Switch Hitter_A Jock Hard novella

by Sara Ney

Still, I wait, not touching her, knowing I’ll get rewarded for my patience.

  “You know what I like about you Dante? Besides the fact that you’re so smoking hot and look incredible with no clothes on? I love that you’re so levelheaded, so composed.”

  Amelia moves closer on her knees until her lace-covered breasts brush my chest. “I’ve never found anyone so sexy or attractive in my entire life.”

  I don’t know what’s making me harder—how upfront she is about what she wants or the fact that she’s not wearing clothes.

  When our mouths collide, one hand slides down her spine to cup her tight little ass, the other braced behind her head. Our kissing sounds fill the air, sexy moans and lapping tongues. We’re messy and hurried and when Amelia starts rubbing her pussy against my dick, our pelvises grinding, it’s time to get completely naked.

  She beats me to it—reaches behind her back, lips still suctioned to mine, unclasping her bra in one motion. Pulls the straps down her arms, discarding the delicate black fabric on the side of the bed. Grapples for my hands, placing them on her tits.

  I’ve never really been a boob guy, but I’ve just been converted into one. They’re full, heavy in my hands, my thumbs brushing over her dark areolas at the same time Amelia pushes down the waistband of my boxers.

  “Eres mío,” comes her husky murmur. “Mío.” You’re mine.

  We’re whispering all sorts of sexy shit to each other in Spanish as our hands explore, limbs entwined, falling to the mattress. Amelia lazes beneath me, hair fanned out on my pillow, permitting me to explore, dreamily twirling my hair when I latch onto her nipple, sucking. Arches her back. Runs her nails down my scalp, my neck.

  I rise above her, index finger idly trailing up her underwear, up the front, thumb pressing down in small, lazy circles.

  Round and round and round on that little pink nub.

  Her fists clench the quilt covering my bed.

  “Don’t,” she gasps. “Or I’ll come.”

  My finger hooks into her panties, pulling them aside, fingers stroking. “You want me to stop, cariño?”

  “Yes. Jesus, just take off your underwear and get on top. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “You like it on the bottom?” Good to know.

  We’re shoving down our underwear and in a group effort, I kick mine off, roll on a condom. Hover over Amelia, dragging the hard length of my cock along her thigh until we’re both moaning with anticipation, both of us eager.

  Willing.

  Ready.

  “S-Sometimes I do.” Her eyes are closed, teeth biting down on her lower lip.

  “I wonder something.” I lean in, sucking on her earlobe as I whisper, “Do you really think you deserve a good fucking?”

  Her eyes open, nostrils flare. “Yes.”

  I let my dick nestle between her legs. “I can’t believe you fucking dumped me.”

  Amelia’s hands pull down on my ass, urging me inside. “You are not bringing that up right now.”

  I reach between us, clutching my erection, running the tip up and down her slit, making her moan. “Oh, but I am.”

  When she pouts, turning her head and presenting me with the pale length of her neck, I lean in, sucking. “You weren’t even going to tell me, were you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s really naughty of you.”

  “It is.” She nods. “So naughty.”

  “You probably don’t deserve this.” I let the head of my cock creep in the smallest fraction.

  “But you do.” Amelia’s face is flushed, hips beginning a slow roll, arms above her head. She looks ready to pass out.

  “I do, don’t I?”

  “Yes,” she hisses, panting. “God you feel good. Ohhhh shit…”

  So fucking good, in and out.

  In and out.

  Just the tip, just the motherfucking tip—not even an inch—is ecstasy.

  When she moans—so loud my roommates in the other room undoubtedly heard—I press a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Her tongue darts out and flicks my finger. No sound comes out of her lips when she mouths, “Fuck. Me.”

  We both do a lot of pleading, panting, and praying to Jesus, God, and everyone else while I’m balls deep inside her, rocking back and forth, muscles clenched.

  It’s gasping, desperate, breathless fucking.

  My hands slide beneath her ass when I come, unloading inside, nose buried in the crook of her neck.

