Switch Hitter_A Jock Hard novella

by Sara Ney

  I lower my head, intending to—

  “I don’t think you should kiss me.”

  I pull back, eyebrows drawn together, perplexed. “Why?”

  “Because I want you to,” the whisper slides out, a confession.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “I know,” she moans miserably.

  “You want to kiss me, but you don’t—got it.” I’m tenderly stroking her skin with the palm of my hand, the calloused pads learning the contours of her face. “You don’t care if I do this in the meantime, do you? Until you change your mind?”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Lowering my face to the crook of her neck, I trail my nose up the pillar of sweet skin, letting my mouth tag along for the ride. My wet tongue meets her flesh and I want to gently suck, but don’t. I nip instead. “Is this okay? No kissing on the lips,” I whisper into her ear. “Just like in Pretty Woman.”

  “F-F…” she stutters. “Fine. Sure, whatever. Just not on the lips.”

  What a little weirdo.

  My laughing mouth finds the pulse in the slim column of her neck, and I’m satisfied when she tilts her head to one side, hair falling like a waterfall over her shoulder, giving me all the access I want and need.

  Grasping her hand, my fingers flutter lightly along the length of her arm before I raise it, kiss the inside of her wrist, the pale skin a stark contrast to my own.

  Dragging my mouth along the smooth flesh of her forearm, up and down the inside of her elbow. Lucy holds perfectly still.

  “¿Todavía no quieres que te bese en los labios?” Still don’t want me to kiss your lips?

  One jerky shake of her head.

  “No?”

  Another shake. No.

  “Jesus, Luce, you’re killing me here,” I murmur against her mouth, our lips an inch apart, so close our breaths mingle. I wish our tongues were, too.

  “It’s killing me too. I’m sorry.”

  That’s the second time she’s apologized, so I kiss the tip of her nose, leaning in to whisper, “Don’t be.”

  “God Dash, don’t do that,” she whispers back, stroking the back of my head, wrapping my black hair around her finger.

  Chest heaving, her hands unhurriedly flutter up and down the bulk of my biceps, breasts pressed against my chest as she moves closer.

  This non-kissing, sexual tension-filled bullshit is better than any fucking kiss I’ve ever had on the mouth, that’s for damn sure. It’s giving me a raging boner, body hard as a rock when she arches her back.

  “Don’t do what?” My murmured question makes her shiver. Goose bumps form across her skin.

  “Don’t be so…” Lucy deliberates, choosing her words.

  “Irresistible?”

  “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

  We take the moment to stare at each other, and I swear to fucking God, it’s like we’re seeing each other for the first damn time. My hands embrace her jawline as her fingers clench my wrists.

  “Lucy.”

  The air between is pulled taut, intensely so.

  Buzzing.

  Sizzling.

  “Dash, please don’t.” I can’t hear her words, but I can see them, and it’s enough to stop myself from doing something really fucking dumb, like kissing her senseless, which is taking some superhero-level self-restraint on my part.

  She moves first, burying her head in my chest as the music comes to an end, the crowd around us going wild, chanting and cheering for the band, for Scotty, the kid who practices in his parents’ garage and tries to hang out with guys too old for him.

  “We should go,” comes her muffled mumble. “I need to go.”

  Need to go.

  We pull apart, reluctantly. I could eat her up—and out—all fucking night long.

  Instead, I release her.

  “All right. Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter Five

  Amelia

  Dzzt. Dzzt.

  Dzzt.

  It’s barely six thirty in the morning when my phone begins buzzing, vibrating against my bedside table, an entire hour before I have to be up to get to my study group.

  I reach for it, finger blindly searching for the end button but accidentally hitting accept. Dammit all, what’s my sister doing calling so freaking early?

  The last time she woke me at this hour was two Christmases ago when she and our brother, Dexter, were up at the butt-crack of dawn—like children—so they could open their presents.

  My siblings, bless their hearts, are early risers.

  I, however, am not.

  “Luce?” My voice is raspy, sounding eerily similar to someone gasping for a last breath. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay. Are you still in bed?” It’s an accusing tone, one I simply don’t have the patience for at this hour of the damn day.

  I blink into the sunlight just beginning to pour through my bedroom window, rising to sit, propped against my headboard. Worried, I squint toward the clock. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so ungodly early? Did something happen to Mom or Dad?”

  “Oh jeez, don’t be so dramatic.” I hear the sound of the wind hitting the mouthpiece of her phone, an indication that she’s outside, probably getting ready for a run or something equally horrifying.

  Mollified that there’s no emergency, I flop back onto my side, hunkering down. Grumble, “What do you want?”

  “How did it go last night?”

  “Fine?”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. It went fine.”

  “My dates don’t ever go ‘fine’. They’re either fantastic or awful. So which was it?”

  “I can’t even function right now. How are you this chipper?”

  “Why aren’t you answering the question?” I swear I can hear her stop dead in her tracks. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  My body goes still. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Twintuition.” She sniffs into the phone. “I felt it last night while I was with Hudson.”

  Hudson. I still cannot get over that name.

  “Oh Lord.”

