The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

by Kristen Callihan

  “You put it that way…oh, God, that’s a spot…” His brows furrow on a wince. “God, do that some more, Jones.”

  Heat flushes my skin, but I comply. He shudders, his long body twitching as it releases pain.

  “You put it that way,” he says returning to the topic of presents, “and I kind of have to, now don’t I?”

  “Stop tensing,” I murmur, running my fingers along the back of his skull, before answering him. “You set me up for that one, Baylor. When’s your birthday, then?”

  Drew lets out a breath and moans as I find the tension spots plaguing him. He’s now lax, lying heavy on the couch. I’ve had my hands all over his fine body, and yet touching him to take his pain away is a gratification that I never expected.

  His voice slurs with drowsiness. “November nineteenth.”

  I pause. “It is not.”

  He cracks open one eye. “Why would I lie?” Both eyes open. “When’s yours?”

  I bite my lip. “November twentieth.”

  Drew grins, his whole expression lightening. “We’re birthday buddies.” His smile turns smug. “Only I’m older.”

  A small laugh escapes me. “You can keep that victory. I don’t know any girl who wants to be older than her—” My voice dies.

  But it’s too late, because it’s obvious what I was going to say. Her boyfriend.

  Satisfaction steals over his expression, but there’s something more. Something that has my heart racing in my chest, and my mouth going dry. An acknowledgement. As if he’s been waiting for this very slip.

  His lashes are long and thick, framing his light brown eyes. Beneath my fingertips, his throat lifts on a swallow. “Anna.”

  My chest tightens to the point of pain. My mother always accused me of having an excess of pride. People think pride is something you ought to be able to control, that it’s something sinful, best used in small doses. And they’re right. But for most of my life, pride has been the only thing that’s kept my head up. Now it’s holding me back from Drew. I know this. Hell, I feel its hard hands upon me, clutching with a tightness that speaks of desperation. I know this, and yet I can’t break free. I’m not ready.

  I snuggle back into its familiar hold. Safe there. And instead of acknowledging this growing thing between us, my hands move up to cup Drew’s cheeks. “Sleep,” I say, running a thumb along his bottom lip. “You need it.”

  Protest darkens his expression.

  “Sleep,” I insist as if my throat isn’t closing in on itself. “I’ll wake you.”

  He resists for a moment, watching me with those eyes that reveal too much. But then he does as I ask, putting himself in my keeping. I run my fingers through his silky hair and watch over him while he sleeps.

  IT’S GETTING WORSE, this addiction. I need Drew with greater frequency and with more urgency. At least there are rules. Rules to keep myself under control, safe. Rules that are somehow agreed upon and understood without having to say a word. We always meet at my place, never so late as to warrant a sleepover, never stay together more than an hour—or three if we are particularly… needy. And still no kissing on the mouth, though I’m starting to see more and more shadows of discontent from Drew regarding this rule. But he’s yet to vocalize it. And I do an admirable job of telling myself that it’s for the best. I need to protect myself. Because I’m never getting left behind again.

  Now we’re naked and on my bed, my favorite fleece throw covering our bodies. I draw the line at getting under the covers with him. That’s too personal, too much like making love verses hooking up. Not that getting under the sheets is an issue when, from the instant we close the door to my room, we think of nothing else but being skin to skin.

  Even more concerning is that now that we’ve finished, he isn’t leaving. Nor am I hurrying him out. Sweat gives his golden skin a fine sheen, and he’s panting lightly as if he’s run miles.

  The light is fading outside, the rays of the setting sun stealing through my blinds and spilling into my room until we are painted in glowing stripes of deep orange.

  One of his hands rests lightly on the rippled wall of his abdomen. I focus on that as I lay half on my side, one hand caught beneath his shoulder, the other hand still gripping the bedpost. I’d held on so tight to that post when he pounded into me that I wonder if he’ll have to help pry my fingers free from the wood.

  A luscious, little shiver runs over me. The things he does to me. The thoroughness in which he takes his pleasure and gives me mine. My nipples tighten. Thankfully, Drew hasn’t noticed. He’s turning away to take long gulps of water from the bottle sitting on the bedside table. And that’s when I see it. The room is shadowed but not enough to hide some things.

