by Ney, Sara
I assume that’s why he wanted me to come over.
I might never know since he’s stalling so badly.
Jackson’s gaze burns a hole into the quilt where my hand is patting it down, inviting him to take a seat next to me. On the bed.
Hesitantly, he shuffles his feet across the floor. Uncrosses his arms and lowers himself to the mattress. It dips from his weight.
I’m graced with a view of his broad back. It’s wide and strong, the cords from each muscle visible beneath his soft, threadbare t-shirt, which I’m tempted to touch, to slide my fingers across to see his reaction.
I bet he’d jump clear across the room. The little devil inside me laughs. Maybe you should touch him, just to see…
When he clasps his hands in his lap, the cotton stretches with movements, which I follow intently.
That back is a pure power, and I marvel at it while he has his eyes focused on the door.
The closed door.
Jackson clears his throat and shifts his rear.
Turns, back to the headboard, pulling his heavy legs onto the mattress, letting his head fall to the wall behind him. Heaves a sigh.
I wait, not wanting to steamroll over him. Wanting him to talk and say what he wants to say, because clearly, there is something weighing on his chest.
His strong. Masculine. Chest.
I peel my eyes away from his pecs, and he catches me.
“Jackson, anything you tell me, I promise not to repeat.” It’s something I feel I have to say, to let him know he can trust me with whatever information he wants to share.
He shakes his head. “It’s nothin’ like that.”
“What is it then?” He has a lot on his mind, that much is clear, especially if he asked me to come over. So unlike him. I know he’s never had a relationship, keeps primarily to himself, lives and breathes football.
He is never going to live and breathe for a girl.
“So, I’ve been thinkin’,” he begins, voice husky, hands still clasped in his lap. He studies his fingers, head bowed, unable to make eye contact. “Um. About us.”
Us?
What’s this now?
I sit up straighter, at full attention. He wants to talk about us? What us? What does this mean?
My imagination and mind go into overdrive before he’s gotten any further words out of his gorgeous mouth. Surely he wouldn’t have called me over to tell me our friendship wasn’t working out, right?
Not his style; he’d ghost me instead.
“Us,” I deadpan coolly. Nonchalant. Casual.
Fake as fuck, because my heart has spun into a tailspin, deceiving me.
Jackson has no idea how to proceed, that much is obvious. His face is pink as a newborn baby’s bottom that’s just been scrubbed in the tub, and he hasn’t raised his gaze to look at me, eyes fastened to the bookshelves in front of us.
“I was thinkin’ that maybe…” His voice hitches, caught. “That…we…um…”
Oh my god, he’s so cute I can’t even handle it right now.
Big and taking up half the bed, I can’t wrap my brain around him being nervous. This boy who is going to play professional football, who’s a head taller than half the people I know. Twice as wide. Stronger and larger than life.
Because of me.
I, Charlotte Edmonds, make him nervous.
Jackson says, “Um,” one more time before tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling for help.
“Do you not want to hang out anymore?” I ask innocently, knowing full well the answer is going to be no but providing him a springboard for the words he wants to say. A prompt, if you will…
“No.” His head shakes back and forth. “I mean, yes. That’s not it.”
“Okay.” I’m biting back a smile because I really suck at maintaining a poker face. Honestly, though—he’s adorable. I could smush his face right now, he’s so clueless and naïve.
So mystified.
Jackson finally glances over at me, quickly skimming my body with his blue eyes. His perusal sends an involuntary electric shiver down my spine. Tingles between my closed legs momentarily distract me, and I offer him a weak smile when he makes it to my face.
“You’re…” He swallows. “So. Pretty.”
Now I’m swallowing; his nerves are contagious. “We’ve kissed twice before—it wouldn’t kill you to do it a third time, would it?”
“I…”
I let my back hit the headboard so we’re matched, sitting on the bed beside one another, both facing the opposite wall. Jackson’s hands unclasp, then spread. Palms get set on his knees, until he lets his left hand drop to the bed. Flat on the mattress, it rests next to mine, our fingers mere centimeters away from touching.
I look down.
Jackson looks down.
I watch as his long, strong pinky finger moves toward mine, slowly but surely creeping those few millimeters to close the gap. Suck in a breath when he strokes my pinky with his. Moves his entire palm over my skin; it’s warm and calloused. Huge.
Engulfs my hand entirely, dwarfing it like a tide sweeping in, onto the beach and swallowing the shore whole. I’m enthralled by the sight of our hands together on his dark blue bedding. Mine pale and light, his tan and weathered. Bruised and battered.
Abused.
It’s rough, but still it sends nerves bouncing around my body when it caresses the skin of my knuckles, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing back and forth. Curious.
“Your hand is so soft.”
It is.
“I, um, use a lot of lotion.” Was that a stupid thing to say?
We sit like this a little too long, neither of us really knowing what to do or say, how to make the next move. And since Jackson still hasn’t said whatever it is he invited me over for…I let him. Let him stroke my hand.
“You haven’t dated anyone in three years?” His question is random and out of the blue. Unexpected.
“Yeah, it’s been three years.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “No reason. I guess I just haven’t felt…” My shoulders rise and fall again. “I haven’t met anyone I clicked with.”
