by Ney, Sara
The tip rubs my clit in the most pleasurable way, and I bite down on my bottom lip, loving it.
My breathing quickens.
“Dry fucking should become a sport.” Jackson sighs, out of breath.
“Only dry fucking?” The words slip from my tongue and say what I don’t have the nerve to vocalize: Let’s have sex.
Our gazes meet, and I continue bearing down on his dick, round and round, my eyes closing as I tip my head back, face toward the ceiling.
They’re still closed when Jackson’s giant palms cup my breasts, thumbs stroking my nipples.
“Your tits are…”
Amazing—yes, I know.
“Can I…” Jackson hesitates. “Can I…”
Can you what? Finish your sentence before I die from the pleasure of having your hands caressing my boobs.
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he does say, “Lean forward and grab the headboard.”
Um. Yes, sir.
I lean forward, grasping for the headboard, and Jackson meets my body, mouth latching onto one of my nipples.
Ahh, I see. ‘Can I suck your tits?’ is what he wanted to ask but didn’t have the guts to say.
“Oh Jackson,” comes my soft murmur. It feels…it feels…
My toes curl. I throb; my vagina actually has a heartbeat I can feel, blood rushing straight to my crotch as I rotate his tip along my slit.
Wet. Hot. Dry fucking.
With his mouth still sucking on my nipple, Jackson’s other hand reaches between us. Hooks my underwear with whatever finger he’s using, draws back the fabric.
“I want you so bad,” I moan—or more like croak.
“I want you too.”
Yes, please. Yes. Fuck me.
Everything with Jackson is thought out; he is the least impulsive guy I’ve ever met, if you don’t count the time he stole my damn chicken sandwich in the cafeteria, although I suspect he planned that out, too. Waited until it was done, watched it cook before snatching it.
But sex? He isn’t just going to have sex with me unless he’s already given it thought and has come to a conclusion about it.
“What if I fuck it up?” He’s referring to sex.
“You won’t, baby.” I take a hand down off the headboard and rake my fingers through his thick hair. “You won’t.”
“But what if I do?”
“How could you possibly?”
“What if I come after two minutes?”
Er, I’m not liking the sound of that, but I’m also not about to tell him that. He’d be crushed.
“Then we do it again when you’re ready.” I bend forward, hair hitting the pillow behind him. “We’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay. Then we won’t.” A bubble of laughter. “You tell me what you want, Jackson, and we’ll do it. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” I kiss his temple. His cheekbone. The corner of his mouth. “I love you.”
This boy—he slides a hand up my chest, over my collarbone and behind my neck. Pulls me to him and kisses me soundly on the lips.
It’s like a drug, a potent one that’s making me weak everywhere. This kiss is everything—it’s giving me life and I suspect it’s giving him life, too.
Slow and meaningful. Emotional. Beautiful.
Jackson tries to move his body into a sitting position, dumping me to the mattress on my back. Shucks off his underwear, pushing it down his ridiculous thighs until they disappear somewhere beneath the covers, never to resurface.
He begins to peel mine down, sliding them slowly over my hips, thighs, and calves.
We both hold our breath; this is a big fucking deal, and the significance is not lost on me.
When we’re both naked, Jackson Jennings, first-string wide receiver on the Iowa football team and future second-round draft pick in the pros, lays his giant body next to me and props himself on his elbow to study me.
Naked, naked, naked.
Before we go any further, “Do you have a…” The word gets stuck in my throat, but I have to ask. “I’m on the pill, but…I mean, it’s up to you. I know you don’t have any STDs because you haven’t had sex yet—can you get one from gym equipment?” I laugh at my own stupid joke. “Should we, you know—put one on?”
Shut up, Charlie, you’re babbling and sound like an idiot.
“Plus, I really like you and love you, but we don’t need Jackson Jennings Junior Junior Junior running around. Wait—how many juniors would that be? Three? Is that how that works?” Oh my god, I’m so nervous. “My point is, do you have a condom?”
