The Locker Room

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Did you tell her about me?”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone about you.”

  “Ouch,” he says on a chuckle. “And just last week I sent out a family newsletter with your face on the front and your name on the bottom, letting everyone know you’re my girl.”

  “I hope it was a flattering picture.”

  “Nope, sent a real woof bag picture to everyone.”

  “That’s fair, you know, since I haven’t told my family about you.”

  “And why’s that again?” He crosses his legs at the ankles, getting more comfortable.

  “Self-preservation. I’m not ready for the invasion of my privacy. Don’t worry, they’ll find out at Christmas when I’m constantly hanging by my phone, waiting for a text from you.”

  And here’s the truth I’m part terrified to share. He’s probably thought me indifferent at times, a girl with a tough exterior. But I’m not really. This is offering him something that makes me vulnerable. He’s awesome to joke around with, and I definitely love putting him in his place, but I can trust him with this.

  “Are you saying you’re going to miss me over winter break?”

  “Yeah, I am. Terribly.” I turn into him and run my finger over his jaw, the thick scruff of his five o’clock shadow pulling under my freshly painted fingernail. “I really like you, Knox, and I’ve become quite addicted to your random pop-ins and flirtatious texts. You make me feel special, something I’m not sure Neil ever made me feel.”

  “Damn, Ealson. I wasn’t expecting you to say that.” He scratches the side of his head. “You kind of made my stomach do flips.”

  “In a good way?”

  He nods and brings his lips to mine, where he presses the softest of kisses across my mouth. “In a very good way. I like you a lot too. So even though we’re breaking rule number two and not doing all the oral”—he winks—“I’m fucking happy just getting to know you.”

  “I think you’re the first guy to ever say that.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re right.” He laughs and presses another kiss to my lips. “But you’re worth it.”

  * * *

  Lindsay looks past my shoulder and into my dorm room, then furrows her brow. “Where’s Knox?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, rubbing my eye with my palm. “He dropped me off last night and went back to his place.”

  “What?” Lindsay’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. “You mean he didn’t make a move to peel that dress off you?”

  “Nope.” I sink into one of the armchairs in the common area. “We made out a little in his truck, but then he walked me to my dorm and kissed me good night. When he got back to the loft, he sent me a sweet text, and then I went to bed.”

  “How on earth did you two not do it last night? I’m honestly becoming sexually frustrated from you two not fucking.”

  I shrug and lean my head against the back of the chair in a dreamlike state. “It’s more than just sexual attraction between us. We like each other past everything physical. I truly like being around him and getting to know him.”

  “Still, how do you keep your hands to yourself?”

  “It’s hard.” I think back to being in the truck last night when I was on top of his lap, the hem of my dress almost around my waist as I straddled him. His hands roamed my back, mine ran over his thick chest. We kept things to our mouths only, but God, was I tempted to beg for more. Just from the strength and command in his hands, I know he’s going to be amazing in bed, but now I feel determined to keep working on our friendship. The man I’m getting to know is one of the nicest—and often cockiest—I’ve ever known. I actually think our sexual relationship will be better the more we know about each other. Am I horny? Yes. So much. But, friends first. Always.

  “Well, props to you for being so strong-willed. I would have sat on his face the first time he noticed me.”

  “Aren’t you classy,” I joke. “How are things with the freshman?”

  “Ugh”—she flops to the side—“he’s so immature.”

  “Well, he is fresh from high school, after all,” I point out. “I’m sure it takes them at least a year to mature. What’s he doing?”

  “I can’t tell you.” She drapes her arm over her eyes.

  “Well, now you’re going to have to tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Dottie asks, coming into the room, coffee in hand, her hair looking like she stuck her finger in a light socket overnight. She pushes Lindsay’s legs up, sits, and then drapes Lindsay’s legs over hers.

  “Apparently Lindsay’s freshman fling is immature,” I provide.

  “You haven’t told her about the whole boob thing?” Dottie asks in disbelief. “Oh my God, Lindsay, you need to tell her.”

  “What happened?” I shift in my seat, ready for a story, because with Lindsay, the stories are always good.

  “I just can’t. You tell it.”

  “My pleasure.” With a huge smile, Dottie says, “The guy likes boobs.”

  “Okay, so . . . he’s a breathing male, makes sense.”

  “No.” Dottie holds out her hand. “Like really likes boobs.”

  “Ohh-kay,” I drag out, not sure where this is going.

  “Two weeks ago, Lindsay invited him back to the dorm after class, when we were both gone. They started to get handsy, and he asked if he could see her boobs. Naturally, our very provocative friend said yes and whipped her shirt off along with her bra.”

  “Nothing new there,” I tease.

  “But then our good old freshman friend sat there, staring . . . for five minutes.”

  What the what? “No touching?”

  “No,” she groans past her arm.

  “None,” Dottie continues. “And when she tried to move things along, he stopped her and slowly circled his finger around her areola but never actually touched it.”

  “Like he was using some weird spiritual force,” Lindsay adds.

  “But no actual touching.”

  “No.” Lindsay shoots up from the couch. “And he had the biggest boner I’d ever seen while doing it.”

