by Sara Ney
Fuck it. I’m just going to put it out there.
Oz: Are you sure you can’t ditch your friends? LOL
Shit. It sounds really insensitive after I hit send. I should have added a goddamn wink face or something.
Jameson: I’m looking at Hayley and she’s shoving Ben & Jerry’s into her face with a shovel at an alarming pace. I’d say for the time being, I’m stuck here.
Oz: When can I see you again?
Jameson: Honestly? Not soon enough.
Jameson: I can’t believe I just sent that. Groan.
God, this freaking girl.
Oz: I really fucking miss you.
Jameson: I miss you too. Is that weird? It’s only been a few days since I’ve seen you.
Oz: Doesn’t matter. Not seeing you is making me slightly unstable. I should probs go run a few miles to burn off some of this nervous energy.
Jameson: Oddly, I find that very sweet—I find YOU very sweet. And charming.
Oz: You are…the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Jameson: Stop it! You’re making me blush and giggle, and now my roommates are all staring at me.
Oz: I fucking love that about you.
Jameson: What? What do you love about me? (trying to be modest and blushing like crazy over here)
Oz: Everything. I fucking love everything.
Jameson: You can’t say things like that in a text message!
I laugh out loud and tap out a quick Why not?
Jameson: Because! Don’t you know anything about girls? That’s something I want to hear in person. That’s like…panty dropper material right there.
My eyebrows shoot straight into my hairline and I stare at the words on my screen, stunned that they came from her. Panty dropper, panty dropper, panty dropper.
Jameson: My point is—that was really sweet and unexpected.
Oz: Did it make you wet hearing I love everything about you?
Jameson: I’m not sexting you right now! I’m in a crowded room!
Oz: Come on—give me something! I’m cold and alone and it’s Friday night.
Jameson: Yes. It got me wet. And “excited”.
Oz: EXCITED, excited?
Jameson: Yes (Yes! Yes!)
Oz: I’m beginning to think you’re naughtier than you look.
Jameson: Remember what I said to you the first time we met?
Oz: Something about being curious to sleep with me because of my incredible body?
Jameson: LOL, no! (but also yes) Never judge a girl by her cardigan.
I’m in my bedroom, stretched out across my bed, the latest episode of The Walking Dead playing in the background on the TV, when I hear the faint knock. Tipping my head to make sure my ears aren’t playing tricks on me—I’m not expecting anyone—I hear it again: several soft raps to the front door.
A pause.
Another knock.
Curious, I minimize the open window on my laptop, set it aside, and pad barefoot to the door, taking my sweet time. Stop in the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Turn the TV off in the living room, but not before flipping through a few channels.
When I finally pull open the front door, my eyes widen at the sight of James standing on my stoop, dressed head to toe like a preppy do-gooder. Like a librarian. Navy dress coat buttoned from the bottom to the top and tied at the waist. Pearls peeking out from the collar of her jacket. Navy blue, black, and green plaid skirt. The same black patent leather ballet slippers that still haunt my dreams.
“What took you so long to answer the dang door? I knocked five times!” Her obvious irritation is punctuated by the chattering of her teeth.
“I…” I stare dumbly down at her. “You’re here.”
“I am.” She nods with a shiver, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug. “Can I come in? I’m f-freezing and this jacket isn’t keeping me warm.”
It’s not her usual puffy winter coat.
“Shit!” I scramble aside so she can enter and give her a wide berth so she can step into the house. “Come in. Wow. What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I thought Hayley needed you…”
“The guy finally texted her back so it was a false alarm.” A coy smile. “Besides, I realized she didn’t need me as much as I needed you.”
Are my ears deceiving me, or does her voice sound sexier than usual? Almost like she’s here to…
I shake the feathers out of my brain and swallow when she breezes past me into the living room. Glancing around, Jameson takes stock of the small space four of us call home. Her eyes hit the huge, sixty-inch television. The two couches, shades of diarrhea-brown. Bare beige walls. The Xbox Live and the unorganized stack of games that go with it.
Zeke’s and Dylan’s beeramid.
“Love what you’ve done with the place.”
Jameson turns gradually toward me, making a show of untying the belt of her jacket, unbuttoning the toggles, pulling it open and shrugging it off. Her shoulders and slim figure are dressed in a baby blue cardigan with shiny navy buttons. It’s buttoned to her neck, but it’s thin, and holy shit—I don’t think she’s wearing anything under it. The pearl necklace circles her neck like a collar.
Nipples. Hard.
Stiff.
My eyes hover over her boobs.
Shit, is she wearing a bra? Why the hell wouldn’t she be? Why is she wearing a plaid skirt? Surely she was just at home hanging with her roommates in yoga pants? Causal shit girls wear?
