Ain't Happenin' (The Ballsy Boy Series Book 2)

by Shandi Boyes

  “Cosi bello, amore mio, cosi fottutamente bello.” I grunt a hungry moan when he parts the lips of my pussy with his fingers. “You just came, yet you’re still greedy.” His eyes lift and lock with mine. The need in them is almost too much for me to bear. My knees curve inward when a revitalizing zap rockets through my veins. “I fucking love it.”

  “Oh.” My nails anchor themselves into his shoulder blades when he flicks the tip of his tongue over my engorged clit. I rock against him, fighting not to be swallowed by the black hole so soon again. I’m on the verge of coming even quicker than my prom date did. “More… please… I want more…”

  He continues eating me with controlled, precise licks, but no matter how much I beg, he doesn’t increase his torturous pace. He merely widens the girth of my thighs with his bloodstained hands before slurping up the remnants of what I’m certain was the first of many orgasms.

  “Oh, God.” I fall back with a moan, certain I’m on the verge of death when he suckles my clit into his mouth.

  While grunting like a feral pig, I fuck his face like I did his cock through his jeans earlier tonight, unashamed by the desperateness of my rocks. The urge to come is overwhelming me, making me unhinged.

  “More… amore mio. Beg more.”

  “I fucking can’t.” I rock harder, faster, almost cruelly. “You make me speechless. I’m numbed by the urge to come.” I tremble everywhere, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. The need is blinding, hungry, and without restraint. “Please, Shortie J. I’m begging you.”

  An inferno combusts inside me when he gives my clit a gentle tug with his teeth. His pace hasn’t increased any, but the skill of his adventurous tongue and the talented way he eats me exposes he has every intention to get me off—just not until I’ve begged him to.

  The smell of my skin sizzling electrifies the air when I sing out a range of pleas. I tell him everything and anything he wants to hear—how I’ll never want to be fucked by anyone but him, that his cock has ruined me for eternity, and how I’m going to ride him until the sun rises over the horizon.

  Then I straight-up beg. “I need you, Lorenzo. I need you so much.”

  I’d feel like a loser if my tactic didn’t work. My words double the pressure of his thumb on my clit while it also increases the thrashes of his tongue. In no time at all, my eyelids are squeezing shut as I float toward orgasmic bliss.

  As a noise I’m certain didn’t come from me ricochets off the white-washed walls of our room, my orgasm coats Lorenzo’s lips, tongue, and his chin. I shake uncontrollably, deliriously happy, yet so shocked by how horny I still am. I should be down for the count, out for the night, however, my feverish brain knows this is just the beginning of our evening.

  With how hard Lorenzo works to ensure he doesn’t break the no-orgasm clause in our contract every time we fucked, anyone would swear he never wants our agreement to end.

  Is it wrong to say I’m hopeful?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Skylar

  Several orgasms later—don’t ask how many as I wouldn’t be able to give you an accurate answer—Lorenzo and I are doing what all true fuck-buddies shouldn’t. We’re in a tangled mess of bodies and sticky sheets. My head is on his chest, and he’s raking his fingers through my hair. It should feel horrendously awkward considering how we came together, but once again, just like our handful of sleepovers the past month, it feels right.

  I balance my chin on the dusting of dark hairs on Lorenzo’s chest when he asks, “The way your dad interacted with your mom, is that a typical American experience?” He sounds a little lost like he’s still struggling to explain his response to my dad’s rile.

  I hate that. I was hoping my ruse to take his mind off things had worked.

  Clearly, I still have a lot to learn about this man.

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s a typical American experience, but it’s very much on par with my parents’ relationship. My dad has always been a little edgy with my mom.”

  He brushes a blonde curl off my sweat-dotted cheek before lowering his eyes to mine. “Has he ever hurt her?”

  I rigorously shake my head. “No, Lorenzo. He’d never hurt her. That isn’t what I meant by edgy.” I take a moment to consider how I can explain it in a way it won’t be lost in translation. “You know how you’re a bit bossy in the bedroom?”

  “Me bossy in the bedroom… never.”