  “Tell her the best part,” Dottie urges.

  She groans again. “After staring for five minutes, he left, and then the next day”—she takes a deep breath—“he gave me a pencil sketch of my boobs. It was so realistic, I even got turned on by the gesture.”

  “And she ended up having sex with him three times that day.”

  “I’m so ashamed,” she groans.

  “What?” I laugh, louder and harder than expected. “But you think he’s immature?”

  “Yes,” she shouts. “Because now every time I see him, he gives me a boob sketch. I think it’s hotter and hotter, and I end up fucking him again. Who has time to sketch boobs? That’s so immature. And let’s not even talk about what’s wrong with me and why I like it.”

  “You like it because he’s worshipping your body. Any girl would like that, even if it’s in a weird sort of way.”

  “You don’t think it’s immature?”

  “It’s different,” I say. “But different can be good. Look at me and Knox, our relationship is all kinds of weird, but it works for us. You do you, boo.”

  “This is annoying,” Dottie says, looking between the two of us. “I need to find someone to be weird with.” Oh, Dottie. Our sweet, diabolical, and charismatic friend. Her someone weird will eclipse Lindsay’s and my men in weirdness. He’ll have to be a man of steel to welcome her strength and passion.

  “It will happen, just give it time.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  KNOX

  “Look at those sweatpants. How can you even deny yourself?” Carson asks, looking Emory up and down. “Holes, dude, there are holes. That shit is sexy.”

  “So sexy,” Emory says, trailing her finger up her leg, around said holes, and then to my chin where she tilts my head and presses a sloppy kiss across my lips.

  We’re lounging in the loft, skipping a party this weekend, even though we’r
e leaving for Christmas break next week. Finals are wrapping up. I have one left and so does Emory, but when I asked her if she wanted to study, she said she was good, as she feels confident in the material she’s studied. Probably because after our date last Friday, we’ve really only talked on the phone, rather than seen each other. Oddly, I’m okay with that, because every night, I talked with her for over an hour.

  “Stop trying to get me to break the bet,” I say in between kisses.

  “You’re an idiot.” Carson chucks a throw pillow at me. “If I was dating Emory, I would have given in to that bet after the first day.”

  “Because you have zero self-control.”

  He pops an Oreo from my stash in his mouth. “That’s true.”

  Changing the subject, Em says, “So, Garrett, your freshman, he likes to draw boobs.”

  Carson laughs out loud, tipping his head back. So does Holt, who sets his phone down momentarily. “Fucking Garrett. The dude loves tits.”

  “Yeah, my roommate’s.”

  “Those are your roommate’s tits he’s been drawing?” Carson sits up, looking shocked. “Damn, Ealson, how come you never introduced me?”

  “Because she’s with Garrett.” Em rolls her eyes.

  “Are they exclusive?”

  Holt smacks Carson in the stomach. “Don’t be a douche and steal a girl from your tit-drawing teammate. He earned the right to draw those things.”

  “How? He’s a goddamn freshman with fumbling hands. You should see him behind the plate. I swear he’s Coach’s charity case. I don’t know how he got on the team.”

  “Probably slipped Coach a tit drawing,” I say, making my two friends laugh.

  “Coach probably has a drawerful of Garrett’s drawings. That dude is lonely as fuck.”

  “Aw, really?” Emory asks. “What about Mrs. Flower? There seems to be something between them. Her husband passed away, so maybe it could be a new love connection.”

  I shake my head. “Coach will never make a move. He’s old and set in his ways. He lives and breathes baseball, so there’s no way he’d make room for a woman in his life when he spends all his time harping on us.”

  “It’s what makes him the best though,” Holt says, checking his phone. “Hey, I have to go. My girl just got done with her shift.”

  “Are we ever going to meet this girl of yours?” I ask.

  “Not any time soon.” Without another word, Holt hops off the couch and makes his way to the front door where he leaves the loft. That was quick.

  “What’s that all about?” Carson asks, his eyes trained down the hallway. “I don’t like him keeping shit from us.”

  “No idea, but he’ll come to us when he’s ready.” I squeeze Emory and say, “Want to head to my room?”

  “Please do,” Carson says, not letting Emory answer. “Entice him, Em. Get him to break.”

  Standing up, she says, “I’ll try my best.”

  We waste no time. I lock my bedroom door, making sure no dickheads can come in, and turn to my girl who’s getting comfortable in my bed. I lean against the yellow of the door and say, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting comfortable.” She reaches into her shirt and does some fancy fooling around until she sticks her arms back out of the sleeves along with her bra. She tosses it to the side and then takes down her hair as well, the long locks floating over her shoulders. The thin, white fabric of her shirt leaves nothing to the imagination as her pebbled nipples press against the fabric.

  Jesus.

  She’s going in for the kill, and I feel my will slipping.

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  She shakes her head. “No, just getting comfortable.”

  “You getting comfortable has given me a goddamn boner.”

  Her eyes focus on my sweatpants that are now bulging at the crotch.

  She sits on her knees and wiggles her finger. “Then come here and let me take care of that for you.”