First, Jackson stares. Then, he grins, his white teeth blinding in the dark. He’s so gorgeous when he smiles, and my stomach flips all over again.
Then Jackson frowns. “I didn’t grab one—they’re in the bathroom. I…I didn’t think we’d be screwin’.”
Nervously, I bite down on my lower lip. “Um. I did? I’m sorry, I just didn’t know? And I knew you wouldn’t because you’re a gentleman—”
I can’t even finish my sentence, because Jackson is rolling me on top of him, slapping me firmly on the ass and laughing. Loudly.
Loud enough to wake whomever is sleeping in the next room over.
“Gentleman? Darlin’, no one’s accused me of bein’ a gentleman in my entire life.”
Darlin’.
Ma entyer lie-ff.
He makes my heart race, this guy, with his playful banter and sweet talk—and that slap to my ass was icing on a scrumptious Jackson Jennings cake.
I set the condom on the bedside table when the light was turned off earlier, instincts telling me to be prepared, and I’m glad because the last thing I need is a baby. Sure, I’m on the pill, but those fail, and I don’t need any surprise pregnancies. I don’t need to be that statistically low number—you know, the one your gynecologist warns you about when they’re writing your prescription. One percent chance of still getting pregnant and blah blah blah.
This isn’t a romance novel, this is my life and his, and a baby at twenty-one wouldn’t be cute. God, he would think I was trying to trap him, and that would kill me.
The talk hasn’t ruined the mood; talking about sex and screwing hasn’t made his dick limp, thank God. In fact, Jackson looks more aroused than he did before, pupils dilated—and not from the dim light.
He palms my breast again. “I love your body, babe.” Babe. He babed me and I didn’t hate it.
I always thought I would—literally roll my eyes when I hear my friends’ boyfriends say it. Babe. Babe. Babe.
Barf.
Except…I don’t hate it, not even a little.
He tears the condom open and I watch, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Lick my lips in anticipation, though I’m kind of scared shitless.
We’re about to have sex and he’s never done it… “Have you ever put one of these on before?”
“No. I’m a fuckin’ virgin, remember?”
“Yeah, but don’t some guys practice?”
Jackson laughs. “Some guys probably do when they’re younger, but I never did.”
In the dim light of his bedroom, I watch Jackson Jennings—a big, beautiful beast of a boy—set the condom on the tip of his penis and slowly roll it down. He sucks on his bottom lip in concentration as he does it, nostrils flaring.
I love that. So sexy.
When the rubber is entirely covering his, um, dick—our eyes meet. Somewhat bashful. Shy. Then I do the only thing I know to do; I lie flat on the bed, on my back, and motion him over so he’ll crawl on top of me.
Spread my legs when he gingerly covers my body with his. I drag his head down with the palm of my hand and kiss him soundly on the mouth. The kiss is deep, wet, tongues twirling in a sloppy tangle.
Jackson is hard, hanging stiffly between our bodies. His erection brushes my pussy but doesn’t push.
I spread my legs wider, ready.
Ever vigilant, his thumb finds the top of my clit and moves in slow circles
while our tongues dance, the motion getting me soaked. Has me tossing my head back and presenting him with the column of my throat that loves lips on it.
He obliges at the same time he drags his cock back and forth over my best bits.
Reaching between us, I grip him with my entire hand, pumping leisurely to keep him aroused—as if I need to. Which I don’t, because he’s so turned on he can barely breathe normally. Labored. Rasping.
Harsh.
Yes, his breathing is harsh, like he can’t catch his breath and isn’t trying to. Sexy, sexy, sexy.
As a big boy himself, Jackson’s dick is obviously huge—not so big it’s intimidating, but bigger than the only guy I’ve ever had sex with. Naturally I expect it to hurt when he eases in, despite the fact that I’m lubed up from foreplay.
I slide his erection up and down, up and down while he watches me, tension gripping his entire body. Shoulders taut. Back rigid. Ass flexed. Thighs tight.