  “You have a tattoo.” There’s a sing-song quality about my observation that I can’t hide and don’t want to. Because I’m grinning. An evil grin.

  And he turns back to glare at me properly. “Yeah.”

  “It’s a battle axe,” I add with glee. A cute little cartoon style battle axe about the size of my thumb on the crest of his left butt cheek. Like something Papa Smurf might wield. How can I not have seen this before? Right, because normally he’d have hauled his pants up and would be headed out the door about now.

  Drew’s high-cut cheeks go pink. “Fucking Cancun. Spring break, my sophomore year, I got so wasted one night. I vaguely remember a burning sensation on my butt cheek while my teammates chanted ‘Battle, Battle.’ That’s about it. I woke up naked in a bed full of….” The blush returns with force, and he runs a hand through his hair, which makes it stand up on end on the right side. It’s kind of adorable. So is his embarrassment. “Full of girls and guys.”

  I laugh, a crackling mad witch laugh that earns a pillow tossed at my face.

  “It’s not funny,” he insists, though there’s a hint of humor in his voice. “I was in an orgy and don’t remember a thing. Imagine the horrors.” He mocks a shudder.

  This only makes me laugh harder.

  “With the mother of all hangovers,” Drew adds bitterly, though now he’s definitely smiling. “And this fucking tattoo.” He cranes his neck to glare down at his ass. “Fucking, stupid battle axe.”

  “Battle Butt Baylor.” I’m dying now. And give a small screech when he dives for me. There’s a bit of a tussle, mainly involving Drew cramming another pillow in my face while I howl with laughter. But then he ends up half over me, his thick thigh pushed in between mine and his chest pressed against my torso. We’re still laughing a little, though, and he smiles down at me.

  “I swore off drinking to excess that very moment and got myself checked for every disease known to man the second I returned home.” His smile dims a little, and his gaze searches mine. “I’m clean, you know. I get regular checks.” The seriousness of his tone and the way he says this makes me believe he’s suddenly worried I’ll bar him from further play due to his checkered past.

  “I am too,” I say. “The day I turned sixteen, my mom put me on the pill and started me on a biannual STD check.”

  Drew’s brows rise. “That’s kind of…”

  “Paranoid?” I suggest. Lord knows I didn’t need to be on the pill back then.

  A little shiver of sensation travels along my scalp, and I realize that he’s playing with a lock of my hair, curling it around his finger. His voice is low between us. “I was thinking more like ‘untrusting.’”

  I don’t want to explain just how wrong he is, because then I’d have to tell him that not a single boy even looked in my direction for the whole of high school. Instead, I lift a shoulder. “My mom’s an OB-GYN. For her, it’s a sign of love. You know, like how a dentist’s kid will be forced to brush and floss three times daily before she’s two.”

  Drew grins, but then his expression goes quiet and intense. I feel it down in my heart, as though he reached through my ribs and gave it a squeeze. He’s looking at me as though he likes me far too much. As though he likes this intimacy.

  “Let me see it again,” I s
ay. Because I need to move out from under him. And because I truly do want to look at his little mark of shame again.

  “No,” he whispers with a small smile. He leans in, the tip of his nose almost touching mine. I can see the individual lashes curling thick and dark around his eyes. His irises are polished amber and alight with amusement.

  “Yes,” I say, breathless.

  “No.” His lips brush my jaw, my chin. He’s too close to my mouth. Too close to me.

  “Yes.” I push a thumb between his ribs, and he yelps.

  “Jones,” he warns, skittering away when I do it again.

  “Baylor,” I intone. “Let me see.”

  “Easy with the thumbs of evil, woman.”

  “Then let me see.”

  “Okay, okay. The things I do for you,” he huffs, as he rolls over with a mutter.

  Oh, God, but his body is a work of art. Long, lean, muscular. Perfect in proportion. His back is narrow and straight, the valley of his spine deep between slabs of tight muscle. The valley dips then sweeps up to the rounded globes of his fine ass. An ass so strong that his butt cheeks indent on the sides. His long legs are covered in a down of light brown hair and are as sculpted as the rest of him, with thick thighs and well-defined calves.

