Block Shot: A HOOPS Novel

by Kennedy Ryan

  Since elementary school I’ve been focused. Perfect attendance from kindergarten until high school graduation. Charity work, skipped grades, extracurricular activities, and always the highest GPA. I’ve dated very little and ended any relationship as soon as it started distracting me.

  The guy I’ve crushed on since freshman year wants me. I have no idea why or how, but he does. His racing heart beneath my hand attests to it. What if tonight, for one damn night, I do what I want to do instead of what is required? I don’t know how all the pieces fit together, but I do know I’ve denied myself many things over the years pursuing my goals. I want this. I want him, and for once, I’m going to indulge.

  “Okay,” I say, my answer clearer than my thoughts.

  Surprise and relief skitter across his expression, and he isn’t the guy always outfitted in assurance, surrounded by campus elites well beyond my social reach. It’s just us, Jared and Banner. When I say yes, he looks at me like this is too good, like I’m too good to be true, too. He recovers quickly, resuming control, sliding his hands down my back.

  “Then you owe me a kiss.” Jared’s words slide over me, and every cell in my body seems to lift in his direction, straining for another syllable from those lips.

  “I do?” I force myself to meet his hooded stare. “I kissed you.”

  “No, I kissed you. Your turn.”

  I’m not short, but at six-three, Jared’s still taller. If he doesn’t bend, I have to tip up on my toes to reach him.

  He doesn’t bend.

  Drawing in a steadying breath that does no good because I remain unsteady, I lift on the balls of my feet and take his bottom lip between both of mine. I’m not as confident as he was. I suck softly, tentatively, and his chest lifts, breath drawn sharply through his nostrils. He squeezes me tighter but otherwise gives no indication that I’m affecting him.

  But I am.

  Suddenly, his body is giving him away, telling me how much he wants this. How much he wants me, and every part of him—his dick like stone pressing into me, his hands clenching, the measured breaths—every part of him tells me he wants this badly.

  I loop my arms around his neck and press my breasts into him, slipping my fingers into the smooth fair pelt of hair. I hold his head exactly where I want it and dive into his mouth, sucking his tongue the way he did mine, licking at the interior. I said we aren’t animals, but I’m like a savage with my first taste of blood. I’m straining up, biting, grunting at the tangy taste of him. At the perfect firm and soft of his mouth. The kiss turns wet and hot and feral.

  “Shit,” he mutters, dragging his open mouth over my jaw. “Yeah. Give me all of that.”

  He walks us backward in slow steps while his hands cup my breasts.

  “Great tits, Ban,” he breathes into me. Even through my sweatshirt, my nipples bud under the fingers rubbing and twisting and tweaking.

  We’ve reached the back room, and he pauses at the entrance, pressing me into the doorjamb. The wood digs into my back, the discomfort counterpoint to all the pleasure at my front. Jared rests against me, the hardened length of him nudging between my legs. He unfastens the button and zip of my jeans, slips his hand past my panties to spread my lips and rub my clit. It’s sudden and electric and aggressive—the most shocking pleasure I’ve ever experienced. I full-body quiver, and my head bangs against the wood behind me as I grind helplessly into his hand.

  “I want in here,” he says, breath heaving. “But I want you to come first. Have you ever come standing up?”

  I comb through the sensual fog of my memories for the times I’ve come. The few boyfriends I’ve had weren’t skilled lovers, or at least they didn’t waste their skills on me. Eyes closed, I shake my head.

  “Well, you’re about to.” One thick finger penetrates me.

  “Ahhh.” My knees tremble.

  His thumb strokes my clit, and he adds another finger and then a third. I whimper, biting my lip to stop the moans. In the quiet, I hear the sounds of my wetness as he strokes and rubs and his fingers possess me. He bends to bite my breast, the pleasure-pain sharp even through my clothes, and I burst. I wail, and it echoes in the laundromat, blending with the swish and tumble of clothes in the machines. My backbone melts. The only thing keeping me upright is his hand between my legs.

  “God, yes, Banner,” he says. “Touch me.”

  “Touch you where?” I’m slurring like a drunk woman, intoxicated by his fingers and his mouth and his heart racing for me.