I gape like an adolescent schoolboy at her incredible rack, at the hard nipples poking through the soft fabric of her sweater, almost one hundred percent positive she’s naked beneath it.
I shake my head again in denial—there is no way.
Jameson would never go braless in public.
Would she?
Stop looking at her tits, dude. Get a fucking grip.
Jameson makes a little humming sound as she drapes her coat over the arm of our recliner, a demure smile parting her lips. Coolly rests her hip against the back of the chair, legs crossing at the ankles. Folds her hands over her lap.
“So. Now what?”
My eyes fly back to her chest. “Uh.”
I can think of eight hundred things to answer that and they all include nudity, nakedness, and bare flesh.
She gives another pleasant little hum. “I’m thinking we should go to your bedroom?” She’s the epitome of innocence and class, minus the bra. “You know, for privacy, in case your roommates come home.”
If Jameson wants to go to my room, on purpose, wearing nothing but that plaid skirt and cardigan, she’ll get no objections from me.
I’ve had girls at my place before, a steady stream of one-night stands and hookups. Virtual strangers in my bed for the night, good for nothing but a quick screw and a swat on the ass, then straight out the door the way they came. Not one of them has lasted through the night; not one of them has made it to morning. Regardless, I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to find out what’s under that sweater.
I’m not a complete fucking moron.
I grab Jameson’s hand, lacing our fingers. Guide her down the long hall, switching lights off in the process. Cringe when I open the door to my room. “Shit, sorry it’s such a mess. I didn’t make the bed. Didn’t think I’d be having company.”
I release her hand and rush the room, hastily yanking the covers up on my bed. Throw the pillows back into place near the headboard. Toss a dirty tee shirt into the open closet.
“Hold up a minute.”
“Sebastian, it’s okay. Really.” Jameson eases herself onto the bed, crossing her legs, and kicks her ballet flats to the floor. Pushes them out of the way, dangling her feet off the edge, her pretty bright pink toenails polished and shiny.
My eyes follow the movement of her fingers as they toy with the hem of her plaid skirt. Her plaid. Fucking. Skirt. She parts the fold, giving me a rare glimpse of creamy upper thigh, the elusive crevasse between her legs, the shadow o
f underwear.
Blood rushes to the brain inside my pants, my hands shooting to my hair. I pace to the far side of my bedroom as the sight of her skirt alone does shit to my cock that—fucking A.
It twitches.
If she’s doing all this sexy shit on purpose—trying to make me horny and out of my mind—it’s working.
The electricity from our chemistry has my hair standing on end. I find my voice, testing it out. “Are you doing that on purpose? Because you’re testing my patience.”
Her fingers find the bottom button of her cardigan and tug then flip the bottom hem of her skirt, affording me another peek. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Those glossy lips tip into an angelic smile. Teeth bite down on that tempting bottom lip.
“Fine. All right.” I grip the nearby desk chair, white knuckling it when she leans back on the bed and uncrosses her legs. Sits there with her knees spread apart, toying, toying with that bottom button of her top.
Toying with me.
“Although…” Jameson sighs. “It did occur to me earlier that—” She pauses, tips her head, and studies me, blue eyes alive and sizzling. “These feelings aren’t going away, are they? In fact,” she demurs. “They’re getting worse.”
I’m confused. What feelings is she talking about? Our friendship? Our dating?
“So I’m here to do something about it. Five dates is a long time, and we already have something most couples don’t. We’re friends.” The bottom button gets pushed through its hole, her expression impassive even as it’s released. Then another…and another, until I can see the flat plane of bare stomach and cute innie belly button. “And don’t you think we both deserve it after being so patient?”
It.
It?
The death grip on my chair gets harder. Is she—
Holy fuck, is she about to strip?
“Jesus Jameson.” Eager (to say the least), my leg involuntarily starts to twitch. “Are you seducing me?”
A low mmm. “I like you, Sebastian,” comes her husky whisper. “I like your brains and your body, and I’m tired of saying no. Tired of rules. Tired of waiting for date number five.”
“I want to—wait.” Am I hearing her correctly? “What?”
A smirk. “You heard me.”
“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just not sure I heard you.”
Her nimble fingertips travel down her flat stomach, teasing the waistband of her plaid skirt. Finger the delicate gold buckle fastening it. Pull the leather strap through the loop with a gentle tug.
“Listen close: I’m telling you yes.”
Spellbound, I watch when she stands. The wool skirt parts, revealing only a pair of lavender lace panties. The panties I’ve fantasized about over and over again the past few days. The panties that have literally haunted my dreams. Pale purple, they hug her slender hips but conceal nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.