  I laugh. His impersonation of Danny when he gets busted doing something he shouldn’t be doing is too spot-on not to laugh.

  “Well, from what my mom told me, my dad is the same. He’s just dominant in and out of the bedroom.” You have no idea how hard that was to say. I may need therapy—lots and lots of therapy after this talk. “I’m sure he’d stop if my mom hated it, but I’m more like her than I realized.”

  I drop my head back down onto Lorenzo’s chest, praying it will hide my heated cheeks.

  He’s not willing to let me off so quickly. After scooping his hand under my chin, he raises my head. “But you understand I’ll never purposely hurt you, right? My aim isn’t to hurt you.”

  “I know that.” My playful wink brings back half his natural smile. “You also can’t hurt someone capable of putting you on your ass.”

  My heart beats faster when his smile returns full-pelt. “That is true.”

  Although I’d rather keep him smiling, there’s too much unease pumping out of him for me to ignore. He’s struggling, and I fucking hate it.

  “Did your father hurt your mother?”

  I regret my inquisitiveness when Lorenzo stiffens, but before I can tell him it’s okay not to answer me, he says, “She’d never admit it was physical, but mentally, he was an ogre.”

  Over the next ten minutes, he explains his family dynamic. It isn’t ordinary by any means. I couldn’t imagine finding out when you’re twelve that your dad has another family. If that isn’t shocking enough, discovering you were the byproduct of a two-decade-long affair would be hard for any person to swallow, much less a hormonal teen.

  “So, your mom never knew he was still married to his first wife when they wed?”

  Lorenzo shakes his head. “She had no idea he was previously married until we overslept an alarm. My father was furious his gifted footballer was late to a carnival he had no clue his daughter was also a participant at.”

  “Eek.”

  His sigh ruffles my cheek. “It was more than eek. It was fucking embarrassing.” He scrubs at the stubble on his chin before confessing something I doubt he’s told anyone. “Because he had been married to his first wife longer than my mom, my mother was seen as the adulterer.”

  “That would have been hard.”

  He jerks his chin up, his lips hard-lined. “Mamma kept us in the dark as much as possible, but even in a city as big as Milan, there’s only so much gossip you can sidestep.”

  “It’s a mother’s instinct to protect her young, Lorenzo. Just like it’s in some men’s nature to protect women.” I lick my dry lips before asking, “Do you think what happened with your parents is why you responded the way you did last night?”

  He nods again. “Even with his betrayal exposed, my father wanted my mother to continue with their ‘arrangement.’ The thing is, Mamma didn’t know they had an arrangement, and she had no wish to enter one.” He works his jaw side to side, amplifying the tremor there. “My father wouldn’t take no for an answer. He pestered and badgered her for months.” He lowers his eyes to mine. They’re teeming with remorse. “I often found him standing over her as your father was doing to your mother. Mamma would never say what caused the redness to her cheeks, but I’m reasonably sure it was done by his hands.”

  “So, it’s understandable you assumed my dad was hurting my mom, Shortie J. Her cheeks were also red. It was just for a different reason than you realized.”

  “It doesn’t excuse what I did, amore mio.”

  “I’m not saying it does, but you don’t need to beat yourself up ove
r this. Mistakes happen all the time, both on and off the field. It’s life.” I aim to ease the tension in the air by hitting him with a frisky wink. “But perhaps next time, consider speaking with words before fists. It causes less damage.”

  The world feels right again when he laughs. I’ve never heard a sexier sound.

  Once his laughter settles, I hook my leg over his waist and straddle his pelvis, and just like that, the last of the tension hanging in the air evaporates. Energy zaps as the spark of attraction that forever bristles between us infuses.

  Lorenzo is a handsome man in both a suit and his dorky soccer uniform, but nothing compares to what I’m facing now. He’s exposed and raw, the sexiest I’ve ever seen him.

  “What are you doing, amore mio?” I’m not buying his innocent act. The girth thickening beneath me reveals he knows what I’m doing, he’s merely acting daft. “I thought you said five orgasms in one day was your limit?”