  “Where do you think?” He laughs, his eyes lit with humor and passion. He drags my hand to his dick. I squeeze without thinking, and he drops his head so our temples kiss. He’s long and thick and hard in my hand through the denim. He spears his fingers into my hair.

  “Pull on it,” he gasps. “Stroke me. Roll my balls.”

  “Um . . . are you always this bossy?”

  He angles his head until our glances collide and lock.

  “Fuck me and find out.”

  I couldn’t say no with a gun to my head, I want it so much, but for a moment I freeze. Wanting something badly, secretly, for so long that suddenly drops into your lap is disconcerting.

  “Banner, don’t . . .” He squeezes his eyes shut, and his fingers twist tighter in my hair. “Stop thinking and just say yes.”

  He’s right. Indulge.

  “Yes.”

  My whispered consent drifts between us like a feather, but Jared doesn’t wait for it to hit the floor before he pounces, capturing my mouth and touching me everywhere.

  He kicks the door closed, blocking out the spin cycle of my last load for the night. I’m in a cloud, a daze, my body barely solvent as he walks me backward, one hand on my hip, guiding me, the other at my neck, holding me steady while he ravages my mouth. The backs of my knees hit the couch, and I fall onto the lumpy cushions. How many nights have we studied here? Talked here? Laughed? And I never knew this was brewing inside of him. I never suspected he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

  He stares down at me and raises his arms, pulls the hoodie over his head. The T-shirt beneath strains across his chest. He tugs again and the T-shirt is gone.

  Ave Maria and good God in heaven.

  I’ve never seen a chest and abs and arms like this in real life, this close, in the flesh, not on a screen. Sculpted and carved and chiseled and all the words that call to mind cut and molded into a work of art. Unselfconscious, comfortable in his flawless skin, Jared slides his jeans down over lean hips and muscular legs. My eyes scroll over every inch of him. I’m covetous and awed.

  “Wow.” I don’t mean to say it aloud.

  He pauses, hand at his briefs, and cocks a brow. “Did you say wow?”

  I forgot about this part. The brain-numbing pleasure dimmed my rational thought. I didn’t consider that sex typically happens, for the most part, naked. And though Jared Foster is a work of art, I am not.

  Everything jiggled when I fucked her.

  Like tiny stilettos, Byron’s words boomerang from the past, leaving a million tears in my self-esteem as they pass through. That passion, that deep desire in Jared’s eyes, will it die? Will it disappear when he sees me? My jiggly parts? My un-sculpted body? I’ve had it less than an hour, that look in his eyes, the anticipation of wanting me. No way I can keep it, sustain it if he sees me. I just want to hold on to it a bit longer.

  “Let’s turn out the lights.”

  4

  Jared

  “Let’s turn out the lights.”

  Her whispered request deflates the moment. I’m so close to having Banner Morales for the first time, and she thinks we’ll turn out the lights? No way we’re fucking in the dark.

  “Hell no.”

  Disappointment scurries across her pretty face at my refusal.

  God, she has such a pretty face.

  I hate that someone made her doubt herself, the only person out of hundreds to answer our asshole professor in Russian from the very back of a crowded lecture hall. Who challenged and
stretched the greatest minds at Kerrington with her curiosity and keen intellect. I’ve never seen her anything but badass until tonight. I’ve wanted Banner for a long time, and with the New York internship looming, I will have her. I’ll make her want me so much, it won’t matter how many states separate us next semester.

  “Then it’s a no.” She bites her lip and glances at my mouth one more time like she’ll miss it. If she feels regret, she clears her throat and chases it away, standing from the couch. “We should probably hit the books anyway.”

  She moves to step around me, but I catch her wrist and pull her flush against my bare chest. She looks up at me, our wills clashing, both determined to get our way. Our eyes gridlock, neither of us yielding, but underneath her resolve, a shadow of something else lurks.

  Fear? Insecurity? As much time as we’ve spent together this semester, I don’t really know her well enough to be sure. And I want to know Banner. Badly.

  Fuck a fat girl.

