“What are you doing?”
“I’m reciting all Reggie White’s stats so I can pretend that I’m not on the verge of coming before you even pull my dick out of my pants.”
The hand in my hair tightens. His other hand lands on the nape of my neck. I can feel his fingers flex against my skin as if he’s got a thin leash on his excitement.
“Just wait. It gets better.” He’s so large and so rigid that it’s almost a struggle to pull him out of his jeans and the confines of his boxer briefs.
“I’m trying to tell myself it’s going to be awful so that I can last longer than six seconds,” he groans.
His cock is velvet soft, like a rod of steel wrapped in the finest silk. I lean in and run my nose along the edge of it. The musk of his sex invades my lungs. I have never been so turned on. I want to drop a hand between my legs, because now the ache down there isn’t from pain, it’s from need.
I lap at the tip, licking away the salty evidence of his arousal.
“Ellie, baby,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You’re killing me.”
Beneath my hands, his legs tremble with the effort to stay still and not ram his hips forward. Have I ever felt this powerful? This machine of a man shakes with desire, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part. My heart swells at his response. I open my mouth and take him in.
“Fuck. Fuck.” It’s a curse, or maybe a prayer, and his control snaps.
His hand winds into my hair to pull me closer, to hold me still while he helplessly jacks his dick into my mouth. The shaft seems to thicken, getting larger and harder. His grip is tight. With another guy, I might have jerked back, but this one? I want him to remember this—remember me. I suck with more force, twisting my wrist in tight quick movements.
I'm kneeling on the floor of a tiny closet in a dingy college bar. My tights are likely ruined, but I don't care. I don't feel dirty. I feel great. Amazing.
The musk of his groin, the heated scent of his body and his arousal smells intoxicating. The heavy weight of his cock on my tongue, filling my mouth, pushing all the way back in jerky out-of-control motions has me so turned on that I’m drenching my panties. If I didn’t need both hands to do this right, I’d have one between my legs.
“Jesus, Ellie, baby,” he pants. “I’m going to come.”
He tries to pull away, but I follow him, sucking and licking. I refuse to let him go. He releases one long groan and gives up. He jerks against my mouth, his seed jetting down my throat and coating my tongue. As I swallow him down, he tells me how good this is, how good I am, how he can’t believe how fucking good this feels.
When he’s stopped coming, he reaches down to pull me against him. Uncaring that he’s come into my mouth, he kisses me. No, he ravages me. His hands tangle in my hair as he licks inside my mouth, tasting himself, tasting us.
“I can't believe I'm the only one who has ever done that for you,” I murmur when he lifts his head from mine and tucks me against his chest. His heart thunders in my ear. It may be wrong to be with him, but there’s no possible way for me to stay away. I’m an addict and he’s my fix.
“Believe it.” He continues to pet me, smoothing my hair down the back of my neck and over my shoulders. His chin rubs against the crown of my head. “Are you sure we can't have sex, because I don't care that it's a particular time of month.”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m sure. No sex while I’m—you know.”
“Sadly, I do.” He sighs. “Why?”
“Because it’s messy.”
“So, we do it in the shower,” he pleads.
I shake my head. “No, your first time should not be in the shower.”
“I’m a guy,” Knox reminds me. “I don’t need candles and shit. I just need you.”
The evidence of his need grows between us. “I thought you were good at waiting.”
He grunts. “I never had your mouth around me before. Eat a lot of protein this week. You’ll need your energy next Saturday.”
This time it’s my turn to groan. “You sound like you have big plans.”
“You have no idea,” he whispers.
24
Ellie
Week 3: Warriors 2-0
The pounding on the door won’t stop. I try to shove my head under the covers, but the asshole outside our apartment doesn't have a quit button. Hopefully Riley will crush the persistent intruder with her sewing machine.
“Ellie, I know you're in there.” The deep voice sounds vaguely familiar, but who can tell through the layers of blankets I have thrown over my head.
