The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  “I don’t think I’m ruining it.”

  “You are. This is actual real torture, the sort that makes people go mad.”

  “You’re already mad, so we don’t have a problem there.”

  “Oh, ha. You are one of the funniest blokes I’ve ever met. Remind me to put that in my diary alongside the entry where I write about how you won’t sleep with me because you’re worried I’m too fragile. Dear Diary, me again, the loneliest girl in New York—the one who hasn’t had a man between her legs in nearly a century.”

  “A century, huh?”

  “Feels that way sometimes.”

  “Do you really keep a diary?”

  “No! Can you imagine?! The entries would be crude, to say the least. I couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. Tomorrow, if I died and the police went round to my flat to round up my things, one of them would find that diary and think I’m the perviest perv he’s ever met. He’d think, Jeez, this poor girl. If only her boyfriend had given her a proper lay, she wouldn’t have died in that horrific ice cream accident.”

  “Ice cream accident?”

  “Yes. Kat once dragged me with her to a psychic, and the lady sort of hinted that I should stay away from soft serve. At least…I think that’s what she said. Her accent was quite thick. Ever since then, I’ve been very careful around the stuff so as to prevent my death. What are you doing unbuttoning my jeans like that for?”

  “I’m trying to get you out of them.”

  “Well you’ve already taken off my blouse, and I was joking about the nun’s habit. I didn’t think I needed to point that out, but well, I suppose men can be quite dim sometimes.”

  “Step out,” he says, before tugging the denim material off my legs.

  I’m standing in my knickers and my bra in his foyer, and he’s already starting to undress himself. His tuxedo jacket goes first, strewn on the floor beside us. Then he goes after his cufflinks.

  “Is this some kind of a cruel joke?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips. “Let me see the goods but not taste them sort of thing?”

  “If you’d stop talking for five seconds, you would understand that I’m giving in. You’re getting your way.”

  He unbuttons his shirt and lets it drop onto his jacket. His blessedly tan and toned chest is just there, right in front of me, like one of those neon signs on the Vegas strip. I’m a sad little gnat drawn right to it. My hands reach out and I smooth my palms over the rigid planes.

  “You’re going to do me?” I sound more than slightly amazed by the prospect.

  “Could you not say it like that?”

  “Oh right. Are we going to make love? I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.”

  He laughs and shakes his head then he reaches down, no pretense, no proper warning, and kisses me full-on. His mouth is so good at getting what it wants. I shut right up and let him continue the kiss. My insides turn into jelly, and that’s okay because Logan reaches out to grab hold of me and we do this perfectly synchronized move where he lifts and I wrap my legs around his waist. He’s so bloody strong I don’t even worry about him dropping me. I guess his career in football is good for something.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and deepen the kiss, letting my tongue touch his. He moans into my mouth and his hands find my butt and he grips like he’s angry with it—angry with me! This isn’t my fault! He’s the one with that body. What am I supposed to do, not jump his bones? Too late. My ankles hook behind his back, and I’m attached to him like a barnacle. He’ll have to get an ice pick to scrape me off him.

  He starts to move us into the living room. We bump into a wall and then a lamp. It crashes to the ground and I’m laughing, but he doesn’t seem to care at all. Once we reach the sofa, he lets go of me, and I sort of fall with an audible oomph. He hovers over me like an animal who’s just successfully brought his prey back to his lair. He peruses me from head to toe, taking in my chest and the delicate lace of my bra, down over my stomach and then lower, between my legs. My knickers are a bit askew thanks to his hands, but it’s not like I have time to adjust them. He bends down, takes the straps between his fingers, and tugs.

  Down they go, over my knees, and then they’re at my ankles. Tug. Rip. Gone.

  He takes my thighs in his big hands and he splits them apart. No asking. No eye contact or confirmation that I’m not dying a thousand deaths here. He just peels me apart and then he licks his lips.