  “You had fun, didn’t you? You never texted me last night, so I was worried.” Through the line, she worries her bottom lip, a trait that always gave us away; Lucy would always chew her bottom lip while we were getting yelled at, like she’s doing now. “He wasn’t being a jerk, was he?”

  Despite how groggy I am, my brows rise. “Is he normally a jerk?”

  “No?”

  “Why are you saying it like it’s a question? Don’t you know?”

  “I’ve only been out with him twice, Amelia. I guess he can be kind of an asshole when he’s with his friends?” I imagine her bending down to re-tie her shoes. “So was he one with you?”

  “No.” Not at all. He was perfect.

  “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to see what you’d say.” She sounds satisfied. “I felt it.”

  “Honest to God, would you please stop saying that?” She is so annoying sometimes, especially before seven AM. “You’re making me mental.”

  She ignores me. “How long were you out?”

  “I don’t know, I think I got home around one?”

  “Really, that late?” Her air of approval is palpable. “What else?”

  “Well, I mean, after he dropped me off at your place, I had to walk home.” I sound begrudged. “In the dark.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Did he try to kiss us?”

  Jesus. “Kind of.”

  “Did we let him?”

  “No, but it was a pretty hardcore dodge and weave.” And I wanted him too, so badly. We’re both dead silent, waiting for my answer. “There’s something I should probably tell you.” I take a deep breath and confess, “I accidentally spoke Spanish with him last night.”

  Ten bucks says Lucy is wrinkling her nose at me. “He speaks Spanish?”

  “Are you kidding me right now? Yes he speaks Spanish—he’s Latino. Do y
ou pay attention to anyone but yourself?”

  “Sue me for not knowing, jeez. Tell me what was said and how it pertains to me, and do it quickly—I haven’t started my run yet and I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

  “I had a conversation with him in Spanish, Luce.” And the whole thing was so freaking sexy. The Rs rolling off his tongue…the deep timbre of his accent…

  “Wait a minute.” My twin inhales a breath, catching on. “Did you forget the small fact that I don’t speak any Spanish! God Amelia, why would you do that to me?” my sister shouts through the phone. I pull it away from my ear, tapping down on the volume button.

  “It just slipped out! I’m sorry, I got caught up in the moment.”

  “Caught up in the moment? What the hell were you guys doing? I thought you went to a concert—no one talks at concerts!”

  “We did go to a concert! But he was saying stuff and it was so sweet, it just felt natural to reply in Spanish, and then one thing led to another and we were having a conversation.”

  “I don’t understand how it just slipped out,” she intones sarcastically.

  I roll my eyes. “I doubt I have to explain how alluring he is, Lucy. You’ve been out with him twice—do you blame me?” Crap, that was totally inappropriate. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “Uh…if you like this guy, just tell me, Amelia.”

  “What would make you think I like him?” I want to face-palm myself with an anvil.

  “You just said he was alluring. Who uses words like that?”

  “I do.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You woke me up—what do you want me to say?”

  The thing about my sister—no matter how flighty or vain or selfish she can be—is that she always wants what’s best for me. I know I’m not going back to sleep until we talk this out.

  “The entire time I was out with Hudson last night, I kept getting these niggling vibes,” she begins slowly, enunciating every word. “Like, the whole damn time. I could barely concentrate on my date.”

  I hate when she does this.

  I hate when she’s right.

  It’s creepy.

  “Your twintuition is wrong.”

  I’m lying and we both know it.

  “Do you know,” she begins thoughtfully, “he’s been texting me since late last night, then again this morning, and now I know why half of them were in Spanish. I couldn’t freaking understand most of them, and I’m not about to Google translate a text conversation.”

  “Oh? He texted you? That’s good.” I’m dying inside, doing my best to sound nonchalant despite this frantically beating heart.

  The line goes quiet.

  “Luce? What did he say?”

  “The usual.”

  She’s going to make me work for it.

  “Which is what? I have no idea what the usual is.”

  “Well, for one thing—and please don’t ever repeat this—Dash has never texted me before. Normally I’m the one sending him texts, which is so annoying. I hate when guys are like that. I hate having to message them first. I’m only admitting that to you because you’re my sister and I forced you to go out with him.”

  I hate myself for asking, but, “Like…what else was he saying?” About me.

  A loud sigh from the other end of the line. “I don’t remember, Amelia. Stuff. The point is, he must have thought I was acting like a complete freak, ’cause he asked if I was feeling better and said maybe it was a mistake taking me to a concert, said he regrets how it was impossible to talk, blah blah blah. So annoying, don’t you think? Anyway,” she continues without letting me answer, “thanks for doing such a crap job as my stand-in that he thought I was sick. You could have made out with him to be a little more convincing. He’s so hot.”

  “I was doing you a favor!” My mouth gapes open. “You should’ve thought about that when you begged me to be you for the night so you could go out with some guy name Hudson. Hudson—seriously, what kind of a name is that?”