“Do you click with me?”
“Are you asking because you think we have a connection? Or because you genuinely don’t know if we have chemistry?”
“I want to hear your answer first.” So annoying, but I get it; he’s insecure and wants reassurance. Isn’t about to open himself up until he knows how I feel.
Fine with me.
“I think we click. I hope we do? Maybe I’m wrong, but…” I shift on the bed but don’t move my hand. “I think we get along.”
Get along? Ugh, I want to face-palm myself.
“I don’t mean get along—I meant we’re attracted to each other. I think we’re…that. I think we have a connection? Don’t we?” My god, why are you still talking? Shut up, Charlie. “I’ll stop talking.” I sneak a peek at him. “What do you think?”
“I agree.”
“Is that why you wanted to talk?”
Jackson nods. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout a bunch of stuff, mainly ’bout how I’ve been wastin’ time—not wastin’ time, that’s not the right word.” He pauses, searching. “My focus has always been on football, but I think I might be ready for it to…not be only on football. Do you know what I’m tryin’ to say, Charlotte?”
Yes, but I want to hear you say it. “Not really? Could you be more clear?”
Jackson’s face turns as red as a beet. “I’m sayin’… Shit, I’m sayin’ I want to spend time with you. In a romantic capacity.”
Romantic capacity? Welp, that’s the most unromantic way to put it, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the poor boy looks as if he’s going to shit himself.
Plus, he’s from the South, and don’t they say flowery shit like that? No offense.
“We already have a head start since we’ve already been on our first date.” I bite my lower lip, remembering how fun that date was. The
pumpkins and the boys who live in this house crashing the entire thing. Giant children, the entire lot of them. If I dated Jackson, I’d be spending more time with the football team.
“I’ll probably fuck most of this up. I won’t have any idea what I’m doing.”
“Who does?”
“Plenty of people.”
“Jackson, all you have to do is be sweet and, uh…kiss me when you want to.” I straighten my spine against the headboard, knowing—expecting—him to take the hint. Expecting him to seize the moment and plant one on me.
“Whenever I want to, eh?”
“Eh.”
“I can do that?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” We watch each other until the energy inside the room crackles. Until he moves his hand from my palm to my thigh, sliding it up my jeans, causing my breath to hitch—it’s so unexpected.
Our shoulders bump when he tries to lean in and kiss me, and we’re in such an awkward position—side by side—making it difficult. His shoulders are way too wide. Even when he tries twisting his torso to reposition himself, it’s just as uncomfortable. And impossible.
Maybe not for someone with experience, but it is for us, because Jackson has none.
All this is so new to him; I don’t want him to get discouraged and stop because we’re plopped on the bed like morons.
So.
I do the only thing a girl can do in this situation: shift out of the spot I’m in, get on my knees, and crawl over to him. Straddle his legs so we’re face t0 face, my ass resting on his thighs.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” His voice is gruff, and his hands? He’s not quite sure what to do with them. Nature takes over a few seconds later, though, and those big paws get planted on my hips. Gripping them gently, holding me steady.
“Is this okay?” I ask. “I feel like I’m manhandling you.”
“If I’d known you were this bossy…”
“You would have what?”
“Invited you over weeks ago.”
“You didn’t know me weeks ago.”
“But I know you now.”
Jackson is still, eyes fastened on my mouth. His chest heaves up and down, a physical sign his heart is racing—like mine is.
“You know…” I lean in close—so close. My loose hair hangs around my face, brushing his chest as I whisper, “At some point, you’re going to have to be the one to kiss me. I’m not going to make the first move all the time.”
He gives a definitive jerk of the head. “Deal.”
Then.
I kiss him.
Cup his beautiful face in my delicate hands and kiss him square on the mouth. My palms slide over his skin, relishing how warm it is. His ruddy cheeks, burned from the sun. Freckles on the bridge of a nose that looks like it’s been broken in a few places and probably has.
I kiss the freckles. I kiss the sunburn.
The corner of his bushy eyebrow, first one, then the other. They’re dirty blond, like he is, and unkempt—like he is. Jackson needs a haircut, and I weave my fingers through the longish locks, pulling them back as if I’m going to tie them with an elastic band.
I have one on my wrist, but I don’t use it, instead letting his silky strands slip through. Again. And again.
My body dips so my lips can kiss the column of his neck, just below his ears, and Jackson groans when they make contact. Mouth brushing along the sensitive skin just below the lobe. Give it a teasing nip and suck.
“Do you like that?” I whisper.
His reply is a jerky nod.
I can feel him getting hard, the valley between my thighs settled straight on his dick; he’s wearing thin athletic pants that do nothing to conceal the erection, and I wish I’d worn yoga pants and not denim.
So I could feel every inch of it.
Our mouths connect again, this time because Jackson can’t wait to taste me. Bless his hands, they begin to wander, straying up my ribcage, thumbs spanning, flirting with the sides of my breasts.
His movements are a little rigid and jerky, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s allowed to do, as if waiting for me to yell at him.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes.” Higher, as a matter of fact, and to the left.
Touch my boobs, touch my boobs, touch my boobs…
He doesn’t.