  I swear to GOD, I am done. The psychic was wrong—I do not die floating in a mound of ice cream; I die here. On Logan’s sofa. As his head descends between my legs and his lips touch me there.

  I take my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from shouting out something horribly inappropriate, but he doesn’t care in the least. There’s no letting up, no coming up for air. His mouth stays there and his tongue turns circles, and just when I think, Wow, so this is what Buddhism feels like. Hello, nirvana, his hand slides up my thigh, between my legs, and he touches me. He turns his hand so his palm faces the ceiling, and then I watch with a barely contained moan as he presses his middle finger inside of me.

  Tongue and finger. Finger and tongue. Is there a better combination in this entire world?!

  After that, I must pass out for a moment, but when I gather my senses again, he’s continuing to turn circles with his tongue and pump in and out of me with his finger, and I really only have myself to blame for this. I asked for this treatment, but maybe I would have held off if I’d known he’d be so bloody good at it! I’m not containing myself at all. I should be lying back, as if bored by his average bedroom skills, but instead my thighs try to grip him like an anaconda. My stomach is quivering. My hands are fisting the sofa cushions. Then I twine them in his hair.

  I tell him he’s good at this—too good. Instead of thanking me, he continues the endless torture. I am going to lose control of myself, and I warn him of this. Maybe he should know I’m seconds away from crying out? But he only pumps into me harder with his finger. Faster. And then his tongue touches me in the exact perfect spot and I detonate. I’m a bomb exploding into a thousand pieces, leaving shrapnel scattered across his flat, and he’s with me, until the end, until my body stops shaking and I sink heavy into the sofa.

  He hovers over me, his eyes molten and hot. I think to make a joke, some kind of thank you to him for doing that, but then my gaze drops between his legs and all my premeditated words pop and disappear.

  Suddenly there is one thing I want more than anything in the world: to feel him inside me. To feel stretched by him. To feel his weight and pressure between my legs. I need it more than air.

  I push to sit up and reach out for him, to touch him and wrap my hand around his hardness. His eyes flutter as soon as I grip him, and my smirk unfurls on its own. I doubt it will ever get old, me overpowering him, even for a moment. It’s just everything he is and everything he stands for. He’s this hulking guy with muscles of steel. He should be impenetrable, a brick wall, but I know his weakness, and I’m holding it in my small hand.

  “Well then…should we continue?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Candace

  Instead of answering, he reaches down to wrap his hand around mine. He grips it and starts to pump faster, tightening my hand on his length. He’s showing me what he wants me to do, and I’m nothing if not a star pupil. I learn quickly and tighten my grip, using both hands, because well—he is bloody tall and proportioned everywhere, if you catch my drift!

  His head lolls back for a moment and then he leans forward, releasing my hands so he can bend down and unsnap the back of my bra. He doesn’t get it the first time and I want to shout, RIP IT! I DON’T CARE, but then he’s got it and he’s tugging it off. I let go of him so the material can slip down my arms, and then he stares down at me in awe, taking me in. I’m sure I’m blushing all over, a real embarrassing red tinge. I imagine how I look in his eyes. I’m slender and petite. My breasts are perky, but they aren’t the best in town by any means
. Still, judging by the way he’s looking at me, I think he quite likes them.

  I reach out to grip him again, and then his hand reaches out to touch me. He drags the pad of his finger softly over my collarbone and then lower, curving around my left breast. Teasing me. That’s fine—I’ll tease him right back. I slow my pace, sliding my hands up and down his length in a rhythm that’s no doubt pissing him off. His eyes flare with emotion as they lock with mine, and I smile. It’s innocence personified, but he reads between the lines. His brows furrow and he reaches out to skim his hand over my breast. I arch into him, and he rewards me for it. He cups the weight in his hand, feeling it, and I think—not for the first time—that he’s got lovely hands. They’re big and calloused and confident, the hands of a man who takes what he wants.

  I start to pump harder, faster. He responds in kind, thrusting his hips as he feels me up.