  I want to lick him from neck to heel. And take my time about it in between. But he’s waiting for me. His butt is twitching as if he’s feeling my stare. Chin propped on his bent arms, he turns his head to give me a sidelong glare. “Well?”

  “Just enjoying the view,” I say with a leer that makes him snort.

  “Turnabout, Jones. Don’t forget it—Not the light. Gah!” He squints when I flick on the bedside light. “Are you trying to blind me?”

  “The room was too dark, and I want to see this sucker proper…” My breath hitches. “Jesus, Drew, your side.”

  “Hmmm?” He cocks a brow and then glances over his shoulder. “Oh, right.”

  ‘Right?’ I can’t hold back form leaning down and running a hand along his lower side. He’s covered in bruises. Big, ugly, bruises like berry stains over his golden skin. Blackberry, blueberry, raspberry. They’re a molted landscape of a pain. And I’d been poking him there. Jesus.

  “I had a game yesterday,” he reminds me. Like it’s nothing that his body has been pummeled.

  “Is it always like this?” I’m curled at his side, my hand slowly running over the smooth skin of his back and along his flank. He’s paler here, and on his upper thighs where his shorts have blocked the sun. He shivers a bit, his skin prickling.

  “Some games are tougher than others. This one was a bitch.”

  My throat hurts. There’s a black bruise just above his hipbone. I touch it with the very tip of my finger, and he shivers again.

  Instantly, I draw back. “Does it hurt?” Of course it does. How can it not?

  But Drew turns to look down at me, his hips lifting a bit and revealing the shadow of his cock against the bed. The extent of my distress is great, because I’m not even distracted. My palm comes to rest on the warm rise of his butt when he looks at me. “If I say yes,” he asks, “will you kiss it and make it better?”

  He is teasing me, yet there is heat in his eyes. He doesn’t know it, but kissing his battered flesh is something I ache to do. I lean forward. And his breathing speeds up. He looks almost vulnerable, the way his body tightens and his eyes follow my movement.

  Inches from him, I hover, waiting, my heart pounding as I look up.

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  My lips touch his skin and his breath catches.

  “Yes,” he says again, more urgent.

  Another kiss, soft, gentle. My lips map his pain with each yes, yes, yes, my hair sliding over his skin like a blood-red river.

  Everything becomes languid heat. The bed sheets rustle as he turns onto his back and I crawl over him, my lips traveling along the blooming bruises upon his rock-hard belly. I trace the grooves between his muscles with my tongue, and he makes little noises of contentment. And I do too. God, he’s beautiful, his skin taut, his body so honed it looks like it’s been cast from bronze.

  The silken heat of his cock, now hard and erect, brushes my cheek, and I still. He’s watching me beneath half-closed lids, his breath light and quick. I stare up at him as my lips graze the tender head, and he croaks a weak “Yes.”

  Yes. I’ve wanted to taste Drew’s cock since the moment I saw it. He’s glorious here, thick and long and straight. He smells of musk and warmth, and he’s trembling as if he’s trying to hold himself still.

  The round, swollen head is satin smooth and hot against the roof of my mouth as I draw him in and give a soft suck.

  Drew groans loud, his hips bucking, which shoves him in deeper. I wrap my hand around him and suck again.

  “Yes,” he groans. His trembling fingers thread through my hair. He holds me there, making helpless little sounds as he lightly pumps in and out of my mouth. The sight of him, his head thrown back, his lips parted and his brows furrowed as if in pain, the way his muscles stand out in sharp relief because they’re clenched so tight, all of it, makes me so hot that I begin to sweat. My thighs tremble and my sex pulses as I flick my tongue over his head, suck him hard then light, take as much of him as I can into my mouth before pulling back out in a slow glide.

  I want to drive him insane. The way he does me.

  I love it when he fists my hair harder, drives himself into my mouth, his free hand clutching the bedspread like he might soon become unmoored.