“Go away!” I yell and throw the pillow at the door. It slumps to the floor before it even reaches the door. Sad. I didn't even get the ability to throw a pillow. I slide further down under the covers as another cramp hits me. Gah. I'm not sure why it's more painful this month than in past months, but even swallowing four Advil has done nothing for me.
I spent Sunday in a daze. Knox and I sat in his apartment watching the pro games, holding each other’s hands, and kissing until we were so turned on, I felt like we could have lit the entire campus. But Monday I’m too ill to get out of bed.
The banging mercifully stops and the door latch to my bedroom clicks.
Must be Riley.
“I'm dying, Riley. I think my body wants to kill me. Would you mind picking up my pillow, putting it over my face, and ending my misery?”
I hear the faint sound of the cotton getting swept off the floor and then the soft plop of my pillow at the head of my bed.
“I never realized you could be this dramatic. If you get tired of your English classes, I think the theatre department has missed out on a talent like yours.”
The deep rumble of Knox's voice startles me. I kick at the blankets, but they seem determined to entangle me. I end up tossing and turning until I'm a pretzel shaped mound of covers. He chuckles, and then reaches out and slowly frees me from my prison.
“How did you get in?” I scowl and try to ignore the cartwheels my heart turns.
“Riley let me in. I explained to her that I'd left my playbook in your backpack.”
“That's a lie.” I push up on one arm and notice that he's undressing. His shoes are toed off and he's pulling his T-shirt over his head. His entire wardrobe must be Warriors workout gear, cargo shorts, and flip flops. “Why are you taking your clothes off?”
“Because it's more comfortable.” His hands are at his buckle when alarm bells start going off.
“Not your shorts!” I fling my hand out. “I draw the line at your shorts.”
He grins, and I realize I just invited him into bed with me. Falling back onto the pillow, I give in. The pain in my abdomen has sapped all my energy. “Fine. Undress. You'll do what you want anyway.”
The metal of his heavy buckle hits the floor, and I try to suppress the shivers of glee at the sound.
“Shit, your bed is small,” he says as he climbs under the covers.
“Maybe you're too big,” I toss back.
His body rumbles as he laughs. “No such thing.”
Then he starts rearranging me. He turns me so I face the wall and slides a big muscular arm under mine. His hard biceps turns out to be a surprisingly comfortable pillow. At my back, his body curls around mine, his knees bending to fit into the crook of my bent legs, the top of my head under his chin. His other big hand settles on my stomach, his pinkie rubbing against the lace waistband of my panties. And just like that, the heat of his body starts to invade mine, easing my aches, soothing away the cramps.
His breath is steady and even, and I find myself matching him. There's absolutely nothing erotic about his touch. It's meant to be comforting—and it is. He's like a giant heating pad. His hand makes broad, slow circles around my stomach.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Jack mentioned during film that you weren’t feeling well.”
“So, you came over here and pounded on my door?”
“Someone's got to take care of you. Your broth
er thinks you’re strong, but even the strongest people need someone to lean on. Besides, this is my job. Not your brother's.”
“What's your job?” My words start to slur together as he strokes me into a stupor.
“Taking care of you is my job. Has been since I first laid eyes on you.”
His certainty in the way everything is supposed to be starts to rub off, because I don’t question him. Or it’s possible that with each sweep of his hand, I lose brain cells to his comfort. “Speaking of Jack, how is he?”
Frustrated, I think. To Knox, I say, “Fine. He’s not happy with the poli sci course, but I don’t know who in that class is.” It’s hard for me too. It’s even harder to write two papers for that darn thing. “There’s no attendance policy, because if you don’t show up for even one class, you’re lost.”
“Is that what Jack says?” Knox murmurs against the back of my neck.
My brain feels scrambled by his nearness, but I manage to eke out a half truth. “That’s what everyone says.”
