“That’s what she said last night,” Max says, laughing, and Monica’s honey-brown eyes turn to me, and she smiles wickedly.
My mouth drops open in shock as I bring my index finger to my chest and mouthing me?! My cheeks heat with embarrassment, and my heart hammers with excitement as I can feel Max’s eyes on me. I shake my head fiercely and snort a laugh, and just when I thought things couldn’t get any more awkward or weird, the speakers begin moaning as if they are having a five-star orgasm right there in my fucking living room.
Both Max and Monica chuckle, and my hearing goes fuzzy as the woman’s groans impressively climb a few octaves before she tops the whole thing off with a scream. To quote the woman in the cafe scene from When Harry Met Sally, ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’ Max bends down slightly so that his lips are level with my ear.
“That’s my favorite part,’ he says quietly.
His warm breath travels down in titillating puffs past my neck as it settles in the middle of my cleavage, where I wish his face could be at this exact moment. Max sets a large hand on my hip curve, and his lips almost touch the sensitive shell of my ear. I don’t say anything because I can’t get my words out. I’m stunned with silence by Max’s flirty exchange that I don’t notice him leave the room.
What the hell just happened? Max and I always traded flirtations in the past, but they were nothing like this.
“Well, that was awkward as fuck,” Monica interrupts. “But also hot as hell. Who knew Maxwell was a freak nasty, as well as a stone-cold fox. Damn. My panties are so wet right now.”
I shoot Monica a look and furrow my brow as if to say? Call me selfish, stupid, or just generally confused, but I don’t want anyone else taking that moment for herself and getting off on it. Max may not be my favorite person, but that moment we just shared was sexy and sort of intimate. I don’t want to share it with anyone else.
“Are you hungry? Chinese buffet, on me.” I say to Monica, trying to change the subject to something a little less weird.
“You had me at the buffet,” she says and links her arm through mine, smiling.
Max
October 8th
One Week Later
“How’s it going so far? I hope Vada isn’t trying to kick you out already?” Jack says, his low baritone voice sailing from the receiver of my cell phone.
I keep the small black device between my ear and shoulder and make up a quick protein shake before hockey practice this afternoon. How’s it going so far? Does he want to know? I want to growl my frustration into the phone and tell Jack that little Miss Vada has been up to my ass about everything.
You’re using too much detergent! Don’t leave the kitchen light on during the day! No drinking from the carton! Blah, blah, blah!
It makes me want to take her over my knee and spank her—small smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I mentally picture it.
“No, not yet. Vada’s the usual pain in the ass, as always,” I deadpan and thank God that Jack and I aren’t talking via video chat because I’m tenting my jeans.
All I can think about is spanking Vada’s perfect round ass. I furrow my brow and aggressively chop the fruit I’m prepping for my smoothie before tossing everything into the blender. I push the pulse button a few times as I watch the strawberries, raspberries, bone-white protein powder, and almond milk swirl together. I drop a few ice cubes inside, keeping my thumb on the button until all of the ingredients are blended.
Focus on the blender, Max! Focus on the fruit and the ice and the purity of the shake.
That's what I try to make myself do, and yet my thoughts have no intention of being pure, and my mind goes back to Vada's ass once again and how it bounced in my face as if it was trying to fucking tempt me when she left for work last night.
Vada works at this club in town called La Buena Vida. All of those men who come in there are looking for some gorgeous woman to take home to their bed creep me out, and I know they’re zeroing in on Vada with X-ray vision. Wishing they could see through that tight white t-shirt and black shorts all of the female employees wear, just like I do every time she’s left the house for the night shift this week.
“What are you doing over there, Max? It sounds like you’re in a coffee house,” Jack says, referring to the whirring sound of the fancy blender I bought solely for protein shakes.
“Sorry, man, I’m making something to eat before practice.” I pick up the heavy glass jar from the shiny silver base and slowly pour the thick drink into a portable mug.
“Max, man. I know how you are, dude, and you better clean that counter up before Vada sees it, “Jack warns me. “She’ll have a heart attack if the house isn't tip-top.”
