Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  “Cheezus!” he spits out. “If I don’t fuck you right now, I’m gonna die, Jessie.”

  I laugh hard enough to shake the mattress, but the poor man doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy grabbing a condom from the nightstand drawer. Too busy stroking his cock as he sheathes himself. Too busy guiding that huge dick to my entrance and falling forward onto one elbow.

  The penetration is swift. One second I’m achingly empty, the next I’m deliciously full. Blake moans against my neck and drives his hips forward. Then he retreats, a slow, torturous withdrawal until only his tip is inside me, an unbearable tease. My inner muscles clamp tight, trying to draw him in again, but he stays in that position for a moment, his gaze locking with mine.

  “This is nice,” he says solemnly.

  I swallow. “Would be nicer if you moved.”

  “In a minute.” He brings his hand to my face and strokes it gently. “I’m enjoying this. Your cheeks are bright red. So are your tits.” He ducks his head and kisses one breast. “You’re so hot when you’re turned on.”

  I grasp his ass and dig my fingers into the taut flesh, trying to push him deeper inside, but his body is unyielding. The Great Wall of Blake ain’t moving until he says so.

  “Will you say my name when you come?” Warm, wet lips skate up my throat before hovering inches from my mouth. “Shout it, if you can. It’ll make me crazy.”

  Another laugh pops out. “Dude. I can’t control what I say during orgasm. It’s mostly gibberish.”

  He kisses me, his tongue toying with mine until we’re both breathless. “You’ll say my name,” he murmurs, and I don’t know if that’s another question or him just stating a fact, but either way, I don’t have the mental capacity to decode it, because he’s moving again.

  God, he’s moving. Slow, deep strokes. So fucking slow. Unbearably slow.

  “Damn it, Blake, fuck me,” I beg.

  “Mmmm,” is all he says, and the lazy tempo continues.

  My body screams for relief. Every square inch of skin is tight and prickly, and the pressure between my legs is one hard thrust away from detonating. But Blake is determined to torture me. His hips move at a snail’s pace, his expression not unlike the way he looks on the ice—sharp focus and a predatory gleam.

  “You close?” His voice holds a taunting note, his lips curved in a slight smirk.

  “You know I am,” I say desperately. I buck my hips but that just makes him stop moving. Frustration streaks through me. “Please.”

  “Please what?” He teases my nipple with rough fingertips.

  “Please let me come.”

  “Please let me come what?”

  Confusion rises for a moment, until I realize what he wants. “Please, Blake. Please let me come, Blake.”

  A huge grin stretches across his face. “Okey-dokey.”

  And then he thrusts into me so fast and deep that my lungs seize up. The punishing stroke rips the orgasm out of me. I gasp for air as a burst of ecstasy rocks into me like a shockwave. I hear things. I think it’s my voice. I think…yup, I’m moaning Blake’s name, over and over again. And I think he might be chuckling as he fucks me into oblivion.

  But any amusement he might have felt disappears the moment he starts trembling on top of me. I’m no longer embarrassed about chanting his name like a meditation mantra, because when he comes, it’s with a hoarse, passion-drenched “Jess!” that echoes in the bedroom and vibrates in my heart.

  Blake

  Holy shitballs.

  That wasn’t sex.

  That was…something else entirely.

  My chest is heaving as if I’ve just finished a four-minute shift on the ice. During a power play.

  I collapse on top of Jess, the aftershocks of release still surging through my blood, tingling in my balls. Then I realize I’m crushing her, and I roll us both over so her soft, curvy body is sprawled over me like an electric blanket.

  “I can’t remember my name,” I mumble.

  Her dry voice tickles my neck. “Really? Because I think I just shouted it, oh, about a hundred times?”

  Hells yeah, she did. Why do you think I came so hard? Hearing my name on those sexy lips was like the aphrodisiac of all aphrodisiacs. Fuck oysters. From now on, whenever I need to feel horny, I’m just calling Jess Canning and asking her what my name is.