  It only takes a few more times before he grunts low and deep, and then he’s coming onto my hands, onto my chest. My jaw goes slack as I watch him.

  It’s…beautiful.

  Is that odd? To think he looks beautiful right now? It’s in the angular cut of his jaw and his manly features all locked in pleasure, the way his muscles clench and the absolute surrender of it all—him in my hands, all mine.

  It takes him a moment to orient himself again, and he doesn’t open his eyes right away. He releases a long exhalation, blinks one eye open. Then the other. He looks down at me with a lazy smile, and I grin up at him.

  “You’ve really made a mess. I hope you’re happy.”

  He laughs and shakes his head, looking around for something to help us clean up. There’s nothing. A maid must have come round to clean his flat because there’s not a single thing out of place in the room, except for…well, us.

  “Don’t move,” he tells me before rushing down a side hall. He comes back carrying a towel, and instead of passing it over, he kneels down to clean me up himself. It’s only the beginning. I’ll still need a shower, but it’s lovely to have him dote on me like that. When we’re done, he wads the towel in one hand and reaches for me with the other.

  “Come on. Let’s shower.”

  “Oh, together?! Lovely. But you need to slow down! My legs are half as long as yours and you can’t just drag me along after you.”

  It’s true. I think he forgets how small I am compared to him. He takes one step and it covers half the length of the room! Meanwhile, I’m left scurrying in his wake.

  He laughs and slows his gait exasperatingly. “Sorry. Habit.”

  We go down a hallway then turn a corner. He opens a door, and we’re in his room. I was in here before, but not during the day when I was fully awake enough to appreciate it in all its glory. It’s not like a room some lazy boy would do up if he had it his way. Oh I’ll just tack a sheet up against the window. That oughta do it. No, his room is definitely decorated, and it’s masculine. The bed is covered in white and gray linen. He’s got lovely wooden side tables with twin hunter green lamps on each side. There’s black and white abstract art on the wall and a plush rug covering the dark wood floors.

  I’m amazed, really. His room is the size of my entire flat. I think my twin bed could fit over in that nook there just fine. He wouldn’t even notice.

  “Come on. Shower’s in here.”

  “This is your bathroom?!” I sort of shout before I can get ahold of myself.

  Last time I was in here, it was pitch black. Now I can see it’s ridiculously nice. It’s just so bloody big with lots of marble and mirrors and two sinks on opposite ends so that if he had a girl living here with him, she wouldn’t have to deal with any of his whiskers—though even now, as I inspect what I assume is his side (it’s the sink with a toothbrush by it), it’s sparkling clean. Either he’s the tidiest man in the entire world or he’s got a bloody good maid, much better than Kat and I could ever do.

  “It’s nice. Yeah. Nothing like I had growing up. Don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten my humble beginnings.”

  He says this while walking away from me so he can turn on the shower, but all I hear is Charlie Brown teacher’s wah-wah-wah-wah gibberish because I’ve caught sight of his arse in the mirror’s reflection and HOLY BUTTOCKS, BATMAN! I could break a tooth on that thing.

  He turns around to eye me in the mirror, and I frown. “I was having a lovely time staring at your derrière.”

  “Yeah, well, try to contain yourself,” he teases, waving for me to join him in the shower.

  “I can’t. Truly. It’s the best I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to tell Kat about it. She’ll go mental.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Talk to my friends about your arse? Of course. Why would I keep that information to myself?”

  At this, he groans and tucks me up under the shower stream so I get doused from head to toe. Then he pumps some soap into his hand and starts lathering me up. I try hard to get my mind out of the gutter, but his hands feel so good, and suddenly it’s like we didn’t do anything out on his sofa. I’m ready and raring to go again.

  I think I must make a little noise or whimper when his hands slide down my thighs because his eyes shoot up to me.

  “Sorry. I’ll be quiet,” I promise, miming turning a lock over my lips.

  “Why?” he taunts with an arched brow. “I’d rather you weren’t.”