  “It is, but I said earlier I was going to ride you until the sun was well over the horizon, and I’m not one to shy away from my responsibilities.” Ignoring the pang in my chest warning me to tread carefully, not just with Lorenzo’s heart, but mine as well, I pull my hair up into a messy bun before bracing my hands against the headboard. “Are you ready to experience a real American rodeo, Shortie J? Or do you want to swap some more secrets first?”

  “I have many secrets I want to share with you, amore mio, but they can wait an hour or five.”

  My eyes pop out of my head. “Five? I can’t do five.”

  When he bucks his hips, I know without a doubt I’ll be done long before the required eight seconds, and we won’t mention the odds of my heart surviving the next two months.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lorenzo

  “Amore mio…”

  I’m Italian, so it’s rare for me to be speechless, but I’m genuinely struggling to find the words to describe how delectable Skylar looks. Considering she’s wearing my dress shirt that’s two sizes too big for her tiny frame, she should look ridiculous.

  She doesn’t.

  Not in the slightest.

  My black suspenders and satin tie keep the white material hugged close to her body, and the fedora hat I stupidly believed I needed to hide my identity during our flight yesterday afternoon adds a classy edge to her risqué yet casual ensemble.

  When my eyes lock in on the skinny jeans and sky-high pumps that make her legs look like they go for miles, Skylar follows the direction of my gaze. “Your trousers didn’t fit, and since I didn’t feel like wearing a dress, I changed things up. Too much?”

  I wait for her eyes to return to mine before shaking my head. “No. It’s perfect. You look beautiful.” My accent is more pronounced since I’m holding back what I truly want to say. I don’t want to scare her with the notions that haven’t quit running through my head since last night. I assaulted her father, so bringing up my wish for our contract to be extended indefinitely would be ludicrous right now. “There’s just one issue. If you’re wearing my tux, what am I going to wear?”

  I begin to wonder if I was abducted by aliens when I gag from Skylar pointing to my open suitcase. It’s not the pair of ripped jeans on the top that has me rechewing my breakfast. It’s the football jersey of my hometown club resting across it.

  “You want me to wear my jersey to a wedding?”

  I sound shocked. Justly so. I am. I love that Skylar is finally embracing my sport, but who wears a football jersey to a wedding?

  Skylar laughs. It’s as gorgeous as her face. “I don’t want you to wear it to the wedding. I want you to represent your country while fulfilling the final part of our agreement.” When panic makes itself known on my face, Skylar’s stomach gurgles. “Not the end end. The final part of this section of our contract.” She looks as ill as I felt earlier while mumbling, “Unless you want to end things sooner?”

  “No. That’s not what I want.” I’m tempted to punch myself in the dick. I sound like a coglione. “I’m just confused, that’s all.”

  She takes a few seconds to breathe out her nerves before saying, “It will be easier for me to show you than attempt an explanation.” After gathering a suit bag from behind the bathroom door, she nudges her head to the jeans and jersey she laid out for me. “While I give our driver your borrowed yet highly stylish suit to put in the car, you get dressed, then meet us downstairs.”

  Her strides to the door halt mid-step when I murmur her name. Not her real name. The one that makes her thighs quiver every time I utter it. “From my understanding, it’s un-American to leave a room without giving up some of the lip gloss you’ve been teasing me with all morning.”

  Her snow-white locks slap her cheek when she cranks her neck back to peer at me. “It is, eh? Who’d you hear that highly inaccurate statement from?”

  She’s trying to act unaffected by my rile. I might have believed her if her knees weren’t in the process of joining.

  “I didn’t catch his name. He was big and hairy and has me confident he could use my fingers as toothpicks.”

  Her laugh has me praying she’ll fall for my ruse, because I’m dying for another taste of her mouth, and I’m unashamed to admit it.

  The flutter of my pulse in my neck is exposed when I jerk up my chin, commanding her to my side of our hotel room. It beeps even faster when she tosses the suit bag over her shoulder before pushing off her feet to head my way. Her walk is seductive, and it effortlessly entrances me. Her honeydew smell engulfs me when she stops a mere inch away. She’s so close, our chests compete for space with every intake of shared air we breathe.