I’ll be honest here. I’m not used to having a roommate. I’ve been living by myself since I was eighteen and accustomed to calling all of the shots. By putting a twenty-eight-year-old man in a two-bedroom apartment with a twenty-three-year-old female, old habits will clash.
I roll my eyes when Jack says, ‘Vada will have a heart attack,’ because she’s already got snippy with me for leaving wet towels on the floor and drinking milk out of the carton. I can only imagine if I left the fruit carton and milk on the counter, didn’t wash the blender, or, gasp, rub every surface down in the kitchen with a Clorox wipe.
“I’ll clean it up, I swear.”
“You better, Max. I told Vada that you’d be a good boy,” he chuckles into the phone, but I’m not laughing. I don’t want to be a good boy. I want to be as bad as possible, and I’d like her to reap the benefits from it.
I shake my head and bare my teeth like a starving animal. Why am I picturing my best friend’s sister naked? And why does she look like dessert?
“Speaking of my sister, where is she?”
“The shower,” I say quickly, and more filthy thoughts filter through my head as I picture her standing underneath the warm spray, her gorgeous full breasts on display. My mouth waters as I imagine Vada guiding a purple loofah across her soft, feminine body.
Damn it, Maxwell, stop being an idiot! Vada is your roommate. She’s not an easy lay or a “puck bunny,” looking to fuck a famous goalie.
Indifferently, I shrug and can’t help but think that she’s different from the rest of the women I’ve savored. Vada respects herself, and I appreciate that.
Now, I sound like a wimp. Whatever, I don’t care who she fucks or sucks. Vada’s a grown woman, and I have no say in her personal life.
“Look, man, I gotta let you go. Practice begins in a half-hour,” I say, as I take a long gulp of my smoothie and almost choke when Vada walks into the kitchen; her scent is creamy vanilla and sandalwood. Her long dark hair hangs over one shoulder, and as I stare at her tight leggings, I feel an ache in my groin, but Vada ignores my presence as she walks by to pull a carton of eggs from the fridge.
“Alright, Max. Try not to get in her way, and please clean up your messes.”
“Okay, mom,” I teasingly retort as Vada’s head whips to the left when she hears Jack’s voice from the other end of the phone.
“Is that my brother?” she asks, turning around.
I raise an eyebrow and pull the phone away. “That depends.”
Vada’s full, bee-stung pout mashes into a hard line, her eyes snapping.
For some reason, I love to tease her. It thrills me to see her all sassy and feisty.
“Don’t be an asshole, Maxwell. Let me talk to my brother,” she demands and sets everything down.
“Hello? Vada? Max? Anyone?” Jack’s voice pours over the speaker as I hold the phone above my head, smiling.
Vada steps closer, and I find it comical that my six-foot-four frame towers over her meager five-foot-five stature. She reaches upward, attempting to swipe the phone from my hand, and Vada’s University of Florida t-shirt rises, and an irresistible piece of bare skin is revealing the slight curve of her stomach. My eyes zero in on her visible, sexy tan, suddenly compelled to know what style of panty she may have on.
“Maxwell Vahn, give me the damn phone, you animal.” Oh, Vada, you have no idea what kind of animal I’m truly capable of being.
“I’m hanging up now,” Jack says, and before Vada can grab the phone, the line goes dead. Her eyes darken, and I know I’m in trouble. I shrug and stick my cell in my back pocket.
“It’s not like you won’t talk to him tonight.”
“It will be the middle of the night by then, jackass,” Vada says and smacks my hard chest with the palm of her hand.
Is it me, or is she blushing? The round apples of her cheeks flair with color, and a burst of pride explodes within me, and it hits me that she’s blushing. What am I doing? She’s hot, sure. But so are plenty of other girls who I can fuck at the drop of a hat that is not as annoying and demanding as Vada.
“Shit! I’m late,” Vada says as she checks her watch. She pulls away and grabs her backpack from the floor before taking in the messy cupboard and unwashed blender. She sighs and rolls her eyes again.