  Mi cielo.

  My heaven.

  The End

  Want to see more of Dante and Ameila? Catch glimpses of them in Jock Row, the first book in the Jock Hard series, releasing late Spring, 2018.

  The following is an unedited preview of JOCK ROW: Book One in the JOCK HARD series…

  First Friday

  Scarlett

  “No offence, but you look like shit.”

  My friend Tess flips her perfectly coifed hair, eyeing up my soft, sweater. It’s more appropriate for a bonfire or cozy night at home then a party, and when she said I look terrible she didn’t mean I look sick.

  She hates my outfit.

  “Thanks Tess.”

  “I’m just being honest. Don’t you want me to be honest?”

  No. Not really.

  “I’m getting over a cold, Tess. I’m trying not to get sick again.” I couch dramatically into the bend of my elbow for good measure. “I’ve already told you this five time.”

  My voice takes on a low croak and I pat myself on the back for how authentic it sounds.

  I’m not changing my clothes.

  Not tonight.

  “Can you at least take the scarf off?”

  I finger the gray, cable knit length around my neck, breathing in the merino wool that’s the only thing keeping my neck warm. “My scarf? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothings wrong with it—but we’re going to The Row.”

  When she says The Row, her voice changes. Fills with wistfulness.

  The Row: the off campus housing block where student athletes live and party. Similar to Greek Row, each sport has its own designated apartment or house, spanning a city block. They study together, play together, live together. Hell, they even eat together in a special cafeteria, with super special, healthy jock food.

  And Tess wants to date one.

  Wants to date a ballplayer, emphasis on player.

  And these boys on The Row? They’re a different breed of student body altogether.

  These boys don’t even compare to the kind of guys from back home I’m used to flirting with. These guys? Are practically men.

  Bigger. Brawny. In peak physical condition—probably the best shape they’ll ever be in their lives.

  Cocky.

  Quick.

  I’ve seen them in action on the ball field; I know the team is good. They definitely look good.

  Smell good.

  How do I know? I got too close to one while rooting around for a beverage at the football house last week—when he leaned over to grab the beer tap with his long, lean fingers, I accidentally caught a whiff. Checked out his upper torso and muscular forearms in the process, like every other female in the room with a set of functioning eyes.

  I love my friends to death—tolerate them because our history goes back to middle school—but sometimes, they’re shallow and calculated and, well—Cleat Chasers. I’m not embarrassed by it, but it does get exhausting hitting Jock Row every damn weekend. Why? They’re all hoping to sink their blood red talons into some unsuspecting athlete, myself often in tow. Bringing up the rear.

  I’m third, fourth and fifth wheeling it.

  Tonight Tess is on the prowl for a ballplayer, one ballplayer specifically: Dante Amado, a catcher she “bumped into” him in an administration building once. Discovered that if she timed it right, she’d run into him coming out of history class.

  I guess I can’t fault her, the guy is dark, broody and damn good looking. Latino to boot.

  “Let’
s silver lining this: if I’m wearing this bulky sweater, he’s going to assume I’m your DUFF and won’t look twice at me. See? No competition.”

  Her dark head tilts as she considers it, puckering her hot pink mouth. “True, he would.” Her blue eyes—the color of Ocean breeze contact lenses—rake up and down my body for the second time. “You know, you’re going to be too hot in that thing. It might be cold outside, but it’s not going to be cold inside the house.”

  “I’ll go out on the porch if I have to.”

  She narrows her artificially enhanced blue eyes, and I’m surprised she can blink with all the mascara caked on her lashes. “What about your cold?”

  “The worst of it is over. Can we just go? I kind of want to get home a little early and read.”

  “You’ve turned into such a nerd since you got your own apartment.”

  I ignore her. “What’s taking Cameron so long?”

  “One of her hair extensions was loose. She’s adding extra adhesive.”

  Of course she is.

  Cameron—Tess’s roommate—chooses that moment to come sashaying out of their bathroom, thumbing a long strand of platinum blonde hair, curls sprayed into submission, the rest of them lying in silky waves. Dark eyes, glossy lips, and too few clothes, our girl Cam is ready to hit the Row.

