by Ney, Sara
It has me hard as a fucking rock, grinding my dick against the mattress at the same time I’m eating her out. Dry humping the bedding like a teenage horn dog, about to come myself and inevitably squirt jizz on my own damn comforter.
Fuck.
There’s no stopping the train once it’s in motion, and we both moan—me into her pussy, Charlie into the dim bedroom. Me, grinding my hips.
I might be inexperienced, but I know she’s about to come by the swivel of her pelvis on the bed—she’s damn near grinding her crotch into my face, fucking it. First, little pulses. Then, louder moaning. Then, she’s shoving at my shoulders, pushing me away but not really wanting me to pull away; she simply doesn’t know what to fucking do with herself as her body begins shaking with shocks of pleasure.
Now I can feel it on my tongue, the jolts. Her body humming. Convulsing, for lack of a better term.
I can feel the whole thing happening on the surface of my tongue. My lips. I grin into her pussy, knowing I’m going to smell like sex for days—the smell from her imprinted on my skin. Under my nose. My fingers.
Mmm.
I like the idea that I’m going to smell her after tonight, when I’m sitting in class or pulling on my helmet on the football field.
Charlotte Edmonds’ cum. Fucking. Delicious.
Who knew?
I could get used to this, dining on her pussy. The insatiable part of me that has to do better and be better fuels me on; I want to be the best fucking oral she’s ever had, or will have.
Remember this moment—it might never happen again…
I shrug off the thought. Nope. It won’t be the last time, Jackson—you’re hooked on her and you damn well know it. Stop denying it.
She says my name over and over like a mantra, a psalm spoken to God, repeated and memorized; words to live by.
“Jackson, oh Jackson…yes…God Jackson, oh Jesus…” It’s a rush.
The best rush.
Nothing will ever replace the sound of it, not the noise in the stadium during a game or fans shouting my name in unison when I make a play. Not the sound of the press calling to me for an interview. Not students saying my name as I walk past them on campus, heading to class. Not the little kids who want my autograph if they see me at the grocery store.
This.
This beats all of it. My name. Her lips.
WEDNESDAY 3.0
CHARLIE
So tired…
I crack an eyelid, blinking against the pitch-black bedroom, hearing only the sound of our breathing and the fan gently whirring above us.
I can’t see anything, not even the ceiling.
We’ve been lying here for hours—after Jackson went down on me, he rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Brushed his teeth, washed up, came back, and climbed across the mattress. Awkward, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with me afterward. Reached for me then pulled back, unsure.
I made it easy on him. Wanting to cuddle, I rolled into his giant, warm body and little-spooned him—little-spooned the shit out of him, actually, until he relaxed and his arms went around me. One hand resting on my hip, the other under his head, he rested his chin on the crook of my shoulder and inhaled my shampoo, smelling me.
Mmm.
This beats all of it.
The mediocre dates that fizzled, resulting in and meaning nothing. The sex I had with my ex-boyfriend.
I must have rolled away from him in my sleep, and the space between us is cold, so I scoot back, inching toward him in the dark. Press my back against him where it belongs, my ass firmly planted against his front—his resting dick no longer at full mast and stiffly begging for attention.
I cuddle deeper, loving the warmth from his big body. He’s kicking off heat like an inferno—a hotbox, my mother would call him. His gentle snore reminds me of a slumbering bear.
A gentle, slumbering bear.
Jackson is more sensitive than I would have given him credit for; his passion for football runs deeper than his passion for anything else, and that’s what makes him fantastic.
But there’s more to him than that, and I believe he’s just starting to realize it. He is discovering things about himself he didn’t know before. Like there is life after football if you open yourself up to it.
There is life off the field. People can love you for more than what you can give them; they can love you for you.
Love.
It’s too soon for that, but the stirrings are there—I can feel them every time I’m with him. They grow every single day, every time he says something sweet in that Southern accent of his. Charming. Aloof.
Jackson is shy.
It took me some time to realize it because I was judging him solely by his size and appearance—huge, towering giants of men don’t normally give off a timid vibe, but now that I’m learning more about him…
I see it. I see him.
A sweet boy who wants more than the ball he throws around.
Jackson Jennings doesn’t give a shit about money or fame; all he wants is his father to be proud of him. Wants his mother to show him affection. He’s craving it.
Well I have some news for you, Jackson Jennings: I’m proud of you. And I want to show you affection.
I just wish he would tell me how he felt so I knew…
His arms tighten around me, slowly snaking down to my midriff and hugging me gently. The low snore in my ear is oddly satisfying.
We’re both content. I sigh.
Lie there quietly thinking, trying to settle my brain so I can rest, not even sure what woke me in the first place.
Stifling a yawn, I close my eyes—it’s too dark to see, anyway—choosing a spot in my mind so my thoughts can wander back to sleep. Classes. Fall. It’s going to rain tomorrow. Sweaters. The holiday. Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.
Ugh. Go back to sleep, Charlie! Turn off your brain!
It takes me a good while. Listening to Jackson’s breathing pattern helps; it’s constant, the rhythm soothing. I feel safe and secure wrapped in his arms, and he shifts, his large form behind me, nose still buried in my neck.