Whatever. I don’t care. I’m only going to be here for a few more months, anyway. So why can’t I fight the urge to attempt to be a better human being when Vada’s in my presence? I try telling myself that it’s because she’s Jack’s sister and he’s my best friend. That soft, sweet part of myself wants to make her happy, but I bury it down deep, I don’t know if he even exists anymore, and I don’t wish Vada to know he ever did. I’m all about parties, women, and drinking, and I’d like it to stay that way. At least on the surface.
“I’m going to class, and all of your shit better be cleaned up by the time I get back, Maxwell,” she lectures me before grabbing her purse.
“What about breakfast?” I ask, referring to the carton of eggs she left on the table.
I know how she hates not taking care of things or leaving a mess, and I offer a cocky grin. She stands at the door, her back to me.
“You are insufferable,” Vada says as she turns around and stomps across the checkered linoleum. I fight a smile as I watch her red Converse squeak across the floor as the room becomes quiet.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Here, try this,” I grab a hot pink to-go mug with the caption saying ‘Big booty Judy,’ and raise an eyebrow at Vada, smiling.
“And don’t you forget it, buddy. Blue lace looks good on you, remember that?” Vada says as she reaches for the cup, but I pull it away and hold it high above her head.
Shit. Do I? Vada’s always so buttoned up and put together, so to see her in nothing but a t-shirt and blue lace panties, I thought my dick was going to bust through the denim of my fucking jeans. I swallow hard, not appreciating her bold comeback, but realizing that’s one of the things I love about her most. Ugh. Someone, please revoke my “man card.”
She finally cracks a fucking smile, her grin just gets more prominent, and she breaks into an all-out snort. Vada makes me feel like that little asshole kid on the playground that everyone knew back in elementary school. The little boy who always gave everyone else a hard time because he thought it was funny. She makes me feel like that, and it gives me a weird thrill like I’m getting away with something. But deep down, I think she likes it. Vada likes me messing with her. Man, she’ll never live this shit down now.
“Did you just snort?” I ask, as my eyes dance wild with amusement, as she does the same to me.
I see her cat, Chester, lying in his little cat bed near the fridge, and we lock eyes, agreeing that she needs to get laid and quick. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so damn cranky. He yawns, standing up to stretch his long furry body before padding over to his food dish.
Vada looks over my shoulder, realizing the time, and she squeals.
Hmmm. Does Vada sound like that in the bedroom, I wonder to myself as I eye her curves in the simple outfit she’s wearing. I like that Vada doesn't have to try. She’s confident, wearing a minimal amount of makeup, which I can appreciate.
“I’m late for class! Shit,” she curses under her breath. Vada grabs her car keys and book bag, booking it out of the apartment like a flash. Damn Vada, what the hell are you doing to me?
Vada
I’m almost five minutes late for my biology lecture this morning, thanks to Max. But I won’t lie. I liked being close to him. Just the scent of his musky cologne made me wet, and I imagined what it would be like to be underneath him, his fat bottom lip caressing my earlobe as his large hands roam my body.
Woah! What the hell am I saying? Maxwell is a disease, and I will not have him infecting me. It’s because of him I’m sprinting down the carpeted hallway, praying nobody singles me out for being late.
Pulling open the heavy oak door, and to my relief, our professor gives a slide show presentation. I quietly slip into the lecture hall and sink into the theater-style seat near the back. Just before taking a seat, I feel my heart drop. This bench just so happens to be the squeaky one of the bunch, and my brows shoot straight up just as I draw the attention of half of the students. I screw my eyes shut and pop one open as I hear Professor Lincoln clear his throat, clearly irritated.
Feeling my cheeks grow hot, I pretend that I just didn’t get called out for being late by an inanimate object. I swear the universe has it out for me! First, Maxwell moves in; then, my stupid chair rats me out for being tardy this morning. Squealer.
After writing for most of the three-hour lecture, my hand is screaming, uncle, not to mention my stomach! It’s a gurgling mess at this point from not eating breakfast. I swear Professor Lincoln was turning into a chicken leg up there.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the lights flick on, and the rest of the students in the lecture hall stand up from their chairs. I’m in no hurry to get back to the apartment. But God only knows what he’s done to my place.