The post class complaining is enormous. One girl I sit near writes about a book worth of notes, but at the end of class she looks defeated. Jack hasn’t taken a single note. He sits about twenty rows below me, his hands folded together, staring straight at the teacher. I can’t see his eyes, but my guess is that defeat is too mild of an emotion for what he feels, as the teacher drones on about Bayesian and Nash equilibrium and Pareto efficiencies.
I used Jack’s password to login to his account this week, and had to change at least half of his answers to a worksheet. The worksheets are designed to help us formulate our end of the semester papers and aren’t graded, but I didn’t want the professor to look back and wonder why there’s such a disparity between Jack’s paper and his semester coursework.
“What about his tutor?”
“He says she’s too busy trying to sleep with him, and since he turned her down, she’s not been very helpful.”
“Hmm.” His chest rumbles against my back. “He should bring that up to Brian Newsome. He’s the associate director for football student services. Brian would find Jack a different tutor.”
“No,” I twist in his arms. Jack would not want anyone in the program to know he’s struggling. “And don’t you say anything either.” He’s silent too long. “Please, Knox.”
“All right, baby. I won’t, but just because he’s having problems with class doesn’t mean he’s getting kicked off the team.”
“He’s new. Let him get this one semester under his belt.”
Knox turns me back over, tucking his large knees behind mine and resting his chin on the top of my head. “I won’t say anything. Now, why don’t you get some sleep?”
That sounds like the best suggestion ever.
•••
I wake up with his dick nestled against my ass and his big hand around my waist. One jerk of his thumb and he’d be touching my breast. His hand is so freaking large and there’s a tree trunk shoving its way into my panties. I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t pushed back against the rod of steel or exhaled extra hard to see if I could move his fingers closer to my aching nipple.
“You need to get out of this bed within five minutes, or you’ll be breaking the seal,” he growls in my ear. “That time of the month or not.”
It takes all my will, but I manage to scramble out of the bed. Somewhere in the middle of the night, we moved so that he leaned against the wall and I faced the door.
“Where’s Riley? What time is it?” I scoop my wayward hair out of my face and grope around for my phone to check the time.
“Riley is in her room, and it’s about ten.”
“Ten!” I yelp. “We’ve slept for like five hours.”
“Yup,” he says with a complete lack of concern.
“I’m hungry.” I try to smooth down my hair. Knox’s smile tells me I’m not doing a very good job of it. He rolls out of bed, a lithe mountain lion. His muscles flex and extend as he stalks toward me.
“You look beautiful.” He pulls me against him and nuzzles his face into the side of my neck. Predictably, I want to melt.
I shove away from him. “I need to use the bathroom.” I need some distance.
“Me, too.” There’s a naughty look in his eyes.
“Alone.”
He puts on a fake pout as I push away.
“I’ll order some food. What are you interested in?”
I rub my empty stomach. “Anything,” I say truthfully. “As long as there’s a lot of it.”
On my way to the bathroom, I knock on Riley’s door. The humming stops. I still think it sounds like a big old vibrator. I wonder if she needs one given that she hasn’t hooked up with anyone since we’ve lived together, not even cute Facebook boy, who apparently doesn’t understand that Riley is the best thing he could ever hope to have.
“Knox is ordering food. Do you want any?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“His treat,” I add.
“Um, okay, yeah, I could use something.”
Sometimes I forget that Riley’s a scholarship student, and truth be told, it’s not like I have a lot of extra cash lying around. My mom sends me money monthly, but it’s just enough for food and laundry. I should get a job, but between my course load and Jack’s extra classes, I’m not sure where I’d find the time.
After I’m done taking care of my business in the bathroom, I set out plates and glasses while Knox goes down to the front of the apartment to pay the delivery guy.
“Food’s here.” He sets two large plastic bags on the table and unpacks about ten boxes. At my raised eyebrows, he shrugs. “I was hungry. You’re hungry. You can’t ever have too much Chinese.”
“God, late night egg rolls. You are the bomb dot com.” Riley comes streaking out of the bedroom. Her hair is tied up on the top of her head like a kewpie doll, but I don’t look much better with my five-hour bedhead, my comfy pajama bottoms, and Jack’s old T-shirt from high school.