  “For future reference,” she murmurs, her breath hot and minty. “A hairy beast discovered the hard way what happens when you act arrogant outside of bedroom walls only yesterday, so I wouldn’t recommend doing your macho act in public… regardless of how much I love it.”

  King-fucking-Kong. This motherfucker is done.

  “Two, if you want to kiss me, Shortie J, ask. I’m a big girl. I can handle more than you think.” She flattens her breasts against my chest, then tilts her head to the side. “And three…” She kisses me with everything she has—hands, teeth, those scrumptious fucking lips that make me want to come in my pants like a virgin before pulling back with a smile. “The hairy beast you mentioned is waiting for us outside. You better not keep him waiting if you don’t want to pick out the chili from between his teeth.”

  While laughing at my whitening cheeks, she saunters out of our room, closing the door behind her.

  Like a soft cock, I throw on my clothes, urgently scrub my teeth as if I hate the taste of her lips on mine, then hotfoot it to the entrance of the hotel.

  Since we’re in the middle of the boonies, I only need to descend one set of stairs. Paxton isn’t known for its high-rise buildings. My brutal speed slows when Tyler climbs out of his truck to open the rear driver’s side door for Skylar. Whoever stitched up his split lip did a good job, but there’s no hiding the bruise on his cheek and under his left eye.

  Instead of running like the coward I was last night, I drag my sweaty palm down my thigh before bridging the gap between Tyler and me. “Tyler, about last night—” My apology is cut off by Tyler slapping my shoulder. It’s confident to say he’s never going to be a masseuse.

  “It’s all good, Tiny Tim. As long as you forever protect my daughter as you did my wife, we won’t have an issue.” His understanding is short-lived when he spots my choice in clothing. “That, though, we’re gonna have words about that.”

  “Daddy, stop it,” Skylar pleads, slapping his chest. “He’s wearing it for Riley.”

  I don’t know who Riley is, but it’s clear Tyler does. Remorse is the first thing to cross his features. It’s quickly chased by pride.

  After bundling us into his car, Skylar in the back, me in the front like a ‘big boy,’ Tyler commences our travels across town. Although my lips rarely left Skylar’s last night, I’m reasonably sure this is the route we traveled to our
hotel, just in the opposite direction.

  My assumption is proven accurate when we arrive at a soccer field on the outskirts of town. Every inch of the lot is crammed with cars, and youth players fill the field.

  When I join Skylar at the side of the dusty lot, she straightens my jersey before licking and spitting my locks into submission in a way Danny would be proud of. Confident I’m putting my best foot forward, she hands me a photograph. It’s of a young boy I’d guess to be eight or nine. He’s wearing taped glasses and a wonky grin.

  “That’s Riley Hatten. Despite his horrid choice in sport, he’s like a brother to me. His sister was my very best friend.” She takes a moment when her last sentence has her choking back a sob. Once she’s got a sense of composure back, she says, “Riley comes to this field bright and early every Saturday, but he’s yet to field a game.”

  “Why? If he’s capable of moving, he can play.”

  “Because his coach is a coglione.” I smile, loving that she used an Italian insult in her scorn. “What?” She glares at her father with raised brows. “He might be your brother, but he’s still an asshole.” After ushering me closer to the spectators lining the fields, she continues her story. “Uncle Ted is working on the assumption you can only play this sport if you meet a certain height requirement.”

  My lips furl into a conniving smirk. “I wonder where he got that notion from?”

  Skylar whacks me in the gut, winding me. “But what he doesn’t know is, passion fare exceeds stature. Riley really wants to play. He’s so passionate about the sport. He truly loves it with every fiber of his being. Uncle Ted just refuses to give him the chance to show how talented he is.”

  “So, what do you want me to do? Force him?”

  While peering at my busted knuckles, she contemplates my suggestion for almost a minute before shaking her head. “As much as a beat-down might knock some sense into Uncle Ted, this is supposed to be about Riley, not getting revenge on the man who thinks knee tickling is fun.” When my brow quirks, she gasps. “Have you never had anyone tickle your knee before? They assume it tickles, where in reality, it really fucking hurts.”