Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  “Any progress with JJ?”

  She huffs an incredulous laugh. “Only in my dreams.”

  “Sometimes, that’s the best place for them,” I reflect, my gaze remaining on the field.

  My dreams have actually been calm—innocuous most nights. On nights when the memories are too strong, Bryson is there to comfort me because I haven’t slept alone in my bed since the practice I attended. Sleeping in his arms has become one of the things I look forward to each day. Physically, our relationship hasn’t progressed… but emotionally, I can feel myself opening up to him more each day. It’s growing organically in a way I never imagined possible at my age.

  “He’s not blind. He’ll come around, eventually.”

  “Doubtful, but it’s not going to keep me from being around all the time, reminding him of my presence.” She leans back on her elbows and tilts her face to the sun, trying to catch the limited rays. October is coming to an end, and heat from the sun is sparse these days.

  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have to be reminded, Ainsley. He’s well aware of you.”

  She looks at me with hope, gearing up to ask questions about my comment, but stops short when the same group of loud girls from last practice stumbles into the stands.

  “Ugh,” she groans.

  “Ignore them,” I say.

  Ten minutes later, I’m wishing I could take my own advice.

  “Number two is seriously hot,” one girl pants. “I’d love to grip that dark hair while I face-fuck him.”

  I cringe at her brashness. Where do these nasty girls even come from?

  “That’s Bryson Daniels,” Ainsley pipes in.

  The girls turn en masse, looking up at where we sit only two rows higher than them. From the looks on their faces, they didn’t even realize we were up here, but with the way they stumbled into the stands, it’s clear they’re not firing on all cylinders.

  “The Bryson Daniels?” the face-fucker asks.

  “The one and only,” my friend confirms. They all smile from ear to ear, privileged to information I’m not. My skin crawls and I rub at my forearms, trying to will the unease away.

  “This is Olivia, his girlfriend.” My head whips around and I glare at her, finding her thumb hitched in my direction.

  I do my best to keep from narrowing my eyes. I know we need to be a united front while speaking to these women, but it doesn’t keep me from wanting to pull handfuls of hair from Ainsley’s perfect little head for outing me.

  “He’s yours?” the young girl Liam was hanging all over a few weeks ago asks.

  I have no clue how to answer her question. I can’t make claims on the man, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to claw these girls’ eyes out and stomp on their heads.

  “He is,” Ainsley confirms for me. “You know what happened to the last girl who tried to pilfer her man, right?”

  They shake their head in unison, like kittens watching a red laser dot on the wall.

  “Simone was the last one who tried to tramp-ple in her territory.”

  I chuckle at the emphasis while the four girls in front of us turn around and slink lower in their chairs. Oh, the power of a blacklist.

  “That’s fine,” the face-fucker whispers. “I have eyes for the pitcher anyway.”

  “Uh-uh,” I say, loud enough for them to hear.

  They turn back again, their eyes narrowed.

  Ainsley leans forward, a harsh sneer on her face. “Mine.”

  “Better stick to the pimply freshman,” I suggest. “Or Liam.”

  The girl from a few weeks ago shakes her head violently. “He’s too big for anal.”

  Her friends grab her hand and drag her out of the stands as confusion races across my face.

  “Why the fuck would she share that shit?” I ask, my nose scrunched.

  “Saddlebackers,” she mutters.

  “What?” I turn my face to her.

  “They think only having anal sex keeps them virgins,” she explains.

  “Wow,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, they’re complete idiots.” She flops back in her seat. “JJ’s going to kill me.”

  “For claiming him?” I do my best not to smile.

  “Yeah,” she sighs.

  “I think you’d be surprised.”

  She doesn’t respond and spends the rest of practice in quiet contemplation.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Bryson clasps my hand in his and settles both of them on this thigh as he drives us back to the apartment.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s something,” he persists.

  “Just the saddlebackers in the stands.”

  His eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “The what?”

  My cheeks flush. Explaining it is much worse than using the slang term. “You know, chicks who have sex but not… you know, vaginal sex.”

  His eyes cut to me, then back to the road. “Butt sluts?”

  I can hear the mirth in his voice. “See, that term makes sense.”

  “Saddlebackers,” he whispers. “That’s one Liam didn’t use. I’ll have to let him know he needs to bone up on his research.”

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Believe me, I’m not going there.”

  “You’re not interested in anal sex?” I tease.

  He waits until we’re at a red light before turning his grinning face to me. “You offering?”

  “Ha! You wish, Casanova.”

  “What did they say to upset you?”

  I purse my lips, trying to find the right phrasing. I’m no longer upset after our banter, but I do have questions and need answers.

  “They questioned what we were,” I reply, my voice low, unsure if I stepped over a line.

  “What did you tell them?” Hope with an edge of caution fills his voice.

  I shrug. “I couldn’t answer them. We haven’t defined this—us,” I say, waving my hand between us as I watch his face for a reaction.

  “You need a definition?” he asks with a smile.

  “I need to know what to say when people ask. Roommate doesn’t feel right considering the only thing staying in your room is your clothes.”