  Prescott’s harsh words from earlier return to mock me. For a moment, guilt assails me. He ordered me to have sex with Banner for admission to The Pride, and this same night I’m doing just that. But not for him, not for that. I’ve walked away from The Pride.

  Has she heard things like that before? Maybe not to her face. Maybe subtly been made to feel like she’s not sexy as hell. But to me, she is. I honestly don’t know what’s under all those layers Banner wears, but those aren’t the layers I care about. I want to peel back her surface and study her soul.

  Study her soul? What the hell? I don’t recognize myself. Who is this guy? And who gave his balls to Banner Morales?

  I have to admit I am different with Banner because she’s different. I’m not great boyfriend material. Just ask Cindy. I’m not very attentive, but when I’m with Banner, it’s hard to focus on anything else. I lose interest quickly, but I find myself thinking about things Banner said, about her opinions, days later. She fascinates me without even really trying. I want to know her as intimately as possible.

  Her beautiful same-size lips settle into an immovable line. We stand here like she’s waiting for my decision, but she holds all the power. The ball is still in her court because she’s willing to walk away from this, to go back to our books and act like this never happened, but I’m not. I’ve had sex with a lot of girls. The most gorgeous girls on campus and beyond, but I’ve never had Banner, and right now I want her more than everything. More than all the Cindy’s combined. Important rule of negotiation. Know what you’re willing to give up before you start. One thing I know for sure: I’m not willing to give up on this.

  I stretch my arm toward the wall and turn out the lights.

  With the light snuffed out, my other senses rise, hunting for her in the dark. The smell of her hair and her quick, shallow breaths. My sight adjusts until the heavy black curtain completely obscuring her fades to gray. Light from the outer room spills under the door, revealing just the shape, the outline of her, but still camouflaging details. I cup her cheek, taking a moment to appreciate the softness of her skin, the silky hair brushing my knuckles. I’m not an idiot. She wants the lights out because she’s self-conscious, but from my perspective, she has nothing to be ashamed of.

  “I think you’re beautiful, Ban.”

  “You do?” she asks, her voice hushed.

  My words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise her, because I don’t say shit like that to girls. The prettiest ones usually seem to already know, which makes any admiration I’d express redundant. But Banner . . . she’s so beautiful, and I’m not sure she knows.

  “I do.” I push the hair away from her face.

  “Uh . . . thank you.” Her laugh isn’t much more than a breath. “The lights are out, so I’m not sure that compliment counts.”

  “I know your face by heart. You have seven freckles here.” I swipe a finger over the straight bridge of her nose and drift down to caress her full lips and the tiny dent in her cheek her smile displays. “And a dimple right here.”

  I explore the smooth skin of her nape, under a heavy fall of hair.

  “Now I want to know your body, too,” I say softly. “Take off your clothes for me, Banner.”

  After a sharply indrawn breath, she raises her arms. The rustle of her clothes—the sweatshirt, jeans, socks, shoes—being discarded whisper in the dark. I approximate her by touch, reaching for her arms and closing my fingers around the softness, the velvety skin. I lower my head and run my nose along her neck, discovering.

  “You always smell so good.” I’ve wanted to tell her that since the first night we studied here.

  “Pretty Pastel,” she replies, her laugh low, nervous.

  “What?” I pause.

  “The smell. It’s my dryer sheets. The scent is Pretty Pastel.”

  “I like it.” I resume my exploration, running a palm over her shoulder, her collarbone until I find the soft, full weight of her breasts, testing them in my hands, cupping them, holding them, brushing the nipples with my thumbs until they pebble and her breaths come harshly.

  “You like that?” I ask.

  I see her head nod in the semi-darkness. “Yeah. It feels good.”

  Her touch startles me in the best way, her hand finding my face, traveling over my mouth, eyes, and hair. I sense her approach, feel tiny pants of breath on my lips, and anticipation has me panting, too, shortens my breath and sharpens my senses. Her mouth seeks mine, eager and sweet when she kisses me. Her pleasure, her excitement matches, answers, fans mine.

  I guide her back down to the couch, and with a hand at her shoulder, urge her to stretch out. I’d shave points off my GPA for a glimpse of her, but she doesn’t want that. I get it, so I settle for a taste.