I lie still as he readjusts, hands unclasping from my midsection, one of them working up my hip, my arm, until his fingers are brushing the long strands of hair away from the column of my neck where his face just was.
He kisses below my ear.
Lies in the dark, coming awake, stroking my hair, fingers raking through it tenderly. Quietly, not making a sound.
My body relaxes, drifting. Weightless. Then.
Jackson speaks.
It’s a low whisper—just my name. “Charlotte.”
I remain still; for some reason, I remain completely unmoving. Unflinching.
Curiously, I wait. “Are you awake?”
I pretend to be sleeping, control my breathing.
His fingers lightly play with the hair by my ear, coiling it around his index finger, trailing it down the skin of my cheek.
His chest makes a sound, and though we’re pressed together, he moves closer still, lips on my shoulder. Hand on my upper arm, he presses another kiss on my skin.
I hear his breath pause. His mouth opens. “What are you doing to me?” he asks out loud, softly.
What am I doing to him? What does he mean?
“I thought I had everything figured out. What am I supposed to do now?”
What on earth is he talking about?
“I’ve never met anyone who made me want to change.” Oh.
Oh!
I try to keep my breaths even to hide the fact that my heart begins beating in overtime. It’s racing inside my chest as I wait for him to keep talking, silently begging for more words.
He’s opening up because he thinks I’m asleep and can’t hear him. Should I say something? Is it wrong that I’m lying here pretending?
“You’re so pretty,” he coos near my ear. Kisses my hair. “God you’re gorgeous. I could stare at you all day, do you know that?” He chuckles deep in his
chest. “Of course you don’t know that, you’re sleeping.”
Oh my god, could he be any more adorable? Guh!
“I don’t know how to give you what you want, but I want to try,” he continues. “Don’t hate me when I fuck it up, please. You’re the only one who gives a shit about me right now.”
My heart. My heart…
It clenches. Breaks for him. That’s not true! I want to shout, not knowing if it’s actually true or not. It’s his truth, and that’s really all that matters.
A tear escapes the corner of my eye when he lays a soft kiss to my temple.
“I wanna do right by you, Charlotte Edmonds.”
Do right by you.
So Southern I want to swoon—and I would, if he knew I was awake and I could gush over his words.
I continue playing dead.
“What do you want from me? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
Don’t talk like that, I want to say. You don’t have to give me anything—just your…just you.
“I’m not fallin’ in love with you.” Jackson pauses. “That can’t be what this is.”
I think he’s done—because what more is there to say? He practically admitted he’s falling in love with me—but he keeps talking to the bedroom, spilling his guts to the dark.
The walls have ears…
“You like me, don’t you? Me for me, not because I play ball? You’d stick with me if I decided not to play in the pros; I know you would.” He’s wishful-thinking out loud, but he’s one hundred percent right. I would stand by him, no matter what. If we were in a relationship, it wouldn’t matter to me what Jackson decided to do.
Besides…
Being a professional football player is dangerous. Why would I want to send him off week after week with the possibility that he’d get injured? I’d be a nervous wreck watching him on the field every week—waiting for the career-ending hit to take him down. Could my nerves handle that?
Doubtful.
“I don’t love you.” Pause. “Do I? Shit.” Then, “Do you love me?”
My breath—it escapes me completely, and my body goes completely still.
“Do you love me? Of course you don’t.”
Jackson laughs, this time louder than before. If he thinks I’m sleeping, it’s certainly loud enough to wake me up. Does he care? Does he know what he’s saying? What he’s asking me?
“Love.” He tests the word, his voice deep and baritone and smooth. “Love.”
Luuv.
I can hear him thinking as the seconds tick by. He sighs into my hair. “I’m an idiot. What the fuck am I even talkin ’bout?”
Tawkin bout.
This boy…
He’s breaking my heart, but not in a bad way; rather, it’s bursting. I’m feeling everything all at once, another tear sliding across my cheek. Down my face and wetting the column of my neck where he just laid his mouth.
Jackson stiffens as the salty tear meets his lips.
I hear his inhalation—feel it against my back when his body stiffens. “Charlotte?”
Oh god. “Jackson?”
His pause is painfully long. “Are you awake?” I pause, too.
“Yes.”
I swear I can hear the second hand on a clock somewhere in this house, loudly counting the seconds away.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the beats pressing into my back.
“Nothing.”
He isn’t going to say it, and he isn’t going to ask if I heard his private confession. But I heard him, and I loved it, and I don’t want him to pretend he didn’t just say the words no guy has said to me before, because it was beautiful.
“Jackson?”
“What.” He sounds miserable. Pouty, almost.
“I heard you.”
“Heard me what?”
I roll my eyes in the dark; silly boy, playing dumb. “I heard you tell me…” I inhale. “I heard what you said.”
“Oh.” Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s fine; I understand. I understand he has no idea how to express himself. Hasn’t had to.