  He squeezes my hand harder on his thigh.

  “Just tell them the same thing I tell the guys.”

  “What do you tell them?” I ask, arching a brow as we slow for another red light.

  Releasing my hand and cupping my cheek, he says, “That you’re mine.”

  When his eyes go back to the road, I turn my head, looking out the window to hide the smile on my face.

  His.

  We’ve hardly spoken since we returned to the apartment. Other than deciding on tacos for dinner, we’ve just operated around one another in routine silence until the meal was prepared. He’s giving me space, probably wondering if he went too far with his proclamation, but space is the last thing I want right now.

  “You’re not leaving any room for lettuce and tomatoes,” I chastise as he fills his taco shells with seasoned meat and cheese.

  “Vegetables are for losers,” he advises, stuffing more cheese inside one shell until it cracks.

  “Says the insanely fit guy who juices kale.”

  “Aw, beautiful, that’s sweet. Are you worried about my health?”

  I freeze at his words. His health will always be a concern for me. Surely, he knows that.

  “Fuck, Liv. I’m sorry,” he apologizes, noticing the shift in my mood. “I’ll eat it on the side.”

  I clear my throat as he piles diced tomatoes and shredded lettuce beside his tacos.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I whisper.

  “Look at me.” He gently grips both sides of my face. “I’m as healthy as an ox.”

  “I know.” And I do. He’s in prime, top physical shape, but Duncan was healthy too… until he wasn’t.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, pulling me against his warm chest. His strong heartbeat pounds against my ear, and I sigh, lean
ing closer into him, ease settling over me as some of my anxiety washes away.

  It isn’t until this moment that I realize the distance I’ve been keeping between us has had a lot to do with my fear of losing him, too.

  “Let’s eat and watch a movie,” he offers, stepping away from me.

  “My turn to pick,” I taunt as we grab our plates and head to the living room.

  “It is not,” he argues. “We had to watch that damn Legally Dumb movie the other day.”

  “Legally Blonde,” I correct, ignoring the mix up between my hair color and the insulting word. “And you forced me to sit through almost three hours of football.”

  “The Raiders were playing,” he responds, setting his plate down on the table and grabbing the blanket off the back of the couch.

  I sit down, holding my plate high while he covers my legs. “It’s not like they’re from here, Bryson.”

  “Oregon doesn’t have an NFL team. You should know that.”

  “Really? Please tell me why that’s a requirement for me.”

  He faces me, his dark eyes serious. “I play baseball.”

  Shaking my head, I give him a dubious look. As if that explains a damn thing.

  “And I can name all MLB teams in both leagues and more stats than most men, but that doesn’t have any bearing on football. Baseball requires skill and planning. Any big brut can run down a field and plow over people.”

  His eyes soften as his lips turn up into a grin.

  He leans in to kiss me, and I wait for it almost impatiently.

  “You make me hard when you defend my sport, beautiful,” he groans against my lips.

  “You’re always hard,” I correct. I press a gentle hand against his chest, forcing him to take a step back. “Let’s eat.”

  Thirty minutes later, my alarm goes off. We’re spooning on the couch and I feel him stiffen at the sound and what it represents. Without a second thought, I reach over and silence the phone before snuggling back against his chest.

  32

  Bryson

  “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

  Glassy-eyed, I stare at the credits scrolling on the television.

  “Yes, it was,” I argue.

  “It was an action movie. I thought you loved action movies.” She frowns, looking from me to the television and back to me again.

  “Miss Congeniality is not an action movie. Transformers is an action movie. Deadpool is an action movie. That,” I wave my hand at the screen, then pull out my phone, “was a chick flick.”

  I find the IMDB app on my phone, type in the title, and grumble incoherently when the movie pulls up.

  “What does it say?” Mischief fills her voice. “Give it to me.”

  She yanks my phone from my hand before I can close the app.

  Holding it up, she waves it in front of my face. “Action, comedy, crime. I was right! What do I win?”

  “Me?” I offer with a shrug.

  She contemplates my offer, nibbling at the skin of her lower lip. My cock thickens when naughtiness fills her eyes. Hope fills my gut when her hands find my chest and she shifts to straddle my lap.

  Her trembling fingers find the hem of my shirt, and a second later, she’s lifting it over my head.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, needing to know where her head is at.

  Her hot mouth finds the skin on my neck, pulling a groan from my lips.

  “Baseball,” she whispers in my ear.

  My lips lift. “I like baseball.”

  “I like baseball with you.” The brush of her hair against my chest as her mouth tastes my throat ignites my skin, the soft waves flowing over my chest and down my abdomen. I resist the urge to grab a handful and direct her mouth south.

  My fingers flex, gripping her ass, forcing her against me as her mouth finds mine. The kiss is searing and passionate, different from every one before it. It’s sure and needy as she demands more from me.

  I’ve restrained myself every other time her mouth has been on mine. I can easily go from playful banter to balls deep fucking in the blink of an eye, but Olivia isn’t a quick fuck. I don’t see her as a means to an orgasmic end.

  She’s more.