  She halts when she see’s me, pointing an accusatory finger at my boots. “You’re not wearing that outfit. It’s butt ugly.”

  I roll my eyes. “Save your breath—I’m playing chaperone tonight. It’s my job to keep guys off your jocks.” I chuckle at my own witty quip. “Get it? Cause we’re going to the baseball house?”

  Cameron ignores my quip, checking her phone. “Should we walk or call a car?”

  “Car,” Tess’s heels click on the linoleum. “I can’t walk far in these shoes.”

  ***

  This sweater was a terrible idea; why didn’t anyone stop me from wearing it?

  It’s so freaking hot in here; the first thing I have to do is lose this scarf.

  Tugging at the end of it with my left hand, I pull it loose, lifting it over my head, loosening the round loop. Stuff it in my purse, which is more of a cumbersome tote, all the while holding a red cup in my right. It’s red beer cup—except there’s no beer in it tonight.

  Just water disguised as alcohol.

  And finding something to drink that isn’t beer? Damn near impossible. I’d had to leave Tess and Cam to their own devices to scavenge the kitchen, raiding the fridge.

  Surprisingly, I found an entire shelf of just water and juice. Snagged two bottles, one for now and one for later if I get thirsty, stuffing them in my bag. The last thing I need is a guy who lives here guys catching me ransacking their food supply and getting the wrong idea.

  But they didn’t have water at the makeshift bar (two sawhorses and a plywood board painted with the universities baseball logo and the rules for playing beer pong), so I did what I had to do to stay hydrated without getting wasted.

  Stole two bottles of water.

  My friends have already gone astray in the short time it’s taken me to unwind my scarf, cooling myself by pulling at the front of my wool sweater, airing out, and taking a few refreshing sips of my pilfered beverage.

  Delicious.

  I fan myself idly, standing off to the side, surveying the room, trying not to die from heat stroke. A dramatic observation, sure, but if I manage not to pass out it will be a damn miracle. I’ll never admit it, but Tess and Cameron were right—I shouldn’t have worn this. Damn them.

  Speaking of which…

  I locate them near the front windows, my soft sweater suddenly itchy. Scorching. Making me sweaty and irritable and oh my god why am I wearing this? I slide a finger in the collar in an attempt to alleviate the temperature, giving yet another tug.

  It’s no use—I’m stuck sweltering in this godforsaken potato sack until we leave—and no way am I going out on the porch for fresh air alone.

  I’m not brave enough. at this late hour.

  But I’m brave enough to cross the room and join Tess and Cam, who are having better luck tonight than I connecting with people, already cloistered in a group with two of the more handsome young men I’ve ever seen.

  Guh! I’m so awkward.

  I approach quietly, sidling up in time to hear one of the guys say:

  “…there’s something wrong with my phone. Would you take a look at it?” He holds the jet black cell toward my friend, who eyes it with a goofy grin on her face, the little flirt.

  “What’s wrong with it?” she asks.

  I step forward and finish the punch line he is about to deliver. “Your name isn’t in it.”

  “Huh?” Tess wrinkles her brow, confused.

  “The line is: there’s something wrong with my phone because your name isn’t in it.” I pause. “Get it? I read it online somewhere, some list about best pick up lines. Or worst? I can’t remember.” I look up at into a set of scowling, brown eyes. “Did I get it right?”

  “Oh! Ha ha!” Tess fake laughs, tapping him on the bicep, her fingertips lingering there. “You want my number? How sweet!” She takes the phone out of his hands, tapping her number into the contacts as he shoots a wary glance in my direction.

  I clutch my cup, offering up a friendly smile. “Hi. I’m Scarlett.”

  He nods, but his mouth remains impassive. Quiet.

  Is he pissed because I beat him to the punchline of his corny, pilfered pick up line? It’s not even original!