Suddenly, my skin prickles with thoughts of that slob in my house, getting his or someone else's juices all over my furniture. So far, he’s been obeying the rule about having girls over, but he’s an over-sexed, horny, twenty-eight-year-old man, surrounded by a herd of “puck-bunnies.”
“Hey, you!”
I smile when I hear Monica from behind me. She leans in, wrapping her long arms around my middle, laughing, and I shake my ass at her, twerking as if I were at a nightclub.
“Oh yeah, baby! Let daddy have some of that booty!” I snort a laugh and sling my backpack over one shoulder. Monica’s chemistry lab is right across the hall from me, and on Tuesdays, we always meet up to study or hang out since we don’t see each other much these days.
“I’m going to the house real quick. Max should be back by now. I need to see if the place is still standing; wanna come?” Monica’s full lips turn into a shit-eating grin.
“He wants to fuck you,” she says so suddenly and brazenly that my eyes grow as big as saucers, and I find myself damn near choking with shock.
“Who? The mailman? Because I know you’re not talking about Maxwell Vahn.” I’m too flustered to go on for the simple fact that my best friend thinks that Maxwell would even see me that way. He's a man-whore, for starters. Max will sleep with anything in a skirt. She gets close to me as I prepare to push the door open, and I arch an eyebrow in question.
“Vada Finley, we’ve known each other since freshman year; that’s almost four years, and in that time, you’ve known Max and must have gotten to see that glint in his eye, that I need to fuck the shit out of Vada, look because I have.”
It’s no secret that Max is a well-known hockey player in Miami and that he’s quite well off for a guy his age. He’s a handsome man who also happens to have connections to just about everything and everyone. He’s always sleeping with different women and never plans to make it official with any one of them. So, the thought of being with someone like that who’s afraid to commit and views sex as just sex and nothing emotional, I’ll pass, thanks.
“I hardly think so, Monica. Max will always want three things. A pair of perky tits, beer, and hockey. I am not one of those things, and I never will be,” I say, and I'm okay with this.
Most women would be dyi
ng to date Max or take it to heart that he's a shallow dickhead, who will only exclusively date females with “perfect” bodies. Meaning flat tummies, heart-shaped asses, and what he refers to as 'DSLs' or dick sucking lips. He's so slimy and not at all for me.
“Suit yourself, Vada, but that man has it bad for you.”
I stop to consider her words a minute. Max is incredibly hot; we're talking GQ sexy, Abercrombie and Fitch model hot. However, I would never actually admit that. Not even under Chinese water torture! But having a hot body doesn't hide the fact that Maxwell is a skirt-chasing asshole who will never take life seriously.
“Let’s stop by the casa for a few minutes so I can grab my credit card and make sure Max hasn’t burned the place down, then we’ll go for food. Sound good?”
Monica leans against the wall, crossing her arms, and stares at me as if I'm a puzzle she can't quite figure out.
“You want to fuck him just as bad, Vada. Admit it. Remember that night when he first moved in, and he put his hand on your hip? Girl, I thought he was going to lay you down right there.”
I swallow hard and begin to tuck some hair behind my ear and avert my eyes. Shit. Monica knows me too well. I do remember that, a little too well. But she's wrong, though. Who knows where Max and his penis have been? Just thinking about his sex life makes me feel like I should swing by the clinic to get checked out.
However, an exciting rush fills me with the idea of this being possible. Then I come back to reality, remembering that Max is not a stable man. He’s not the type to settle down, get married, and have babies on the brain. Max will be a forty-seven-year-old man tucked away in some seedy hole in the wall bar in Orlando, watching the hockey game on the flat screen and reliving his glory days through the young men on the ice. He’ll have three ex-wives at that point, no more money, a drinking problem, at least two kids with each woman, owe back pay on child support, and probably three kids he has no idea even exist. He’s fizzling out fast, and I’m not going out that way.
He's The Goal Page 2
