Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  “Who do you rent from? It can’t be DuRand—his places might be nice, but they’re not this nice, and not in this neighborhood. What’d you do, rob a bank?”

  “Yeah, it’s not DuRand.”

  I feel her staring at my back—my bare back because I still haven’t put a clean shirt on—the wheels in her brain turning.

  “You don’t own this place, do you?” She pauses, eyes getting a bit narrower. “It’s not a crime if you do, stranger person, I’m just curious. I’m not judging you for having a nice place to live in.”

  Stranger person? Is she talking about me?

  I finally turn to look at her. “Stranger person?”

  She plucks a grape out of the bowl sitting on my sleek center island. “I have no idea what your name is.”

  “It’s Sasquatch.”

  “Stop it.” She snorts. “I’m not calling you that—it’s the dumbest name ever. What’s your real name?”

  God, I hate when people ask that.

  She rolls those pretty eyes at me. “Just tell me. Stop being a baby about it.”

  “Kip.” I push the word out grudgingly, squeezing it through the thin line of my lips.

  “What!”

  “Yup.”

  “Kip?”

  “Yes,” I grind out, nostrils flaring.

  “Stop it,” she repeats, wide eyed. “You’re making that up. That is not your name.”

  “If I was going to give you a fake name, trust me, that wouldn’t be it.”

  “Wow. Kip. Not at all what I pictured. I’ve been calling you Paul Bunyan in my head, sometimes Roy—you know, super redneck names.”

  What the fuck? “I do not look like a redneck.”

  “Yes you do.” She tinkles out a laugh.

  “No I don’t.” Do I? “Paul Bunyan has black hair, and his hair and beard are short.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Haven’t you ever been to Paul Bunyan’s? The restaurant? There’s a giant picture of him on the sign out front. It’s like two stories high.” Duh.

  One of her brown eyebrows rises. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “He has short hair.” Why the hell am I repeating myself? Defending myself?

  Christ.

  She’s eyeing me up and down—she’s done it a few times tonight, always covertly, thinking I don’t notice.

  I do.

  “No man bun.”

  I jerk my head and tug at my hair. “Nope.”

  “Well then. Kip.” Her pert little mouth pulls into a smirk. “How very preppy of you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Come on, it’s super Vacationing on Nantucket—admit it.” She’s thinking again. “What is it short for?”

  “Are you ready for it? Because your next laugh is on me.” I sigh, long and loud. Rip off the proverbial bandage and wince. “It’s short for Kipling.”

  She’s holding back a smile, biting down on her bottom lip— so fucking cute—crossing her arms over her beer-soaked dress when my eyes roam down the front. Over her high, round breasts and slim waist.

  “Kipling. That’s a pretty fancy name, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I wasn’t sure that you did, Kipling.”

  “Stop.”

  “It’s also the name of a poet, Kipling,” she informs me, as if I didn’t already fucking know. “Rudyard Kipling—yikes, that’s a mouthful.”

  “Can you not keep using it in sentences?”

  Her brows go up, animated. “But it’s so, so good.”

  “It’s really not though.”

  “If you were wearing a polo shirt and khakis right now, it would make so much more sense to me, and maybe I’d lay off, but you’re not—you were in construction boots tonight, and you’re wearing a torn up T-shirt.” Her eyes roam across my chest. “And brown cargo shorts.”

  When she averts her gaze, I’m surprisingly disappointed. “I’m comfortable.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt about that.” She snickers, looking me up and down, pops another grape into her mouth and chews. Swallows. “You don’t mind that I’m stealing these, do you?”

  I gesture widely. “By all means…” In goes another one, and I lean a hip against the counter, studying her. “Since we’re sharing, what’s your name?”

  “Teddy.”

  “Like—the bear?” I can’t help goading.

  Teddy lets out a soft, lilting laugh. “Yeah, I guess. It’s short for Theodora, my grandmother’s name.”

  Theodora.

  Romantic and pretty—kind of like her.