  “Anna...” My name is a plea on his lips as he writhes. “Baby…Please, I’m going to...”

  I run my palm along the amour-plate of muscle that is his belly, and he releases with a sharp cry.

  It’s warm and viscous and salty-sweet. I’ve never done this before, staying with a guy to the very end. But with Drew, I drink him down. Until he goes soft and helpless in my mouth. And I know that I am in deep, dark waters. Because I want to do it all over again. All of it. Again and again.

  I NEED PERSPECTIVE. I need to remember why keeping my resolve is a good plan. I need to go home, and Mom’s off on Mondays. Fuck it. I’m skipping class. I give her a call to let her know I’m coming.

  It’s a perfect autumn morning when I climb on my Vespa and head toward my mother’s house. The scooter isn’t very practical; I can’t use the highway, so I stick to back roads. And I know I’ll catch hell from my mom yet again for driving it to her house. But I love the feel of air rushing over me, and the ability to weave in and out of traffic. Even so, it would be smart to trade my scooter in and buy a car. I don’t like driving the Vespa in rain, and the winter months flat out suck. I have some savings—hell, my mom would buy a car for me, she hates the scooter so much.

  Indecision regarding my scooter fills my thoughts, and I’m happy about that. It keeps me from thinking about other things, other people. Soon enough, I’m pulling up in front of the house I grew up in. It’s a 1920s colonial made of Georgia red brick.

  I love this house, with its five windows along the top floor and four windows, two each flanking the red center door, on the ground floor. I love that somehow it managed to escape the dreaded Tara style front porch that so many Southern homes try to emulate. It’s a simple, unpretentious house. And though the front walk has always been clean and inviting, I’ve never really used it, choosing to go in through the side door instead.

  I pull up into the carport, parking next to my mother’s ancient blue Mercedes. She’s had the car as long as she’s had me. Just looking at it fills me with a sense of homecoming, as does the smell of old brick and decaying crepe myrtle flowers.

  Through the window, I spot mom at the stove. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t aged. Then again, my mom never seems to age. She’s magically preserved. Slim and fit, she wears sky blue silk lounge pants and a thin cream cashmere sweater. Her glossy black hair tumbles artfully around her shoulders, and she gives it an impatient flick as she pulls the old battered moka pot off t
he stove. While my mother might be a southern lady, she’s also a doctor and second generation Italian, which means I’m getting a cappuccino and fruit for breakfast instead of biscuits and gravy. Her one concession might be some fresh, low fat scones.

  I smile and open the door. Her heart-shaped face brightens. “Banana!”

  She hurries over to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I’m surrounded by the scent of lavender that she favors. “How has my baby been?”

  “Good.” It’s the only answer she wants to hear anyway.

  With a nod, she sways back to the moka pot and proceeds to pour thick, rich coffee into a waiting cup half-filled with heated milk. The scent is homey and mouthwatering. If I could just once achieve my mother’s coffee perfection, I’d be a happy girl indeed.

  “Come,” she urges, “let’s sit and talk.” She places the cup next to a set place, complete with linen napkin. Freshly cut melons, strawberries, and raspberries wait in a crystal bowl. This is my mom at her finest. Warning bells ring in my mind. More so when she turns and pulls a tray of hot scones from the oven. They do not look low fat.

  “So,” she says as she serves me a scone and doles out some fruit, “anything new going on?”

  This is standard fare. Mom doesn’t like to pry, but at least she’s interested in my life. I think she’d be less gracious about it, however, if I told her that I’ve been fucking the star quarterback in my bedroom. My cheeks heat as I take a sip of coffee. God, that’s good.

  My eyes close to savor the flavor. “I’ve missed you, Mom.” I don’t know where that came from, but it’s the truth.

  Silence falls over me, and I open my eyes. Her eyes, so like mine in shape but a deep, dark brown, stare at me. “Is something wrong, Banana?”

  I shrug and take another needed sip. “Can’t a girl miss her mother?”

  “Of course she can.” She cups my cheek with her cool hand. My mom’s skin is always cool. “Only, I know my baby and something’s upsetting you.”