  At first I just rub my lips over her nipples, back and forth until they tighten and lift under my mouth, and then I wrap my lips around the tip, stretch open to encompass the full swell. Suck, lick, rub. Suck, lick, rub. Suck, lick, rub. I set a sensual rhythm that incites us both.

  “Oh.” Every sound she makes is a mating call.

  I walk my hands down her sides, over her waist, and roll the pads of my fingers through the short hairs sheltering her pussy. I find the nub crowning her slit and caress it, varying the pace from swift and urgent to agonizingly slow. Her restraint, her tenuous control is palpable, and I want to shatter it. I scoot to the other end of the couch and carefully slide one of her legs off the cushion, cracking her open. I fit my shoulders between her thighs and lower my head. For a moment, I just blow over her wet flesh, and while I’m breathing out, I’m breathing her in.

  Sometimes a dish carries a scent so rich you taste it before it hits your tongue. Your olfactory sense preludes your taste buds. That’s Banner’s pussy, so sweet and musky it’s as much flavor as scent, and I taste her before even taking my first bite, my first sip. Before my tongue swipes through the soaked silky folds. I spread her, and for a few seconds content myself by simply rubbing my lips between hers, gathering her wetness and licking it away.

  “Hěn hào chī,” I say softly, a wicked grin she can’t see to appreciate stamped on my face.

  Very delicious.

  “Oh my God.” A laugh swallows her gasp. Her knees jerk against my head, but I press them open wider, determined that she may have denied me sight, but I’ll taste; I’ll eat as much as I want. I feast between her legs, sloppily, roughly, famished. My face is wet, and my tongue aches by the time I’m done. She’s making these little sobbing sounds that have me so close to spilling all over her belly. Her hands rifle through my hair, scraping my scalp while she grinds her pussy in my face.

  “Chinga,” she whispers.

  “What’d you say?” I demand, lifting my head.

  A silence follows before she answers.

  “Nothing,” she replies hastily. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s Spanish?” I persist. “What does it mean?”

  “Jared,” she groans. “Don’t.”

  “Tell me or I leave you just like th
is.”

  It’s an empty threat because leaving her “just like this” means leaving me “just like this,” and there’s no way this ends any way other than me inside her.

  “What’s chinga mean, Ban?”

  “It means . . .” There’s resignation and reluctance in her sigh. “Fuck. It means fuck, okay?”

  “Ahhh, like fuck,” I say, lowering my head and closing my mouth over her clit again. “That feels good?”

  “Oh, God,” she pants. “Yeah.”

  “Like fuck . . .” I drag my tongue from her asshole to the top of her slit “. . . Don’t stop?”

  “Please,” she begs, her fingers twisting in my hair. “Please, don’t stop.”

  I fumble around on the floor until I find my jeans and reach into the pocket for my wallet. This, I’ve done in the dark. I could put on a condom in a coma.

  The narrowness of the sofa makes it awkward, so I sit on the couch, find her in the dark, and tug her to her knees. And the same way I felt her pleasure, I feel her freeze and then pull back, away.

  “Uh, no.” She clears her throat. “You get on top.”

  Whatever. On top. Underneath. On the side. In is all I care about right now. Back on my knees at the end of the couch, I bring her legs over my shoulders. I touch her again, and she’s still dripping wet, slick, hot. I poise myself at her entrance, and though we can’t see each other, I look to where I know her eyes should be, and I sense her looking where mine should be. And even in the dark, I think we see each other. There’s an intimacy to the darkness. I see less of her, but I somehow feel this more deeply. Every smell, every sound, every texture becomes a clue to her pleasure. I plunge in, and we both gasp. She clamps around me. Is she a virgin? I didn’t even think to ask. I should have.

  “You okay, Ban? You’ve . . . uh, done this before, right?”

  “Yes, it’s just . . . just been awhile. Is everything okay?”

  Okay? Is nirvana okay? Is utopia okay? Because that is what Banner’s tight-fisted pussy feels like around my hungry cock. Like someone tossed paradise and heaven into a blender to make this moment.