  She has on a dress tonight, this one a little more daring than last week’s cheerfully prim yellow one. It’s baby blue, the thin material now plastered to her skin, with one of those necklines that goes over the shoulders and ties around the neck. I don’t know what it’s fucking called—halter or some shit.

  Whatever. It’s blue and short, and has matching ribbons in the back tied into a delicate bow, making the entire outfit way too feminine had it not been for the brown boots. I noticed them before she took them off in the laundry room. They’re cute.

  Way too cute for the rugby house.

  Way too cute to be soaked in cheap beer.

  Goddammit.

  I run a hand down my face—down my beard—to prevent myself from totally checking her out. Or looking too long and hard at her tits.

  “You want to shower while you’re here, Theodora?”

  “Teddy,” she corrects good-naturedly.

  “Right, like I’m not going to latch onto that one.” I laugh. “Nice try.”

  “For real, call me Teddy.”

  “Only if you never call me Kipling ever again. Kip I can handle, but Kipling? Fuck that. No. Or just call me Sasquatch like everyone else does.”

  “I will not be calling you by that hideous nickname, no matter how much it suits you, but I’ll call you Kip if you call me Teddy.”

  A groan escapes my throat. “Fine.”

  “Good.” My eyes shoot to the crown of her head as she nods curtly. “Then we agree.”

  “Shake on it?” When I stick out my callused hand, she draws hers back.

  Pushes an errant hair behind her ear, glancing down at her feet. “We’re good.”

  She’s not scared of me, is she? I shove my hands inside the pockets of my cargo shorts.

  “Shower?”

  “I…yeah. I want to say no, because this whole thing is just so awkward for me, but since I’m starting to stink like a distillery, I probably should.”

  “You already stank in the car.” My lips twitch at her shocked expression.

  Her nose wrinkles. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m just fucking with you.”

  “Okay, well…” She hoists her clean clothes in the air. “Lead the way, I guess.”

  I don’t. Instead, I point toward the staircase and flick my finger in that general direction. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. Root around for towels—I think there are some in there.”

  There should be, because my mom and sister came one weekend and didn’t leave until the place was stocked and spotless. I had everything I needed when I moved in, like the pampered son of a billionaire would.

  God I hope Teddy doesn’t get all weird on me after she spends the night.

  I listen to her softly padding away, her bare feet climbing to the second story then the door to the guest bathroom clicking closed.

  The sound of the lock being turned.

  I grin at that—her caution—leaning back against the counter, scratching at my stomach. Rise to my full height and stretch. Make my own way up the stairs to the master bedroom, intent on washing the filth off myself.

  Which I’m used to—I’ve never left a house party without being covered in something disgusting, just like I’ve never left the rugby field without being caked in mud, grass stains, and dirt.

  The hot water sluices off my body, my mind wandering to the girl in the shower down the hallway. She’s not overtly sex
y in any way, but I’ve never had a girl in my house, so naturally my hand strays south of the border.

  I don’t purposely picture her curvy hips in my mind, or the shape of her breasts pressed against the pale, thin fabric of her cheaply made dress.

  It just…happens.

  It also just so happens that I haven’t had sex in—Jesus, I don’t even know how long. Since sophomore year, if I had to guestimate. The year I decided I didn’t want to be fucked simply because of my face or my last name, the year I grew the beard and let my hair get long and developed a chip on my shoulder because of the fairer sex.

  It’s not their fault—it’s mine for believing a few of them actually gave a shit about me.

  The boner grows between my legs when I stroke it slowly, water lubricating—wet and warm—my eyes sliding closed as my fingers grip the base of my shaft.

  For a tall guy, it’s average as far as cocks go, but it’s thick and always ready for a pull.

  An arm goes up against the tile wall, empty hand bracing my body as the other one strokes. Glides up and down, up and down.

  I moan, picturing Teddy in my shower, naked skin, tits and ass. Wondering if her pussy is shaved, waxed, or natural.

