lay claim to her with some sort of title, and ‘girlfriend’ seems about as good as any.
I’ve never called myself someone’s boyfriend before, although I’m sure I know a few girls who have. I usually avoid labels more than sorority girls avoid carbs. Labels come with expectations, which I inevitably never meet. What’s the difference what I call myself if it’s all fake anyway, right? Judging by Elizabeth’s sudden death grip on my forearm, it matters to her.
“And you are?” I ask the well-dressed stranger.
“Richard Wilde, Elizabeth’s father.” He lays his own claim on her as he holds out his hand to shake mine. No wonder Elizabeth is blushing. Her dad just watched her mouth get tongue-fucked by her boyfriend. Or whatever the hell I am.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wilde.” I pry my arm free from Elizabeth, who is hiding her face from both of us, and give him a firm handshake. Time to climb out of this hole I dug us into.
“Likewise, Austin. And please, call me Richard. Elizabeth did not mention she was involved with someone.” Both of us turn our focus to Elizabeth at my side. This is the most timid I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something.
She’s struggling with the lie, even with just the idea of continuing the lie. But telling her father she hired a ‘sex tutor’ isn’t an option here. I can’t help but take pity on her. Unlike Elizabeth, I have no problem lying. I’m quite good at playing whatever role I need to. Time to put on a show. I slide my hand into hers and give a little squeeze.
Don’t worry, Goose. I’ve got you.
“It’s new. I’m not entirely sure she’s used to the idea yet.” I make sure my tone is wistful and sappy as I lean down and give her a chaste kiss on the temple. “I’m sorry for barging in on your evening. I didn’t realize you had dinner plans, sweetie.” The adorable confusion on her face is priceless. I don’t even have to fake my broad smile.
“I would’ve mentioned it if I thought you were planning on dropping in.” Her tone is clipped. She must be struggling to get into character as my little woman. I’ll help her with that.
“I missed you too much. Couldn’t stay away,” I coo, bringing our interlocked fingers to my lips to kiss the back of her hand. Her skin is smooth and warm against my lips. I remind myself to keep the PDA father-appropriate, despite wondering how those smooth hands would feel wrapped around my cock.
“I tried texting…” I shoot her a knowing glace.
Maybe next time don’t ignore me.
“I didn’t—” she begins, but her father cuts her off.
“I am afraid that is my fault. No phones during family time. A rule of my late wife’s we honor.” At least that explains why she didn’t answer.
“And a good one, I believe. Sometimes being too connected to the entire world makes us lose the connection to those most important to us.” I smile down at Elizabeth in time to see her roll her eyes. Thankfully, Richard didn’t catch it. I’m laying it on a little thick, but her dad seems to be buying it. Plus, it’s always fun messing with my little Goose.
“I didn’t mean to intrude on family time. I should leave you two to your dinner plans.” I stare at Richard, waiting for the offer I know he’ll make.
“Nonsense. The more the merrier. I am sure Beth agrees.” We both turn our attention to her again.
I can see the wheels turning in her head. She’d rather I not stick around all night, but I get the feeling facing questions from her father alone right now isn’t too appealing either.
“Of course. Only the reservation at La Rouge is for two. And their dress code is quite”—she gives me a quick sideways glance as if in a tacit apology—“quite strict.” All three of us take an appraisal of my outfit. I’m not wearing my usual gym shorts, but my jeans and T-shirt combo are hardly black-tie.
I take in Elizabeth’s outfit for the first time and realize she’s dressed up too, sporting a khaki skirt and an argyle sweater rather than her usual baggy jeans and circus-tent-sized T-shirt. To top it all off, she’s got a delicate string of white pearls around her neck. She’s wearing a costume, a caricature of herself.
Elizabeth lets go of my hand and starts in with the fidgeting, the telltale sign that she’s nervous. Or feeling guilty. Or both. Think you’re the first one to tell me I’m not good enough, Beth? Not even close. Think you’re going to hurt my feelings? My skin is thicker than that.
You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.
“Oh, nonsense. I am sure we could work something out with the maître d’,” Richard chimes in unconvincingly.
He’s politely going through the motions of trying to include me, happy in the knowledge that it isn’t actually going to happen. I’m not going to trek all the way downtown to some fancy restaurant just so some snotty waiter can turn up his nose at me before sending me away. Fuck that.
“No, Richard. I’m afraid Beth is quite right.” I use her father’s nickname for her, but don’t like the way it feels in my mouth.
She may be his Beth, but she’s my Goose.
“I’m ill-prepared for dining out. But please don’t let me spoil your plans with my rude interruption.” I’ve always hated this fake-politeness shit, but that’s the game we’re playing. I take her hand and give a squeeze to let her know I’m admitting defeat, but not without a parting blow.
“Give me a call tonight, would you, sweetie? So I know you’re home safe? You know how I worry.” Her eyes are closed and she almost appears pained. Does she seriously feel bad for me right now? I place another gentle kiss on her temple, expecting to see a victorious smile or a smug glint in her eyes, but I don’t.