Extricating myself from his hold, I shift to my back. Then roll to my side so I’m facing him in the dark. I can’t see his face, but I don’t have to. I know what I’d see there if the lights were on: devastation that he confessed what’s in his heart because he’s not confident I feel the same way.
“Jackson,” I whisper in the dark. “Jackson.” I say it again, my voice…full of pain and longing. I’m choked up, not having spoken in so many hours, the words stuck in my throat. “I love you.”
My fingertips feel for his face, and I smooth them down his cheeks. He grabs them with his hands, kissing the tips before they can continue their course down.
“I love you,” I whisper again.
I’ve never said it to anyone but my parents and my friends, but I find that I mean it, and he so needs to hear the words.
“Say it one more time.” He’s whispering back.
One more tyme.
That I can do. I shiver.
“I love you.” I cup his face with my palm, his hand still wrapped around my wrist. He kisses the heel of my hand as it moves past his mouth. “You’re beautiful,” I tell him. “And smart.” My hand sneaks to the back of his head, and I bury my fingers in his hair. “And sexy.”
“I am sexy,” he admits for the first time, a bit bashfully. “Broken nose and all.”
“Especially your broken nose.” I lean in, feel for it in the dark, and plant a kiss there. Then another. Then I plant one in the corner of his gorgeous, pouty mouth—my favorite spot. I can’t see it, but I can visualize it: full bottom lip, a bit petulant. Cupid’s bow on his upper, both the ends tipped up into a natural smirk, kind of like the joker. Or the Grinch.
It’s a sassy mouth, ready for sarcasm and banter, not always pleasant, I’m sure. Jackson has never directed any curse words in my direction, but I can’t imagine he’s always this sweet and pleasant. Or nice.
In fact, I have a feeling he’s a real asshole with most people. A giant douchebag because his guard is always up.
Everything about him turns me on. Everything.
I kiss his mouth, and he accepts it, meeting my tongue.
Suddenly, it’s different. Better. We care about each other— and that makes all the difference. His touch makes me tingle in a way it didn’t just hours ago.
He loves me.
It’s intoxicating knowledge to have. Makes me bask, knowing I can touch him freely, knowing nothing is off limits now that we’ve established how we feel.
Nothing is off limits. Including S-E-X?
Guess we’ll find out…
I kiss his majestic nose again. Again. Loving every second of it, cherishing this moment, hoping to remember it forever, no matter what ends up happening with us. We may not have a happily ever after—only time will tell—but we’re happy now, and I want to touch his soul—and his body.
He smells delicious. His incredible body is pressed against my front, breasts smashed against his broad chest. There’s hair there; Jackson isn’t the kind of guy who grooms or manscapes—he is who he is and doesn’t make a fuss about it. He’s masculine and wonderfully male, which is the same thing, I get it, but whatever. He’s sexy and I love it.
The hair on his chest tickles my boobs, but in the best way, and I wiggle a bit so I’m rubbing over him. Lean in and find the pulse in his neck, sucking the skin below his ear.
He shivers. Grips my hips and tugs.
Runs his hand over my hip, down to my ass, pressing into my skin along the way. Grips my butt in his big palm. Squeezes. Moans.
Mmm.
Our mouths somehow discover their way together in the dark, locking. Opening, two simultaneous moans filling the space between us, creating tension that wasn’t there before.
Sweet, sweet sexual tension.
The longer we make out, the harder Jackson’s dick becomes; it’s long and hot against my thigh, but he makes no move to grind on me or grab my hand and draw it down south.
The longer we make out, the wetter I become downstairs. I’m hot and impatient, wanting more than this innocent
kissing. Okay, not so innocent since we’re mostly unclothed, in bed together, in a dark room and not officially in a relationship.
But we’ve known each other for weeks, possibly our whole lives, my brain argues. You’re ready for whatever Jackson wants.
I know he’s not going anywhere—I wouldn’t be here with him now if he wasn’t interested. He’s gone twenty-two years without so much as having sex with someone, and he isn’t taking this ‘thing’ with me lightly.
So I push.
Do a little gyrating to see how he responds. Where will he move his hands if I do the seducing?
I’m still wearing my bra—he hasn’t officially touched my bare breasts, or seen me completely naked. I’ve seen his dick in the near dark but haven’t had it near my center.
You couldn’t fit a dime between us, so inching closer is impossible, but I take a palm and press it against his pec, pushing a bit so he knows I want him on his back.
Reach for the bedside table and feel around for the small lamp I know is there, fumble for the switch. Its low glow gives off just enough light for me to see his expression, and I want him to see me. I want him to watch when I climb on top of him and remove my bra.
Watch his face change when my arms reach behind my back and release the tiny clasp. Work the straps down my shoulders, letting them sag over my upper arms before shimmying them all the way down.
I’m sitting on top of him as if I’m in a saddle, tossing my bra to the floor; it lands somewhere nearby. Jackson isn’t wearing a shirt, so when I move my body forward and let my boobs smash his chest, he inhales. A sharp intake of breath that spurs me on.
I line up our privates; only our underwear separates us, and let’s be honest, mine is merely a scrap of material that conceals nothing. I feel everything—the head of his dick, the shaft, his balls.