  “He—”

  I don’t let her get two words in before interrupting. “What did you think was gonna happen last night Lucy? With a guy like that, who has feelings—yeah, real feelings. He might be crazy good-looking, but he was really great, so yeah, the

  Spanish just came flying out because I hardly get to practice anymore, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  “What the heck am I supposed to do? He’s going to say all this shit I’m not going to understand.”

  Not to sound callous, but, “You don’t even like the guy!”

  “How do you know?”

  “If you liked Dash, you would have gone out with him and not Hudson.” I can barely get the guy’s name out.

  There’s a long stretch of silence on the other end of the line, and I wonder what’s going through her mind right now as she formulates a reply. It’s either that or she’s stretching, prepping for her run.

  “You’re right. You are totally, one hundred percent right.” I can hear the revelation taking over her speech and brace myself. “I should break it off. I like Hudson way better. He gave me two orgasms last night, Amelia—two, with his mouth.”

  My mouth falls open, at a loss for words. “Lucy, how can you do that? That’s cheating!”

  “Calm down, Miss Priss. It’s not like I knew I liked Hudson better before I double-booked myself. I had to sample the goods first.” She laughs cheerfully. “And thanks to you, I know how I feel! So no, it’s not like cheating. I’ll text Dash as soon as we hang up and dump him.”

  My mouth falls open. “You’re going to break up with him over text?”

  I can hear my sister studying her nails, bored with our conversation, maybe even picking at the split ends of her long hair as she stands out on the sidewalk. “Well it’s not like I’m going to see him any time soon, and I don’t feel like going on another date with him.”

  Why doesn’t she like him? Why would she do this? This superficial young woman is not the sister I know. It’s those damn sorority girls she’s hanging out with.

  She’s being callous and insensitive, and I don’t like it.

  Stay out of it Amelia, my inner voice shouts. This is none of your business. Stay out of it before you say something you’ll regret, like how Dash is a great guy who smells amazing, is sweet in an unassuming way, and is too handsome for his own good.

  And yet I can’t help but add, “He’s a nice guy—don’t you think he deserves to be told in person? Isn’t that what you would want if someone was breaking up with you?”

  There’s a long pause, then the loud sigh my sister is famous for in our family. “Honestly? No, not really. If someone was breaking up with me, why would I want to see their face?”

  “Because—”

  Whatever I’m about to say gets cut off when Lucy interrupts me. “Look, I have to start my run if I’m going to finish on time and keep my day on track.”

  “Fine,” I huff.

  “But if this is so damn important to you, why don’t you break up with him for me? That saves me the trouble of doing it.”

  “Going on a date with him was bad enough. I did a terrible job pretending to be you, and there is no way I’ll be able to look him in the eye and dump him for you.”

  She pauses. “Hold on, someone just texted me.”

  “Lucy! We’re in the middle of a conversation!”

  The phone is silent as she pulls it away from her ear to check it. “That was Dash—again. I just texted him back and told him I’d meet him at Zin downtown tomorrow night at seven. You can break up with him then.”

  “Lucy!” I shout, beyond exasperated. “I’m not breaking up with him for you!”

  “Suit yourself.” Her voice is flippant. “I have no problem texting him.”

  My stomach drops, a lead weight of guilt burdening me. “Don’t hang up! Okay, okay, I’ll do it. I’ll break up with him for you.”

  She smiles on the other end of the line; I can hear it from h
ere. “Thank you sissy. You won’t regret this.”

  But she’s wrong.

  I already do.

  Chapter Six

  Amelia

  I can’t decide: what does a person wear to break up with their sister’s boyfriend? A sweatshirt and jeans? A flirty top? Something dressier, because technically this could be considered a business meeting?

  Khakis?

  I stand in front of my closet, mid-panic, discarding one unsuitable shirt after another onto my bed, when what I should have done was force Lucy to choose a breakup outfit for me, like how she dressed me for the concert, since theoretically, I’m posing as her again.

  Floral blouse? Way too fun.

  Hot pink sweater? No—I’d die from heat stroke before I died from mortification.

  No, no, and no—three more shirts join the others then out of the corner of my eye, I spot a dressy black turtleneck and impulsively yank it off its hanger.

  Hold it up, inspecting it.

  Prim. Proper.

  Black.

  Serious.

  The perfect shit to wear if I was attending a funeral.

  I slide it over my frame. It’s fitted, hugging all my curves, and yet, the perfect metaphor: my attendance at the death of my sister’s relationship with Dash Amado.

  Don’t get me wrong, I might be on my way to give the guy his marching orders, but I don’t want to look like a complete frump.

  Still.

  I need to look and feel businesslike, and this onyx turtleneck is textbook professional. I’ll appear efficient, organized, and…

  Now I sound like a lunatic.

  With a sigh befitting my twin, I shimmy and stumble into a pair of dark wash jeans, feet sliding into black half boots, give my hair a quick tussle, swipe on some gloss, and—oh my God, I’m primping. I’m trying to look nice.

  Which is so not the point!

  “Stop it, Amelia, this is not a date,” I chastise myself, glaring into the mirror, angry. Rest my hands on either side of my dresser, looking my reflection in the eye. “Why are you doing this? You like him. You cannot pull this off.”