  “You should run and get yourself another beer,” he pretends to peer into my cup. “Looks like yours is half empty.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Me?” He manages to look affronted. “No! I live here. It’s kind of my job to make sure everyone is having a good time.”

  “I’m good, thanks.” I stare down into my cup. “Besides, this isn’t beer. It’s water and it’s still pretty cold.”

  “Water?”

  I scrunch up my nose. “Yeah—I’m not really much of a drinker, and I’m kind of sick, so—is it really a smart idea to get drunk?” I snort. “I don’t think so.”

  His face contorts. “Where’d you find water around here?”

  For real? “Uh. The kitchen?”

  “Where in the kitchen?”

  Is this a trick question? “Uh…the fridge?”

  His eyes narrow. “We keep the fridge locked during parties.”

  My brows rise into my hairline. “You do?”

  “Yeah. So no one takes shit.” Like water.

  My cheeks are on fire. I’m burning up in this damn sweater, and now totally embarrassed he thinks I stole—purposely –taking shit from the house refrigerator.

  Which I did.

  But not on purpose.

  Ugh! It was on purpose but completely accidental.

  Crap.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t see the lock on it. It opened right up.”

  He glances down his nose at me for the second time tonight, silently judging me. “Want something other than water? Maybe it will loosen you up.”

  Loosen me up? Is he serious?”

  “You seem uptight,” he continues, raising my dander.

  I’d laugh if he wasn’t so ridiculous. Me? Uptight? Ha! I’m one of the most outgoing people I know for heaven’s sake! Just ask me!

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” I pull at my sweater, peeling it away from my skin. The room only seems to get hotter by the second. “So what were you talking about before I walked up?”

  Cameron pipes up, resting her hand on the meaty guys bicep. “Benjamin was just telling us about how when the baseball team won the College World Series last year, it was because Derek pitched a no-hitter in the seventh inning.”

  Won the College World series? My brows furrow, the bridge of my nose pinched. “No he didn’t.”

  “Yes he did!” She laughs. “He’s amazing, Scarlett, you should hear the story.” She pokes him.
“Tell her the story Ben.”

  I look at Ben. Glance at Derek. Back at my roommate and shake my head. These guys are full of shit.

  My mouth opens and more words come out that make the guy frown.

  “USC won the College World Series last year. They win it almost every year.” My water tastes warm when I take a drag, tepid at best going down my throat.

  “How would you know?” Ben—the blonde Adonis—asks.

  “My brother. He’s obsessed with going to USC and playing ball there. He loves that school; it’s so annoying sometimes,” I tap my chin with a forefinger. “But I do remember last summer having to watch that dumb game—no offence—an entire week in June. The College World series is in June, right?”

  The other blonde nods, crossing his arms and spreading his legs.

  Now he’s annoyed with me, too.

  Great.

  “Anyway,” I prattle in an attempt to redeem myself. “I just remember being home and my brother watching that game every night after school. USC won, I’m sure of it.”

  Neither of the guys have a response.

  Cameron on the other hand? Glares at them both. “Why would you say you won?”

  “I must have been thinking of the year before,” one of them lies.

  “USC.” I mutter into my cup, coughing. Both guys shoot daggers at me. “What! They did! Besides, you don’t have to try so hard with these two. Try being honest with girls, it’ll get you far.”

  I give them some encouraging advice and a smile, but neither are interested in being friendly. Not with me, anyway.

  No. They want me to disappear.

  “Aren’t you sweating your ass off in that ugly sweatshirt?”

  I glance down at the gray mohair confection. “It’s a sweater.”

  “Whatever. Aren’t you fucking hot?”

  “Kind of,” I admit.

  “You should go outside and get some fresh air.”

  Yeah, that would feel great—but I’d rather not leave my friends unattended. Lord knows where they would disappear to.

  The blonde, Ben, casually arches a brow and the guys exchange glances, so damn shady. I watch as he casually slides out of the conversation and disappears into the crowd, causing Cameron’s bottom lip to pout. Arms to cross. Boobs to rise above the low neckline of her shirt.