His mouth is perfection, tastes delicious, if that’s considered a thing—like minty toothpaste, saliva, and need. If Jackson has never kissed anyone before, I never would have guessed it. Either that or we were meant to be together.
I want his lips everywhere.
Patience, Charlie…
Little by little, my hips rotate. Little by little, I watch Jackson’s expression go from one of wonder to one of…bliss. And agony.
His eyes close when I line us up and grind gently, my head tipping back as I mimic riding him on top. Even though we’re both wearing bottoms, I can still feel the head of his dick creeping up inside me. It’s deliciously old school and I feel like I’m in high school again, making out with my boyfriend in his parents’ basement, listening for the sound of them coming along to bust us.
But no one does.
It’s just me and Jackson and a locked door in a college rental. No one is going to bust us; there are no parents here.
His friends didn’t bat an eye when I walked through the living room, and if they thought it was strange Triple J was finally having a girl up to his room, no one said a word.
Maybe they’ll give him shit for it later; maybe they won’t.
I grind.
I grind and bite my lower lip, closing my eyes for a second—crack them open again to watch Jackson close his. His head is against the headboard, mouth falling open, heavy brows bent in concentration. Or pain.
“Am I hurting you?”
He jerks his head. “No.”
“Good.” Because it feels good—and would feel even better if his pants were off.
He gives my hips a tap when I speed up my rhythm, a warning tap. “Be careful, Charlotte. I don’t w-wanna…don’t wanna…”
Come in your shorts?
I don’t want him too, either, but I love watching his expressions. They’re my new favorite thing in the world, passing across his face in flashes. Shock, surprise, euphoria.
I lean down and suck on his neck, careful not to leave a mark. Kiss his throat, right on top of his Adam’s apple. He’s shaved and smells incredible. Clean. Masculine and sexy.
I kiss his exposed collarbone along the scooped neck of his t-shirt, sniffing there, too.
Yum.
Nuzzle between his pecs as I make the slow, languid crawl down his body.
“W-What are you doin’?” He’s raised his head, eyes blazing and unfocused as he looks down at me.
Giving you a blow job—what do you think I’m doin’? I want to ask but bite my tongue.
I press a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”
“Oh god.” His head slams against the headboard again, and I note him white-knuckling his navy coverlet.
It’s been an age since I’ve had a dick inside my mouth, and I wonder if I’ll remember how to suck one. I let my fingers find the waistband of his pants and tug.
Jackson lifts his hips, jerking them when I pull at the fabric. Ass scooting down a bit farther, settling in. He unclenches his fingers, lifts his arms, and clasps his hands behind his head.
I can’t tell if he’s even breathing, he’s holding so still. Watching me with baited breath.
I want to tell him to breathe; I also want to laugh, he looks so damn serious.
He’s concentrating harder than I am, his forehead scrunched, brows knitted so furiously he’s likely to combust.
He’s never had a blow job…
This thought gives me a renewed sense of confidence—no matter how bad I screw it up, there’s no way I’ll suck at it.
Pun intended.
Jackson has nothing to compare it to. I’m his first: first kiss, first blowie, fi
rst…
My pussy tingles at the thought of having sex with him, making my mouth positively water when I hook my fingers in his boxers and work them down his hips. Hold a breath of my own when the fabric of his drawers catches on the tip of his dick, snagging but freeing itself when I give another gentle tug.
I’ve never been one of those girls who was a huge fan of dicks—I think I’d gag if a guy sent me an unsolicited picture of his—but Jackson’s penis? It’s…
Perfect.
He gasps when I cup my hand and run it over him, down toward the base and up again. Slowly. Slowly. Up and down, again and again.
“Fuck, Charlotte. F-Fuck, fuck…”
His words are music to my ears. They’re a tribute to how good I’m making him feel—and I haven’t even done anything yet.
I stare at his junk for a few moments, studying it. I can see that it’s throbbing, involuntarily twitching the longer I look. I’m close, my hot breathing warming the tip. My tongue darts out so I can lick it. Flick it.
I watch his eyes flutter closed, his biceps flexing. Nostrils flaring.
Thighs clenching, too.
His whole body is tense, trying to gain some semblance of control, and I love it. I want him to lose it. I want him to…
I want to make him feel like he’s never felt before.
No amount of jerking off and masturbating is going to feel like my mouth on his cock, and we both know it.
I free his business up a bit more by yanking his pants and underwear down so they’re around his thick thighs, noting that everything about Jackson is big. Thick. Hot.
So beautiful and well put together, he’s a work of art that’s gone unappreciated for twenty-two years—and I plan to make up for lost time if he’ll let me.
I lower my head and…suck. He damn near jerks his ass off the mattress.
“Holy fuck!
I suck a bit harder, as best I can given the size of his dick.
“Charlotte, stop.”
I raise my head. “You want me to stop?”
“No! Yes. No, oh my god, don’t stop.”
“Okay.” I laugh.
I get back to it, deciding to enjoy myself (let’s face it, who actually enjoys having a cock jammed down their throat?), deriving all my own pleasure from the pleasure I’m giving Jackson. Hearing his moans and sighs and grunts and cursing.