  “You’re going to break the bet?” I ask, my brows shooting up to my hairline, my excitement peaking at an all-time high.

  “No.”

  My hopes come to a crashing halt. And it must be written all over my face, because she chuckles and lends out her hand. “Come here, hot stuff.”

  Like a depressed puppy, I head to my girl, boner leading the way. She pulls me onto the bed and pushes me against the headboard so I’m sitting against it.

  She straddles my lap and takes a seat . . . directly on my boner. I hiss through my teeth and clamp my hands around her hips.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Talking to you.” She smiles and shifts. “Mmm, you feel good.”

  “Stop it,” I scold. “I know what you’re trying to do, and unless you want my penis to fall off, I’d stop right fucking now.”

  “You’re that determined to win you’d let your penis fall off?”

  “Yes,” I answer, glancing at her tits. Fuck, they’re so perfect, and from the sight of them, she’s just as turned on as me. God, I want her.

  I have no clue how I’m not ripping her top off her right now, closing my mouth around her fucking gorgeous tits. My skin is heating, and all I can think about is her. On her back. On my cock. Fisting that hair while I fuck her from behind. I can feel her heat on my cock through our clothing. Shit. And I bet she knows how close I am to pulling down those sexy-as-hell torn sweats and sucking her pussy until she screams. Shit. Why do I have this stupid bet with the sexiest girl in the world?

  I’ve got to get it together. Think of stats. Think of stupid baseball stats. Anything.

  I lean over to my nightstand and desperately try to ignore the heat of her as I move. Hell. I take out a small box wrapped in red Christmas paper and hold it up to her. Finally finding my voice, I say, “Merry Christmas, babe.” And somehow, somehow, I find self-control to simply watch her expression rather than look at her tits.

  And it’s worth it.

  Her eyes fall to the box and then back at me. “You got me a present?”

  “Of course.” I squeeze her backside. “You’re my girl, and I want to make sure you’re my girl when I get back from Christmas break.”

  “Trust me, I’ll be counting down the days.” She takes the box and asks, “Can I open it?”

  “Yeah.”

  With a huge smile on her face, she has no shame in ripping the paper off and opening the little velvet box. Her mouth drops open and her eyes turn soft. “Oh my God, Knox, it’s beautiful.”

  I take the box from her and lift the very delicate necklace from the casing. White gold chain with a delicate heart strung through it. I knew the minute I saw it, I had to get it for her. It’s subtle, almost too hard to see, but it’s a gentle reminder that this girl has my heart.

  “Can I put it on?”

  “Please do.” She lifts her hair, so I bring the small clasp around her neck, and as she leans forward so I can see what I’m doing, I clasp the two sides together. The necklace falls over her collarbone, the heart so small, it blends perfectly with her beautiful skin. It’s not ostentatious or lavish. I need her to know that even though miles will separate us, she won’t be far from my thoughts. I want to be close to her heart. But do I tell her that? Would she feel pressure from that?

  Her fingers go to the necklace where she feels it along her skin. “Thank you so much, Knox, I love it.”

  I bring her chin close and place a small kiss on her lips. “Just a reminder of who you belong to.”

  “Like I need reminding,” she replies, wrapping her arms around my neck. She bites her bottom lip and says, “So, this bet . . .”

  Fuck, yes, please break it.

  “It’s physical sex, right? Does that include dry-humping?”

  I swallow hard and shake my head. “I don’t think there’s anything in the rules about dry-humping.”

  “So if I were to . . . say”—she slides off my body and pulls down my sweats. I lift off the bed to help her—“take these sweats o
ff, would that be breaking the rules?”

  I shake my head vigorously. “Nope. Not at all. That’s a great idea actually.”

  Her thumbs loop through the waistband of her sweats. “And if I were to take these off, that would be okay?”

  “Totally. Yup, take those right off.”

  With a devilish smile, she slowly works her pants off until she’s only in a black G-string, the thin triangle of fabric between her legs barely concealing anything.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  She pushes her hand through her hair and dips her head to the side. “What about my shirt? If I were to take that off, what are the rules on that?”

  My mouth goes dry and my voice cracks when I answer her. “That’s . . . yeah . . . that’s totally okay.”

  “I thought so.” She sits up on her knees and moves her hands slowly to the hem of her shirt but pauses. My dick pulses in my boxer briefs, begging for any sort of relief. In one smooth motion, she lifts her shirt over her head and tosses it to the side, leaving her completely bare-chested and beautiful.

  Jesus. Christ.

  Her tits.

  Not huge, but perky as shit with little nipples that are hard like stone. And when she moves, they bounce slightly, letting me know there’s some weight to them. Fuck, I need my hands on them, now.

  “Your turn.” She points to my shirt.

  I want to be a savage beast and rip my shirt off from the collar to move this along, but I know what I have hiding under here, and I want to make sure I catch her appreciation. From behind my head, I pull my shirt over, then pull my arms through the sleeves and drop my shirt to the side. I sit up straight and watch as Emory’s eyes rake over my chest, a sigh falling past her lips.

  “Why are you so hot?”

  I chuckle. “No clue, babe, but I don’t want to dive into it. Come here.”