He’s frozen above me.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask as gently as I possibly can, not wanting to spook him, not wanting him to change his mind and not…well, fuck me.
I want him to fuck me, so hard.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Perspiration forms on his brow; I can see it glistening.
“You’re not going to hurt me.”
He looks skeptical. “But you’re so tiny.” I stifle a laugh.
“I’m not, though.” I carry a few extra pounds, which I’ve never cared about, and I’m certainly no delicate flower, not as fragile as he seems to think I am. No other guy has made me feel small and delicate before, and I relish how petite I feel lying under Jackson.
He blows out a puff of air, his bangs blowing back. Braces himself above me, finally lowering his hips. Pelvis.
Pushes a bit.
I line him up, making sure he’s heading for the right hole. Guiding to avoid a catastrophe and embarrassment for both of us.
The head is thick and throbbing.
I tip my pelvis up, wordlessly helping him out. Giving him the access he needs to confidently push forward and penetrate me.
Penetrate me.
I giggle nervously; what a stupid word to have in your head when you’re about to be penetrated.
I laugh again.
Oh my god, shoot me now.
“You little brat.” Jackson kisses me full on the mouth, pushing forward, easing in.
Another few centimeters. More. More.
He pushes in another inch before stopping. “Holy fuck you’re tight.”
“Am I?”
I swear his brows go up. “Aren’t you?”
I am. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I swear my vagina went and closed back up from being out of commission.
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes.”
I preen, happy that I’m able to make him feel good, happy his first time is with me and it’s going to be memorable for both of us, because we’re in love.
Jackson groans when he buries himself to the hilt, sucking in an audible breath and moaning, “Fuck. Oh my fucking god.”
He grunts, letting his head drop, a bead of sweat hitting my bare chest. I run a hand through his hair at the same time I adjust my hips on the bed, making more room for him between my legs.
He takes up every inch of me, inside and out, a monolith of strength and power about to begin pumping in and out of my body.
I know it’s coming—I remember how it goes—but Jackson is slow and doesn’t thrust like I expect him to. Slowly—so slowly it almost kills me—he pulls out. Slides back in. Slowly slides back out. The speed—or lack thereof—with which he glides in and out is going to kill us both.
Instead of groaning like he did before, it’s almost like he’s holding his breath. Measures every motion, committing it to memory. Every action deliberate.
The sides of his hips flex. Ass, too, and I put my hands on his butt cheeks and squeeze. It’s a glorious ass, rock hard and strong. A squatter’s ass. Ass, ass, ass…
In.
Out.
Painfully. Slow. I want to die.
Run my nails down his backside in an attempt to encourage more speed; he doesn’t comply. He wants to take his time, second by second, studying the movement of his own body tucked intimately within mine.
It’s excruciating. Bliss.
“Charlotte,” he whispers. “God, Charlotte.” Crooning into my ear, kissing my temple as he rhythmically thrusts.
Jackson’s first go at sex isn’t sex at all—it’s making love. At least, I think he’s making love to me, and I want to pinch myself.
He goes on like this for a few minutes. The fact that he hasn’t come yet has me baffled; I assumed that because he was a virgin, he wouldn’t last longer than three minutes. I realize this isn’t giving him any credit, but how much stamina can a guy actually have when he hasn’t had his dick in anyone’s vagina?
I wouldn’t last this long if I were him.
I’m also not close to coming, so I give his chest a push, wanting and needing to be on top. When I was younger, I once read a magazine article about the statistics of the female orgasm, and seventy-five percent of women can only orgasm on top.
All right, I probably made that up, but the number is high, and I, for one, am among that percentage of girls who can’t climax on the bottom. That I’m aware of.
Jackson stops. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. But…” I hesitate. “Can I be on top?”
His beautiful blue eyes widen and he rolls, taking me along for the ride, our bodies still connected.
Whoa. I’ve only seen that done in the movies.
Sexy.
“Scoot up closer to the headboard,” I tell him bossily.