  We lie there for several minutes, catching our breath. Finally—regretfully—Jess disengages her lady bits from my man bits. She takes pity on me and removes the condom, then ducks into the bathroom. When she returns, she hesitates at the foot of the bed.

  I pat the mattress. “Get back here, baby. We’re cuddling.”

  She bites her lip.

  “I mean it, J-Babe. If I don’t get my cuddling time in, I’ll be a mess at practice tomorrow.”

  “I guess I could use a cuddle,” she admits.

  She climbs back onto the bed and curls up beside me. I instantly sling one arm around her and tug her closer.

  I wonder if she’s thinking about her money issues again. That bums me out. Someone as smart and awesome as Jess shouldn’t have to worry about anything. She deserves to have everything handed to her on a silver platter. Because she’s a queen. I guess that makes me her king? Yeah, I like the sound of that. King Blake.

  “Can you buy a country?” I muse.

  She sighs against my pecs. “Do I even want to ask you to explain that?”

  “Like a small country. Can you buy one? And then turn it into a monarchy so you can be king and queen?” I absently run my hand up and down her spine. She’s so damn tiny in my arms. “I think you and I should be royalty.”

  “Of course you do.” There’s a note of affection in her voice.

  Silence washes over us. It’s nice. A relaxing, peaceful interlude as my lady and I lounge in bed after the best sex ever known to man.

  “Jessie?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m glad we’re dating now.” Cue her arguments in 3…2…1…

  “We’re…not dating.”

  I grin at the ceiling. “Sure we are. We did it on my bed.” I shrug. “That means we’re dating.”

  “That’s not how it works!” she protests, raking a hand through her golden hair. “You don’t date people. Everyone says so. I mean, you’re just going there now because we had spectacular sex and you want more of it. It’s just the dopamine talking. I read up on this for my pharmacology exam.”

  I snort. “You’re saying I’m driving under the influence of orgasms?”

  “Exactly. You’re heading out on a road trip tomorrow…”

  Moving quickly, I roll up on an elbow and look down at her. “You know my game schedule? Why would you look if we weren’t dating?”

  She gives me a shove so I’ll lie down again. Which I do. She puts her head on my shoulder and it feels so nice. “I know your schedule because it’s Wes’s schedule, and Jamie and I have a date to make lasagna and watch the game on TV.”

  Oh.

  Duh.

  “That’s nice that you can hang out with your brother. You two get along pretty well.”

  “We do…except when we don’t. And I miss my family a lot. I didn’t go home for this vacation week because the airfare is expensive. But I’m used to seeing them every Sunday for a big meal. It’s nice.”

  Aw, my girl misses her family. “Now that we’re dating, come with me to dinner at my folks’ house on the weekend.”

  She laughs. “Blake, seriously? You’re heading out on a week-long road trip, where I’ll bet you’d rather be single.”

  “Nope. I’m going to text you every night. You’ll see.”

  “We’re not dating,” she says. Except she’s cuddling me with her entire naked body and stroking my chest lovingly with one hand.

  “Want to eat ice cream in bed?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she sighs, the arch of her foot stroking mine.

  Silly Jessie. We are dating. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  25 I’ll Be in My Bun
k

  Jess

  After all the stress I’ve been under, it’s weird to have a week off. I’m so fried that I spend the first day watching videos on my laptop of cats riding Roombas. After a few hours in this vegetative state, I realize my dorm room is awfully lonely. I even miss Violet, who has gone back to wherever perfect nursing students come from.

  That night I bask in the luxury of eating a falafel alone in my room. Violet isn’t here to yell at me, so that’s something.

  At ten o’clock I receive a text from Blake. Hi, girlfriend! I just wanted you to know I’m turning in for the evening. Alone. Because we’re dating.

  I’m not a total jerk, so I reply, Hey there! How’s Chicago? I’m turning in, too. Alone. Because that’s how I roll.

  I miss you, he writes.

  And now I don’t know whether or not to be honest. I miss you, too, I admit. But that doesn’t mean we’re dating.