“Pizza!” she shouts randomly while her hands shoot up in the air like she just won a game of bingo no one else knew we were playing. Richard and I both turn to her, completely confused. “You could make us pizza. We have all the ingredients you brought last time.” She’s talking to me, but looking at her dad sheepishly, as if embarrassed to admit I’ve been in her apartment before.
“Pizza?” Calling Richard’s tone unenthusiastic would be calling the Mona Lisa a little doodle. Understatement of the fucking century.
I’m only slightly less enthusiastic myself. “Pizza is a poor substitute for La Rouge.” I have no real idea since I’ve never been, and I do make a pretty damn good pizza. But something tells me Richard’s tastes are a bit more discerning than my normal dinner partners’. There’s no way in hell I’m signing up for that critique.
“Please?” Elizabeth’s brown eyes are the size of saucers.
I’ll admit it, the worry in her eyes does something to me, makes me want to take care of her. She looks at me like there’s something her rich daddy can’t give her, but I can. It’s bewitchingly endearing. Her hand finds mine again, interlocking our fingers and squeezing. Every ounce of resistance I have crumbles. I swear, I’m not usually this much of a pussy.
“All right. If that’s what you want.” I drop my forehead to hers with a sigh. This isn’t part of the game anymore. I didn’t say it out of fake politeness or because of her father. Right now, in this moment, all I care about is making the woman holding my hand happy.
“Thank you.” Her words are almost a whisper, but I hear the strength with which she means them.
Chapter Eight
Elizabeth
I asked him to stay.
Why did I do that?
I’m pissed at him for being a jerk yesterday morning.
You kind of had that coming.
Fine. So, I’m not pissed. Maybe just a little hurt. But my father finding out what’s going on between us has got to be at the top of my over-my-dead-body list of things I never want to have happen.
Two parts of my life, of myself, colliding together is dangerous. I should want him to hit the road. Instead, I begged him to stay. And, weirdly enough, he did!
Why did he do that?
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to puzzle out an answer. Austin’s touch brings me back to the real world. His simple squeeze of my hand has an unnerving ability to center me.
“One condition,” Austin answers with a smile. “You’re my little kitchen helper tonight.”
“Deal,” I agree quickly, pulling Austin into the kitchen before he changes his mind.
My father isn’t what you’d call a pizza kind of guy. It’s fair to say he frowns on finger foods in general. I can tell neither he nor Austin is too excited about my change in our plans for this evening. After basically telling Austin he isn’t good enough to eat at La Rouge, I couldn’t stand the thought of eating at the hoity-toity restaurant without him.
I don’t care about Michelin and its stupid stars. Yeah, I’d sell my soul for a decent crêpe, but duck confit with Perrier water on elegant table linens and fancy waiters isn’t exactly my style. Austin and his hand-made pizza in my kitchen are my style.
“How did you two meet?” my father asks, begrudgingly taking a seat on one of the bar stools on the other side of the kitchen counter. Austin pulls the premade dough and cheese out of the refrigerator and I pull the sauce and spices out of the cabinets.
“In the library.” I stick to the truth as much as possible. I’m a terrible liar. Maybe that’s why I keep my mouth shut around my father so much. There isn’t much I have to say that we agree on.
“Elizabeth needed a tutor,” Austin hints with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes as they meet mine. I stifle a gasp.
“A tutor?” my father inquires with a disapproving lilt. “I thought all your studies were going quite well, Beth.”
“Oh, don’t worry, they’re well in hand now,” Austin teases and I blush. He’s playing a dangerous game and I’m cursing myself for asking him to stay.
I attempt to change the subject. “Austin is one of the university’s star athletes!”
“Is that so?” my father muses. “In which sport?”
“Football,” Austin and I answer in stereo. “But I’d hardly call myself a star,” Austin adds.
“Talented enough to have earned a scholarship,” I retort.
Am I bragging about Austin? I am. I want my father to like him.
That’s weird.
It shouldn’t matter what my father thinks of Austin. He’s never going to see him again. Still, he’s the first boyfriend my father has ever met. Actually, he’s the first boyfriend I’ve ever had. Well, I guess he isn’t even that. He’s more an employee than anything else.
Don’t blow it all out of proportion.
Austin Jacobs is pretending to be my boyfriend while he makes dinner for me and my father.
No biggie.
“Plus, you’ve maintained over a 3.75 GPA each semester too. It really is impressive, Austin,” I add, unable to keep myself from talking him up. Austin gives me a sideways glance. Creepy stalker warning alarms must be going off in his head. Guess he doesn’t realize the Dean’s List is published on the school website each semester. I know because my name’s on there too, near the top.
“That is an achievement. What is your major?” My father’s tone is almost impressed. Academics are more his forte than sports.
So, That Got Weird: A Painfully Awkward Love Story (So Far, So Good Book 1) Page 12