by Sara Ney
Laurel laughs at our bickering. “Maybe I can take it back and exchange it?”
“Yeah, let’s do that. I think I could use some stuff for the bedroom.”
Bedroom.
I flush at the word and all the things we’re going to do in there, night after night. Alone.
She grins. “Whatever you want, baby.”
“Baby?” Oz snorts. “Jesus, even Jameson doesn’t call me that.”
Gunderson rolls his eyes. “That’s because she calls you babe and sweetie. Gag.”
Oz shoves him so he falls backward onto the couch. “Shut up fuckwit, I love being called sweetie. It’s my favorite.”
Laurel interrupts their arguing. “Hey guys, I hate to intrude on your love fest, but is the couch the last of our stuff?”
“Yup, this is it,” I say. “We don’t have much.”
“Maybe not.” She sidles up to me, sliding an arm around my waist and hugging me. “But it’s ours.”
“Can I vomit now?” Gunderson snorts. “I can’t fucking believe you’re living together.”
“Hey,” Oz says. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. In case you fucking forgot, New Guy here gets to have sex twenty-four hours a day while you’re at home waiting for your one-nighter-a-week to try to score.”
“Is the bed already set up? I could use a nap,” Gunderson huffs.
It is, and has already been broken in—twice. “You’re not takin’ a nap in our house. Get the fuck out.”
He rises, smacking Oz on the way to the door. “Is this the thanks I get for moving you into your new place?”
“You moved one couch, and didn’t even help load it.”
“Fine, but I get some credit for moral support.”
Oz nudges him in the stomach. “No you don’t.” Gives him a shove onto the porch. “Let’s go, I have to pick Jameson up. We’re going to dinner and I need a shower so I can trim my balls.”
“Dude, that’s way too much information.”
“How? I’m telling you, it makes my dick look bigger when I trim my ball fro.”
“Sorry about that.” I shut the door behind them. Lean against it. “I don’t know what Gunderson is going to do when Osborne and Daniels graduate at semester.”
My girlfriend’s russet eyebrow quirks. “I can tell you what he’s going to do: he’s going to follow you around like a puppy dog instead until you’re the one graduating.”
Two semesters that once seemed like they were taking an eternity to get here are now flying by too fast.
“God I hope not.”
I flop down on the couch, exhausted, legs spread, hands on my thighs.
My dad might not have been thrilled when I announced I was moving in with my girlfriend after only dating her for six months, but my mother was—sent us a few hundred bucks cash so we could swing a new mattress and couch.
Laurel eyes me on that couch, tilting her head as she studies me, a blush creeping up her neck. Her cheeks get red.
“What?” I blurt out.
“I like looking at you in our living room. It’s sexy to say that.” She pauses. “We can do whatever we want, when we want.”
My dick twitches when she lifts the hem of her sweatshirt and pulls it off.
She’s not wearing a bra. “When do you have practice?”
I’m already working the button of my jeans. “Five o’clock.”
It’s three thirty.
Laurel’s panties come off, a pink puddle on the hardwood floor, at the same time I shove my pants down. Kick them off and yank off my shirt just as she climbs on top, straddling me with her tits in my face.
Right where I fucking love them.
I suck in when she eases herself onto me, her head already tipped back, gripping the back of the couch as she lifts herself up and down on my shaft.
I slap her ass, palming it. Squeezing.
Slap it again to prompt her into action, get her to move faster.
“Like that?” She licks my ear. “You like that, baby?”
“Yes I fucking like that,” I growl. Wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her down, impaling her.
“God I fuckin’ love you.” I’m pushing and pulling her along my cock now, wanting to draw the whole thing out but also wanting to dump my load inside her.
“I think I’m going to love having couch sex.” She pants, eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Do you think we need more pretty pillows?”
“Fuck pillows.” My core muscles work overtime, glutes clenching to thrust up. One more thrust and I rise, still inside her. Set her in the center of the sofa, drag her ass to the edge of the cushion. Hook my arms under her calves, hauling her up. Pound into her.
But.
Jesus, I can’t stand not having my tongue in her mouth.
Pull her to the floor, leaning in, latching my lips on hers, kisses sloppy. Hump the shit out of her right there on the rug, just like I think about doing every second of every goddamn day.
“Oh God, I love you,” she whines. “Yes, just like that, just like that, don’t stop,” she chants. Chants like she always does, every time we fuck. Have sex.
Make love.
“Shit baby, you’re so beautiful,” I croon, the telltale tightening of my balls sending a shockwave up my spine.
“I love you.” She never gets tired of saying it, and I never get tired of hearing it. Her fantastic boobs bounce as I thrust into her hard, and I can’t believe this is my new reality.