  Picturing her nipples in my mind, the color of her areolas. Their size. Whether she gets off on having them sucked…

  I moan.

  Mouth falls open, obviously, because it feels fucking great pumping away at my own cock. Yeah, I feel like kind of a pervert, but it’s not my fault I’m suddenly having fantasies about her—I’m a warm-blooded, hormone-filled male, and there is a naked female in my house that I cannot—and will not—ever fuck.

  Plus, I’m horny.

  A hand is one thing, a pussy another entirely, and I haven’t banged one in so long. Too long.

  I barely remember what it feels like to sink inside one, so there is no reason I should be hard over Teddy…whatever her last name is.

  She’s cute, but not gorgeous. Wholesome, like the girl next door. Studious. Hardworking, if I have her pegged right— probably here on a scholarship.

  I know her type.

  Cheap clothes. Cheap jewelry. No car.

  Worried about what her friends think and too afraid to tell them to fuck off.

  I’m surprised she doesn’t have more of a backbone, honestly. Her type usually does—the ones who have to fend for themselves, have to make their way in the world without the help of their parents.

  My head dips, bowing, shoulders hunched as I stroke my slippery dick, tongue darting out to run along my bottom lip. Teeth biting down.

  Eyes still squeezed shut.

  Teddy filling the void behind my lids.

  My cock filling the void in my cupped hand.

  It’s not enough, and I stroke harder. Rough. The grunt from my throat is low, echoing off the tiles in my shower, and I refuse to say the name tripping off the tip of my tongue.

  Don’t say it.

  Don’t you dare fucking say it.

  I don’t—but it’s close—and when I come, it’s hotter than the water that washes it down the drain.

  I don’t know how long I stand under the shower spray before rinsing the rest of my body, but it’s long enough that Teddy is dressed and downstairs, curled up on the living room sofa when I finish and find her.

  Nothing has been turned on, not the television or radio, and she’s not playing on her phone. There’s just the light from the kitchen streaming into the room casting a glow. Knees drawn to her chest, Teddy has a blanket in her lap, pulled to her chin, shoulders bare except for the straps of what must be a white tank top.

  “Hey.” She looks up when I enter the room, snuggling deeper into the blanket.

  “Hey.” I plop down in a leather chair across from her, propping my feet up on the wooden coffee table. Spreading my legs, I lace my fingers behind my neck—a better position to observe her in.

  She eyes me up in the dark, but not in a calculating way. It’s more like she’s trying to decide if I’m going to pounce on her or whatever—if she should get the fuck out of the room or stay put.

  I want to laugh at her aversion to me, and at the same time, I want to push her buttons.

  It’s late and dark, and I’m fucking beat, but I can’t just leave her sitting here, alone.

  Today ended up being shit, and it looks like that’s how it’s going to end. I have a strange girl in my house—the house that is my sanctuary—and I pray to God she can’t remember how to get here. The last thing I fucking need is her dropping by unexpectedly, expecting something…

  Then I’d have to be a complete dick, which would make me feel like an asshole. And I hate when I have to be an asshole.

  Actually, that’s a lie—I fucking love it.

  But looking at her? I’d hate to be an ass to Teddy. She looks so sweet, curled up on my couch, snuggling in my blankets and Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck am I saying?

  “Tired?” she asks softly. “Yeah.”

  “You should go to bed.”

  “You trying to get rid of me?”

  “No.” She laughs. “Besides, it’s your house. You probably want to get rid of me. I’m the one invading your space.”

  That’s true.

  “Nah. It’s cool.” I glance toward the staircase—the dark cherry balustrade, polished to a shine along with the counters, cabinets, and whatever else Barb scrubs when she’s here. It leads to the second level, to the two guest bedrooms. “Take whichever room you want. They’re both on the same side of the hallway as the bathroom.”

  “Thank you.” She pauses, and I can hear her thinking. “I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, promise.”

  “Whatever, it’s not a big deal.” I cross my legs at the ankles. “I’ll probably be gone anyway—I run every morning.”