  We are, though.

  Good night, Blake.

  Good night, girlfriend.

  The next day I take a yoga class first thing in the morning, and then undo all of my good work by spending the afternoon worrying about my exam grades.

  I should have gone home to California, and I would’ve if my credit card didn’t hate me. I’m not the type of girl who likes to be alone. I need people around me. The nice word for this is “social.” But another view on it is “needy.”

  In fact, the reason I hooked up with Blake in the first place was out of loneliness.

  So I hang out the next evening with Jamie, who also seems at odds. “I got used to having Wes around,” he admits. “Now that the season has started up again, I guess I have to remember how to be alone. Here’s a tip for you—fall for someone who doesn’t travel seventy nights a year.”

  My face heats. “I guess Hozier is out, then,” I joke.

  “Mmh. Some guys are worth it,” my brother says. “Yum. That voice. He’s a little skinny, though. I like ’em meatier.”

  So do I, apparently. “I don’t know if I can get used to you perving on men.”

  “Hey, I’m married. I can’t steal your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say quickly.

  Jamie gives me a quizzical look. “Joking.”

  “Right.”

  Together, we make a giant lasagna and then eat it in front of the big-screen TV.

  “This is going to be a tough game,” he says when it’s hockey time. “Chicago is a great team, and their best player is all healed up from his injury last year.” He rubs his hands together as they set up for the first face-off. Wes is starting, but Blake is on the second line tonight.

  I find myself looking for his face whenever the camera pans the bench. He’s easy to spot—those broad shoulders are unmistakable. And each time his long legs kick over the wall to take the ice, I sit up a little straighter.

  The speed of the game is breathtaking. But I wish I was in the stadium so I could see him better. The cameraman keeps teasing me with glimpses and then taking Blake away again.

  He grabs the puck on a breakaway, and the camera zooms in.

  “Come on, dude!” Jamie yells.

  I hear myself squeal as he charges the net. Chicago’s d-men get their acts together and try to block his path, but all that muscle on a fast course toward the goal cannot be stopped. The goalie butterflies himself in an attempt to block the shot. But Blake puts the puck right over the guy’s shoulder and into the corner of the net.

  “Oh God!” I shriek. “BLAKEY!”

  It’s almost as if he can hear me. He does his signature celly: riding his stick like a pony. Except then he looks up at the camera and blows a kiss.

  Jamie and I are jumping up and down on the couch. “A goal in the first five minutes! We’ve got all the momentum,” my brother crows. “Seems like Blake is back!”

  My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I want to text him, to tell him how exciting that was. But he can’t read it for hours, anyway.

  I can hardly sit still for the rest of the game. Jamie and I drink a six-pack while waiting to find out if Chicago can answer our early lead.

  They can’t.

  Blake gets an assist, and then Wes gets a goal. I make sure to shriek twice as loud for Wes.

  By the time the final buzzer rings, it’s 3–1. Toronto has won. I’m drenched with sweat, and tipsy, too.

  And there’s something I need to admit to myself: I’m now a hopeless hockey fan. But who wouldn’t be? It’s a really exciting game. My sudden interest has absolutely nothing to do with the extra-large-sized forward wearing jersey number 17.

  When I emerge from the subway near my dorm a half-hour later, my phone chirps with a text.

  I blew my girlfriend a kiss. I hope she was watching.

  Oh, she was. Great game! I write, stepping right around the issue of the kiss. J and I had a lot of fun watching you guys mow down Chicago.

  My phone is silent after that, and I assume the conversation is closed. But twenty minutes later, I’m shutting off my light when the phone chirps again. When I check the screen, the only message is a three-second video of Blake’s hands unzipping his suit trousers. He’s looped it, so those big hands unzip the pants, and then unzip them again…

  Yikes. I’ve watched it seven times before I even blink.

  What to do? My natural impulse is to tease him back. I like Blake, and he’s so sexy I’m practically licking my phone right now. But who is he to insist we’re a couple? Who does that? It’s maddening. He drives me insane.