This pretty, intelligent woman loves me.
Wants to live with me.
Is my fucking girlfriend.
I’m going to pinch myself every day thanking my maker for those stupid fucking posters in the quad, because if not for that sign and those douchebags, I wouldn’t be screwing Laurel on the floor of our shitty off-campus rental.
Our bodies.
Our breathing.
Notre maison. Our house.
I don’t know what will happen after we both graduate next spring, if I’ll move back to Louisiana or…someplace else, but we both know we want to be together.
And knowing that is enough.
THE END
JOCK ROW
Scarlett is always the sensible one: Always the sober driver. The planner. The one keeping her friends out of trouble.
Week-after-week, she hits Jock Row—the off-campus housing block for student athletes, and the universities hottest party scene—with her friends. Week-after-week, it’s Scarlett’s job to get her friends home safe, and guys out of their pants.
The job isn’t easy, and gets her noticed for all the wrong reasons; gets her thrown out and banned from The Row.
No guy wants a girl around who keeps their jock friends from getting laid.
Sterling “Rowdy” Wade is the star short-stop for the university’s baseball team—and the unlucky bastard who drew the short straw: keep Miss Goody Two Shoes out of the Baseball House. But week-after-week Scarlett returns, determined to get inside...
Releasing early 2018
Exclusive, unedited excerpt.
Scarlett
A tap hits my shoulder and I turn.
Turn to face one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen in person, in my life; tall, tan, and ridiculously good-looking.
His full pouty lips—better suited for a male model—are moving, his words competing with the loud music and laughter.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I shout over the music.
He leans down, broad shoulders dipping and brushing mine as his exquisite mouth speaks slowly near my ear. “I said, sorry little cock-blocker, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
His deep baritone sends a shiver down my spine and,
Wait. What? “What did you just call me?”
“I called you cock. Blocker.” Without warning, he plucks the red plastic cup from my hand and tosses it to the floor, large hand wrapping to cuff my bicep, fingers wedged beneath my armpit.
I look down at his hand, shocked.
/> I look up, outraged. “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do that?”
“You’re going to have to leave. I’m kicking your ass out.”
Kicking me out? Is he serious?
I laugh, head tipped back. “Very funny asshole. Now let go of my arm, people are starting to stare.”
“Sorry ma’am, but you’ve disturbing the peace. I’ve been sent to escort you from the premises.”
Is this guy for real? My head tips back into a laugh. A nervous, giddy laugh usually reserved for moments when I don’t know how to react. Like when I’m called on in a crowded lecture hall.
Like at funerals.
Moments like this one.
“What are you, an undercover cop?”
His mouth curves into a wry smile. “No—I drew the short straw.”
The short straw? What the heck does that mean?
I hear him sigh. “It means I’m the unlucky bastard who has the privilege of kicking you out.”
Holy shit. He’s serious.
My eyes go down to his hand, still shackling my arm. I pull. “Let go of me you brute.”
I’m strong, but he’s stronger. “Sorry. The deal is, I have to get you outside.”
I don’t normally curse, but, “Fuck you!” Give my arm a yank, trying to get out of his grasp. Slowly begin to panic. “Get off me!”
“Christ, could you keep your voice down? Calm down, we can discuss this outside.”
“I’m not going outside with you alone!”
“Trust me, I’m not going to try anything.” He ushers me through the stifling crowd, toward the door, despite my protests. “I’ll keep my hands to myself and there will be plenty of witnesses. Promise.”
Two minutes later, I find myself on the covered porch, door slamming closed behind us with a bang, this big, bronze, hulk of a guy blocking my re-entry.
He changes his stance, spreads his legs and crosses his arms, my traitorous eyes fall on the sinewy muscles. Tan, toned and, “Look, I’m sure you’re a really nice girl, but you can’t keep coming into our house and getting in everyone’s business.”
The way he says nice girl makes it sound anything but.
“It’s not my fault those guys inside are drunken slobs and won’t keep their hands off my friends. I’m not letting them sleep with any of them—gross. I don’t care if they’re baseball players. I’m the sober driver—it’s my job to make sure everyone gets home okay.”
He shrugs. “Not my problem.”
“Well can I at least go back inside and tell my friends I’ve been kicked out?”
“Nope. I’m under strict orders not to let you back in.”
“Whose strict orders?”
“Mine.” He smirks and god is he cute. So cute I have to glance into the yard to stop myself from staring directly at his white smile, chiseled jaw and sparkling eyes.
“Please?” Jeez, now it sounds like I’m begging.
“Hell no.”
My arms cross definitely. “I’m not leaving this porch until you let me back in.”