  I’ve waited, prayed, and bided my time until she was ready to take that next step, so her hips flexing against my shaft and soft moans rising up from her throat is confusing. For the first time in my life, I think about the aftermath, what tomorrow will bring. Each and every time we get close physically, she pushes me away and closes off emotionally. As much as I would love to sink inside of her, as much as I would enjoy my mouth on every inch of her delicate flesh, I hesitate.

  It suddenly becomes clear that the end game with Olivia isn’t conquering her body, but rather occupying her heart. Knowing this, I push her back slightly, my grip still on her hips.

  “Olivia,” I pant, breathless from our kiss.

  “First base,” she coos, taking off her tank top and revealing her perfect and blessedly braless breasts.

  “Jesus,” I mutter. Relenting to the need that’s been building for weeks, I release her hips and taunt her puckered nipples with my thumbs.

  Leaning forward, she presses one breast to my lips and I peer up at her, watching for her reaction when my tongue swipes at her offered flesh. Hooded eyes regard me with sultry desire, driving my hunger as my cock demands attention below her.

  I release her breast and lavish the same attention on the other while pinching and toying with the wet flesh of the breast I just released.

  Her hands find my engorged length peeking out from the top band of my shorts and I freeze.

  “Olivia, no,” I say with newfound willpower.

  “I want this,” she whimpers, her eyes pleading with me as the tip of her finger brushes over my erection.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I say, stilling her hands and bringing them to the safety of my chest.

  Her lips find mine again, desperation radiating off her.

  I pull my head back.

  “I want this,” she repeats as her eyes grow bleary with tears.

  Without a word, I lift her at her hips, stand from the couch, and carry her into her room, laying her down on the bed. Positioning myself over her, I push her blonde waves away from her face.

  “I don’t want to waste my life, Bryson.”

  “Hey,” I whisper, sweeping my thumb over her cheek. “There’s no rush. I’ll still be here tomorrow, next week, next year. You don’t have to live like it’s already over.” Truth spills from my mouth as I picture a life with her.

  “Tomorrow is never promised.”

  Now we get to the root of the issue. Does she want this from me because she regrets never taking this step with him? Will she picture him when I sink inside her?

  “I want this with you,” she says, bringing her hand up to my face as if she can read my mental struggle.

  Pulling away, I stand at the side of the bed.

  “Bryson?”

  “I have to get a condom,” I mumble before walking out the door and heading to my own bedroom. Once inside, I rest my head against the coolness of the wall separating our rooms instead of retrieving the latex I used as an excuse to catch my breath. I argue with myself that no matter how upset she gets, no matter how much she pulls away, I’m still able to bring her back around. My reasoning is solid, but taking her virginity is not something that can be forgotten tomorrow or the next day. That act is life changing. That regret can be long-lived.

  Still undecided over how the night will end, I grab a condom and go back to her. Covered to her neck in the sheet, I register her shock at seeing me back in her room. I must have been gone a while for that amount of doubt to set in.

  Placing the condom on the bedside table, I climb back into bed. She reaches for me the second I get within touching distance, and I decide to throw my doubt into the wind and leave it up to her to pump the brakes. She will if she’s not comfortable, and I have to trust that.

  I groan as I pull back
the covers and find her naked. The glorious sight of every inch of her milky flesh exposed makes my mouth water.

  “You need the condom.”

  “Not yet,” I say as my mouth finds her breast. “Let me please you.”

  A hand grips my hair, and nails scrape my back as I kiss down her body and dip my tongue into her bellybutton. Whimpering moans escape her lips as she opens her legs wider for me.

  “Beautiful,” I praise, working my thumb over her clit in a slow, circular motion.

  Her hips buck as both hands lock into my hair, and my control snaps. Soft, easy, and slow are no longer part of my vocabulary as my mouth closes over her silken, heated flesh, my tongue performing an un-choreographed dance against her clit.

  Her hips buck against my mouth while her hands attempt to pull me off her as her body fights opposing forces—too much, yet not enough. My own body is familiar with the sensation every second I’m near her.

  I grind my cock into the mattress as I continue to work her over the edge, needing her as wet and turned on as possible. Taking what she’s offering won’t be completely pleasant for her, but I’m going to do my damn best to make it as pleasurable as possible. A voice inside my head cheers at the knowledge of being her first, but I quiet it, knowing I won’t last long at all. It’s not the norm for me, but I haven’t been inside a woman in weeks—my longest dry spell since hitting puberty.

  I sweep my finger at her entrance and dip inside, testing her. She quivers at the attention, her body clamping and gripping, begging for more.

  I close my eyes and devour her, my cock so hard, it’s almost painful. Her moans echo off the walls as my tongue lashes at her and my finger delves deeper. Back arching off of the bed, she gasps sharply as her body begins to convulse. I never take my mouth from her but watch as her eyes squeeze shut and her teeth clamp her bottom lip so hard, I expect to see blood. She tugs on my hair, forcing my head away, and with one last lick, I stop and lift onto my arms.

  Running my hand over my mouth, I crawl up her body, feeling like a hero at the satisfied smile on her face.

  “Third base,” she says breathlessly.