  Then his hands slowly glide back up my legs and between my thighs and Farewell, sanity! It was nice knowing you!

  The shower takes much longer than either of us probably originally intended. He gives me two orgasms while I lean against the shower wall like a heaping pile of useless bones, and then I return the favor by sliding down onto my knees. After that, we have to rinse off all over again. Showers can be quite dirty endeavors if you take them with the wrong (or right) person.

  He cuts the water, and we step out. He wraps a towel around his waist then grabs another to wrap around me. It’s not one of those annoyingly itty-bitty ones that only covers half of one arm. It’s huge and white and fluffy, enveloping me from my shoulders down to my knees.

  “You want to borrow some clothes?” he offers.

  “Have you got an old t-shirt? A worn one I can steal in the morning?”

  He walks into his closet and comes back out with a huge shirt that has his football team’s logo on it. It’s perfect.

  “I want it back though,” he warns as I slide it on.

  “Aye-aye, captain.”

  We both know that’s not going to happen.

  “Have you got some knickers in there I could slip on too? Maybe pink ones?”

  “I have boxers.”

  “So I’m just supposed to go commando all night?”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course you wouldn’t. Men.”

  He smiles—or rather, gloats—and then he walks over to grab me a spare toothbrush wrapped in plastic that he has in his vanity drawer.

  “Do you keep a bunch of these for when ladies come round?” I ask as I accept it.

  “I asked Lois to get it when she went grocery shopping this week.”

  “Lois?”

  “She does everything around here for me. Part housekeeper, part chef. She’s great.”

  “Sounds like it. How long has she been with you?”

  I’m keeping him talking so he won’t notice how pleased I am that he’s thought to buy me a toothbrush. Some girls want diamonds, but I think this is just as lovely. It’s purple with a little plastic handle and soft bristles. It tells me Logan thought about me this week, thought about me enough to ask Lois to get me a toothbrush, enough to want me to sleep over.

  We brush our teeth at the same time, him at his sink, me at the other, swirling circles in our mouths and trying not to make each other laugh. We spit then swish our mouths with water.

  “I’m exhausted,” I admit after I finish patting my mouth with a towel. “Can’t believe tomorrow is Friday. I’ve got double duty at The Day School and District.”<
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  “Come over after? I can ride with Pat to pick you up when you’re finished?”

  “I wish I could. It’s Kat’s birthday on Saturday, and we’ve got big plans. She wants breakfast in bed then Yasmine and I are taking her out for a spa day. We’re going to this place Yaz found downtown that’s a little sketchy, but the treatments are really cheap, so there’s that.”

  “What about Saturday night?”

  I frown. “We’re headed to some club Kat’s been going on and on about. It’s supposed to draw in loads of cute guys.”

  Logan arches a brow.

  “Of course, I’ll only be there as Kat’s wingwoman,” I tease.

  He hums as if thinking something over, and then he steps toward me to gather me close. “Maybe I could come out to the club with a few of my teammates? That way it’s not like I’m trying to steal you away all for myself?”

  “Ohh! That could work! Kat does get easily distracted, and there was this guy at your party a few weeks ago that she really fancied. I’ll ask her what he looked like so you can invite him.”

  I decide not to tell Kat about Logan inviting his friends until I know for sure he can secure the hunks. It’ll be my surprise birthday present for her. I mean, if it works out, she’ll really owe me one. For my birthday last year, she got me a gift certificate to some fast food chain called Arby’s I’d never even heard of. There was $1.05 on the card.

  Kat’s birthday starts with Yasmine and me making breakfast while she lounges on the sofa, flipping through channels. She’s wearing a paper crown on her head that I had the kids make her yesterday. It keeps sliding to the side, but she won’t dare let it fall.

  “Are you two done yet? I’m starved!”

  “Almost!” I reply.

  “Right, well don’t burn the toast,” she warns. “You know how I hate that. And I like my coffee extra milky. Toss in a bit and then when you think you’ve added too much, go ahead and add a bit more.”