“That’s fine; have a seat on the stairs.” He leans against the wooden siding on the house, next to the door. Removes his cell from the back pocket of his jeans, its screen illuminates his stupidly handsome face. “Be my guest.”
I eyeball him. “You’re really not going to let me back in?”
“Nope.”
“What if I promise to leave your friends alone?” I cross my fingers behind my back, putting on my most complacent smile. See? I can be agreeable!
His head gives a slow shake. Tsks. “It’s going to be a really long night if you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Begging to get back inside.”
“I’m not begging. I’m asking.”
His eyes leave the screen of his phone, raking me up and down with a dismissive brow. “It’s begging—I know what the difference is and it’s annoying.”
The skin on my neck feels hot, the telltale signs of a blush brightening my face with desperation. “If you don’t let me back inside, I’m…I’m calling the cops!”
“Again, be my guest.” He takes a loud, slurping sip of his beer. “Tell them Rowdy sent you.”
I stomp my foot, frustrated. “Ugh! Why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“Because you’re a nag?” He mumbles the word Jesus under his breath, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to lecture him on using the Lords name in vain, but I bit the words back instead. For once.
“I-I…I’m sorry. I just…” feel helpless out here on the porch.
His eyes narrow as he studies me. “Bet you were one of those girls in high school that used to raise your hand during class to ask for extra credit.”
My, “So?” slips out before I can stop it. What’s wrong with raising your hand and asking for extra credit?
“So. No one liked those girls.”
I flush again, loosing count of how many times I’ve turned bright red in the amount of time we’re been standing here.
Fake a scoff. “And you were one of those dumb jocks that barely passed their classes and cheated off girls like me.”
He spreads his arms, wing-span wide. “Yet here I am with a full ride to college. Imagine those odds.”
JOCK ROW
Releasing Early 2018
I was sad to see this book end; I have a soft spot in my heart for Rhett, and couldn’t get the love story inside these pages off my mind for days after closing the last chapter. I am a sucker for the underdog, which is why, in all three of these novels, there is a little something socially awkward about each and every one of my characters.
Not unlike myself.
Thank you for loving these characters as much as I do because of their “flaws.”
Thank you to my family, for tolerating my long hours of writing, the lack of dinner, and my lack of organization; I’m sorry I always forget milk.
To my assistant, Christine Kuttnauer, for always being honest, sometimes brutally so—I never know it’s needed until everything falls into place. Isn’t amazing how much we’ve grown in the past year? Incredible.
My publicist, Danielle Sanchez, and my agent, Kimberly Brower—thank you for taking a chance on me. I look forward to seeing what the future holds.
It’s not easy finding people who are honest with their feedback, but I couldn’t be more grateful for my Beta Readers: Author Amy Daws, Author SJ Sawyer, Laurie Darter, and Laurie Pepperling. Because of your input (and seventeen pages of notes), Rhett and Laurel’s story is stronger.
Megan Brinkman, Merci beaucoup pour le Francais translations. Did I get that right? Don’t answer that—I don’t want to know how bad I botched that on my own. E suis vraiment désolé.
Caitlyn Nelson (Editing by C Marie), please stop correcting these acknowledgments. I wanted to surprise you by doing the acknowledgment edits myself. How did I do? You’re more than an editor, you’re a magician. And to my proofreaders, Melinda Lazar and Ellie McLove—I had no hesitation turning this manuscript over to the formatter after you combed through it. For every misplaced comma, period, and overused word—thank you.
Who are the people who make the book beautiful, inside and out? Look no further than Sarah Hansen with Okay Creations, who nails it every damn time, and Julie Titus with JT Formatting for her attention to detail. Books should all be this gorgeous.
“My crew” at the Starbucks in Germantown, WI—you guys are awesome. I appreciate every time you’ve taken care of me, brought me my breakfast, gotten my water, brewed my latte, added extra ice, and let me put my feet up on your chairs. Rearranged your furniture to get comfortable, and pulled down the shades. YOU ARE THE BEST.
Lastly, I want to thank the one person who will never see this. Miss Alina, who I think about every single day and thank god for every night—I have no words to express what you meant to us. We love you still. www.owlsforowies.com
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series
, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte's, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
For more information about Sara Ney and her books, visit:
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Facebook Reader Group: Ney’s Little Liars
Other Titles by Sara
The Kiss and Make Up Series
Kissing in Cars
He Kissed Me First
A Kiss Like This
#ThreeLittleLies Series
Things Liars Say
Things Liars Hide
Things Liars Fake
How to Date a Douchebag Series
The Studying Hours
The Failing Hours
With M.E. Carter
FriendTrip
FriendTrip: WeddedBliss (a FriendTrip novella)
Kissmas Eve