“You need a new shirt.” Knox hooks his finger into my collar and pulls me to him.
“A Warriors shirt?” I press my lips together to suppress a smile.
“A specific Warriors shirt.”
“Why don’t you take yours off right now and give it to her,” Riley suggests and waggles her eyebrows.
“Good idea.” He whips it off and hands it to me. Riley gives a wolf whistle. Knox sits at the table and starts shoveling food onto his plate.
It takes me a while to stop drooling, and I have to kick Riley under the table to get her to tear her eyes away from Knox’s perfectly sculpted chest.
Sorry she mouths at me, but I can’t really be mad. His body is a work of art.
“You’re right about never having too much Chinese,” Riley says between bites of Kung Pao chicken. “Once, my mom made this huge dish of Singapore noodles, and my dad teased her that we had enough to feed the entire city of Singapore. But she had the last laugh when the next day we had a terrible storm and it knocked out our power. We still had enough Singapore noodles to last us the entire day.”
“There’s no such thing as too much food,” Knox agrees. “My brother and I ate enough that my mom had to go to the grocery store twice a week to buy milk. We’d drink a gallon every couple of days.”
“You have a brother?” Riley asks.
“Twin,” I interject. “Knox says they’re identical.”
“Everyone says we’re identical because we are.” Knox pulls out his phone and flips open his photo album. “See.”
Riley’s mouth drops open a little. “God, there are two of you? How is that at all fair? And which one is you?”
“He’s the one in the red board shorts.” I point to Knox in the picture. “His brother is the one with the soft chin.”
“Soft chin? They have the same chin. They’re i-den-ti-cal,” Riley scoffs.
Knox shakes his head and turns to me. “It’s freaky how you can tell.”
I don’t get how it’s so weir
d. They’re clearly two different people. Riley scrolls through more photos. There are dozens of shots with Knox and his brother—smiling, goofing around, play fighting. Several with their parents. It’s clear their family is a loving one. At Knox’s urging, Riley pulls out her phone and shows us pictures of her two younger brothers and her parents, who look almost young enough to be her siblings.
“They were teenagers when they had me,” Riley explains. “They’re only thirty-eight now. Mom says it’s weird because most of her peers just now have kids, and they’re almost empty nesters.”
“You have a gorgeous family, Riles.” I don’t even bother to hide my envy.
“Thanks. We don’t have a lot, but we’ve got each other.” She shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Trite but true.”
They both look at me as if I’m going to whip out my phone and show off my little family album, but there wouldn’t be any pictures of me and my parents in them. The only ones I keep are those of Jack and me.
I wipe my mouth. “I’m done for the night. Thanks for the food, Knox.”
“No problem,” he says easily. Rising, he helps me clear the plates. Riley tidies up what few leftovers we have and then disappears into her bedroom. Knox dries while I wash.
“Didn’t want to share any pictures of your own?” Knox asks quietly.
I hesitate because my family isn’t like Riley or Knox’s. My first inclination is to shut him down, but I know he doesn’t deserve that. “My dad is the type that if Jack won the Heisman, he'd wonder why Jack didn't get more votes.”
Knox keeps drying. “And you? What would he think of you?”
“He doesn’t.” I brace my hands on the edge of the kitchen sink, not enjoying the feelings that Knox’s questions dredge up. “My dad was this great college player. He had these dreams of going pro, but he literally could never make the cut. With Jack, he gets to live out his dream again. With me?”
I push away from the sink and turn to face Knox. He gazes at me with steady compassion, but no pity. I’m grateful for that because I think I would have kicked him out if he felt sorry for me. “When he had Jack, he thought he’d get to mold him into this awesome player, but Jack didn’t grow until like the tenth grade. He looked short and skinny. I wanted my dad to be proud of me so I played, too.”
Sacked (Gridiron #1) Page 17