  I wish he was here right now.

  With a loud groan, I roll over, facedown on the bed. My ass is in the air, clad in nothing but little cotton panties that happen to say, It’s Not Going to Spank Itself. They were a joke from Dyson last Christmas, and since I haven’t done laundry since exams started, they made their way out of the back of the drawer today.

  I angle my camera around to my backside and stab at the phone’s screen until I hear the camera shutter sound.

  The resulting picture is a little off-center. So I crop it a little. And while I’m in the photo editor, I try a couple of filters until I find the one that best accentuates my boo-tay.

  It’s not that I’m trying to impress Blake. It’s just that I’m artsy.

  I hit send, and the reply is almost immediate. OMFG. If you need me, I’ll be in my bunk with my hand on my junk.

  This lights me up inside, and then almost as quickly fills me with guilt. Damn it. Do I want to date Blake? Sure I do. But it’s a terrible idea. Because…

  Picking up my phone one more time, I dial Dyson. It’s only eight o’clock in California, so he answers right away. “Yo, Jess! How are you doing in the frozen north? Or should I say, who are you doing?”

  “Cut to the chase much?”

  “What is the count up to now?”

  “The count?”

  “We were at three last time we spoke—the chair, the wedding and the Hummer.”

  I sigh. “None of your business.”

  “Oh, I think it is. Besides, I’m on a fifteen-minute break before I start the other four hours of my shift. Give me a happy thought. Are we up to four? Dare I hope for five?”

  “Well…” I clear my throat. “It depends how you count.”

  “Ungf.”

  Indeed. And he doesn’t even know about the bed. We got a little sticky eating ice cream that night and ended up doing it again in the shower.

  “Was it awesome?”

  “Completely. But there’s a problem.”

  “He doesn’t want to do it again?” Dyson yelps. “Then he’s an idiot.”

  “That’s not it. Now he says we’re dating. That’s not cool, right? You can’t just inform someone that they’re half of a couple.”

  There’s a silence on the line. “I’ll be half a couple with Blake Riley if you won’t. That man is smoking.’”

  “He’s as hot as they come,” I agree. “But he’s assuming too much! Who does that?”

  “He
must be really into you.”

  I open my mouth to argue and then shut it again. Is he really? For all his loud-mouthed bluster and total lack of a filter, Blake is actually pretty hard to read. Everything is light and airy and surface-only with him. Other than his confession about his ex and the fake baby mama drama, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a deep conversation with the guy.

  Maybe deep is overrated…

  Maybe? Truth is, I’ve only ever dated intense, creative types. Guys like Raven, who could sit for hours talking about his feelings and pondering whatever existential crises he was going through at that moment.

  But…another truth? Sometimes that got really old. And boring. I can’t remember laughing with Raven the way I laugh with Blake.

  I always thought I’d end up with an artsy kook like myself. And sure, Blake’s as kooky as they come, but in a different way. He’s bold and loud and totally obnoxious at times. But he’s also hilarious, sweet, kind, loyal, great in bed…

  A groan slips out. “I don’t know, Dyse. I…don’t trust it. He’s a famous hockey player. I’m a nursing student who underperformed on her final exam.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. Did you get your grade back already?”

  “No. I’m just bracing myself. The worst will be if I have to tell my parents this spring that my scholarship money isn’t going to be renewed. I’m going to tell them over the phone so I can’t see Mom’s face.”

  Dyson clicks his tongue. “Panic much? You probably squeaked by. You studied hard.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We have to work on your self-confidence.”

  “I’m confident!”

  Dyson laughs. “Not so much, kitty cat. You dump your boyfriends so fast so they can never dump you first. And now you’re absolutely wigging out about your whole future, when you don’t even know yet what grade you got on the test. That, my sweet love, is not confidence talking.”

  Now I’m practically sputtering into the phone. “That is not an accurate diagnosis!” I don’t know who I’m more upset with right now—Dyson or Blake. “I’m confident. Ask anyone.”