“Yes ma’am.”
I sit up, arching my back, leaning forward a bit, hands grabbing hold of the headboard. It’s wooden, an inch or two from the wall, and easy to grip.
Finding my rhythm, I ease back and forth over his body, pelvis automatically grinding into his. Watching as he lies there, looking up at me with a look of wonder on his face, the nonverbals playing over his eyes and mouth in flashes.
Jackson’s lips part when I rotate my hips in circles, hands pressed against the headboard. Bearing down. Operating solely on instinct, I try to pretend I know what I’m doing when in reality, I don’t. He might be the virgin, but it’s not like I have all that much more experience.
Plus, he’s athletic and I’m not—as if that makes a difference? Shouldn’t he just be naturally good at everything physical while the rest of us mere mortals have to work at it?
With me on top, he’s buried to the hilt—thick and deep, and I moan because the sensation is…incredible.
“Charlotte. Fuck, Charlotte,” he moans, because really, are any other words necessary? Is there anything else to say?
“You feel so good, baby,” I murmur above him, lost in him. Lost in us. Lost in the fact that I love him. “Are you gonna come?”
“Yes.” His nod is jerky. “I think so.”
He thinks so, he thinks so. Oddly, I’m filled with a sense of satisfaction that no other girls have come before me.
I am his first and always will be.
A GAMEDAY
JACKSON
“J. Dude, your dad is downstairs in the kitchen.” My what?
Did I hear that right?
There’s another knock, followed by the door opening, and Tyson sticks his head through, peering down at Charlie and me as we lie on the bed. I’m beat; we just had a game against Penn State—which we lost—and the ice bath did nothing for my sore muscles. I ache, I’m tired, I’m hungry.
I have to learn to lock my door.
Raising myself to a sitting position, I run a hand down Charlie’s slumbering thigh protectively.
“Your dad, in the kitchen?”
“My dad is here?” That’s freaking weird. What’s my old man doing here? He never said anything about coming to the game.
; “I mean, yeah? Looks like you but way angrier?” Yeah—that’s Pops all right.
Shit.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and stand, pulling on my discarded Iowa t-shirt, grateful the bastard didn’t come into my room unannounced. The last thing I fuckin’ need is him walkin’ in on me with a girl in my room. He would absolutely lose his shit.
Bending, I kiss Charlie on the temple and she rolls, half naked in my direction, cracking an eyelid. It’s the third time this week she’s spent the night, and I’ve lost count of the times we’ve fucked.
I kiss her again.
“Wait here, I’ll be back.”
Her smile is groggy, her little wave sleepy. Her hand flops up then back down on the mattress, and I give her one last glance before slipping through the door and closing it softly behind me.
Hit the stairs, making my way to the kitchen.
My father is standing by the sink, staring out the window, out at the street, hands on his hips. He looks more like a drill sergeant than someone’s father, brisk and at attention. All business and no pleasure.
“Pops. What are you doing here?” He makes no move to hug me.
“Came to see your game against Penn.” He turns, pulls a chair out from the table, and sits, legs spread, thick arms folded across a chest that used to be as broad as mine. Years of not going to the gym and eating crap have worked against him, adding about thirty extra pounds and loads of pent-up resentment.
Pops always wanted to play ball; just never had what it took. If he did, he’d still be in shape instead of a burnout living vicariously through his son.
I lean against the counter. “What’d you think?”
“I think you should have won.” He plucks a grape from a bowl in the center of the table, the fruit Rodrigo’s sister brought when she arrived this morning for a tailgating party with her friends.
Yes, we should have won, but we didn’t. I don’t know what to say.
“You played for crap.”
Actually, I didn’t—I had one of my best games of the season, running the most yards. But I keep my mouth shut because it will only serve to piss him off if I defend myself. He’s just sore I’m playing for Iowa, and not at Notre Dame or USC.
I wait patiently for him to bring those schools up, his standard lecture on the rare occasions he comes to visit.