  “Oh? What time?”

  “I generally hit the pavement by six.” “Wow, even on the weekends?”

  “Yeah. We usually have matches on the weekends, so gotta stay conditioned.”

  “Matches? For what?”

  “Rugby.”

  “You’re a player?”

  The way she says player gives me pause, and I search for a hidden meaning on her expression. When I don’t find one, I give my head a terse nod.

  “Yup.”

  There’s a short hesitation before, “Wait, is the rugby thing intramural, or is it an actual university-sanctioned sport?”

  “It’s a sport.”

  “So do you travel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like…where to?”

  “Same places the football and baseball teams travel to, if they have rugby.”

  Teddy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know where those places are.”

  “You’re not a sports fan?”

  “Nope. I mean, it’s fine, but I don’t, like, go to football games or anything.”

  “Why?” You can bet your sweet little ass her jock-chasing friends do.

  “I just don’t.”

  “Not even with your friends?”

  “No. Those sports passes are really expensive.” Hmm.

  “Maybe you’d like rugby better than those other sports anyway.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Those other sports? The guys are all a bunch of pussies.”

  This gets me a laugh, deep and throaty and sexy. Teddy covers her mouth with a hand, stifling a snort.

  My brows shoot up. “Did you just snort?”

  She groans, drops her hand. “Ugh, you heard that?”

  “I mean, yes? It was an audible snort.”

  And it was so fucking adorable. “I hate when I do that.”

  “So you’re a snorter?”

  “Could you not call it that?”

  “Snorter? Do you have a better word for it?”

  “Not giving it a word is a better word for it. And not bringing it up again would be fantastic.”

  “But it’s kind of cute.”

  “Stop.”

  I oink like a pi
g. “Oh my god.”

  I oink again. “Kipling.”

  No she did not just call me that. “Hey, we had a deal about the names.”

  “Then stop oinking!”

  “That was a snort.” I’m tempted to do it again. “Not to be confused with a fart. Two opposites ends.”

  Teddy sits up, indignant, blanket falling away and revealing her crisp white tank top. The shadow of her nipples beneath, chest rising and falling. “I do not sound like a pig when I snort!”

  My shoulders give a shrug. “Tomayto, tomahto.”

  “Shut up!” But she’s giggling when she says it.

  “Fine, I won’t make fun of you anymore.”

  “Good, because I hate it.”

  “Why do you get made fun of?” I’m teasing, but the silence that follows is enough to answer my question, and my brows furrow. “Who makes fun of you?” Teddy is the sweetest fucking girl I’ve met at this school—I mean, I’ve only known her for all of three seconds, but I doubt she’d intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings. “Let me guess—your roommate and those other friends of yours.”

  More silence. “No. It’s not my other friends.”

  “So just your bitchy roommate.”

  “Could you not call her tha—look, she’s not bitchy, okay? She’s just…” A diminutive shrug of her delicate shoulders.

  “Do not—do not tell me she’s misunderstood.”

  “She is who she is, I guess.”

  “And what is that?” A cock-blocker. Jock chaser?

  Selfish?

  “We’ve always been opposites. Friends don’t have to match. Friendships aren’t perfect—you should know that.”

  “No, but guys are different. We don’t have feelings, and if one of my friends treated me like shit, he wouldn’t be my friend anymore.”

  Teddy rolls her eyes so far back, they’re likely to get stuck in the back of her head. “Mariah doesn’t treat me like shit.”

  Mariah.

  Even the name sounds like a Mean Girl name. Mariah: almost rhymes with piranha.

  “Doesn’t treat you like shit, you say? This from the girl sitting in some strange guy’s living room, miles from campus, on God knows what street in the middle of the night because you couldn’t go home, because she is banging some dude in your one-bedroom room apartment and she doesn’t give a shit that you’re not home safe.”

  Damn. That came out sounding way harsh, didn’t it? Still, it’s the fucking truth.