Naught but a scrap of lace constructed solely to plague my testosterone levels. They’re indecent. Racy.
Magnificent.
A sexually repressed librarian fantasy come true.
I release the desk chair and forcibly raise my eyes to her face, advancing on her. “Shit, seriously?”
“Yesss,” she whines through clenched teeth when my grasping hands close in on her tiny waist then drift south along her backside. Down her spine. Down her flawless skin. Down to that taut ass. My large palms slide into her lace panties, cup her butt cheeks, and…
Squeeze.
“How far do you wanna go?” She moans when I give her ass a smack, rubbing the sting away in slow circles.
“All the way.” I bury my head at the base of her throat, groaning, grinding my erection against her stomach. “Tell me what you what James; tell me and I’ll do it.”
“I want to spend the night. This isn’t a booty call.” She rattles off demands. “This isn’t a one-night stand. I want respect. You do not get to kick me out afterward, or in the morning. I want breakfast and I want you in the kitchen cooking it for me.”
The pads of my palms continue stroking her brilliant backside, pulling her in flush. “How do waffles sound?”
“Waffles sound delicious.” She gasps and my dick weeps in celebration. “But I want your shirt off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Reaching for the hem of my navy blue wrestling tee shirt, I pull it up and over my torso and toss it to the hardwood floor. It lands in a heap near her shoes.
“What else do you want gone?”
“Everything.” Jameson leans forward, licks the smooth skin of my collarbone, and blows, humming her approval. “But we’ll start with your track pants.”
She lays her hands on me tenderly, feather-light fingers leaving a pleasure trail as they trace the corded muscles of my biceps. Forearms. Down my rock-hard abs, her fingertip drawing a leisurely circle around my belly button until it reaches the elastic band riding low on my hips.
Together we untie the corded knot at my waistband. Slide my pants down until I’m kicking, tripping over myself to get them off. Standing in just my tented gray boxer briefs.
Jameson gives me a small shove toward the foot of the bed, instructing me to, “Sit.”
Like an excited, obedient puppy, I comply, practically panting.
Bracing herself over me, Jameson leans in, her silky brown hair skimming my bare chest. Her mouth brushes the corner of my lips. “My turn.”
She goes for the middle button on her cardigan.
“Be gentle with me, James. I haven’t had sex with anyone since before Utah. I’ve done so much jerking off my junk is chafed—legit chafed.”
How’s that for brutally honest?
Jameson leans in, kissing the side of my mouth and crooning in my ear. “You want me to make sweet, sweet love to you, baby? Not give it to you hard?”
Holy shit, give me the dirty talk.
“Yeah—that first one sounds about right. Then I want you to cuddle me until it’s time for breakfast.”
“Thinking ’bout that sex, but also ’bout them waffles,” comes her coo.
We both laugh; shit she’s funny. And smart. And beautiful. And the sound of my name on her lips feels better than any victory.
Sexier than any moan.
Jameson
I’m taking what I want.
I’m taking my time.
I’m taking off my skirt.
Standing in front of the bed now, the discarded plaid skirt pooled in a puddle at my feet, I step out of it and set to work on my sweater.
There’s no shame in my game: if a guy can get laid whenever the hell he wants, with whoever the hell he wants, so can I.
I want what I want, and I’m done telling Sebastian no.
Done waiting.
I want the tension gone and I want to get…
Laid.
I want him—every last part of him: the foul mouth, the stupidly hectic schedule, the needy groupies, the obnoxious roommates. The good, bad, and ugly. He’s gained my trust and I’m ready to take the next step.
I trust him.
I trust Sebastian Osborne.
On my mind constantly, I cannot stop thinking about him. Day and night. Night and day. Consuming me like a fever.
Like a drug.
Sebastian
My eyes go to her fingers. The creamy skin of her stomach. Her soft lower abs. The thighs I just had my hands on.
“Take a guess: what am I wearing under this sweater?” Jameson whispers in my direction, plucking another navy button free. A mere three buttons hold the sweater closed.
“Nothing?” I wish out loud.
Jameson drags a hand up her ribcage, looping her forefinger around the necklace circling her neck. She gives her head a shake. “Wrong.”
My breath catches. “What then?”
“This. I’m wearing this under my sweater.”
“The necklace?” I croak.
“Mmm hmmm.”
“No bra?”
I fucking
knew it.
Stepping forward, she closes the gap between us in one, two, three dainty steps, then bends and clasps my hands in hers, placing them on either side of her waist. My thumbs hit the tantalizing span of belly. Raising her arms, Jameson takes a sweeping handful of hair and holds it back, both hands behind her head.
Her blue sweater gaps open, revealing smooth skin. Stomach. The tantalizing underside of her bare breasts.
“Go ahead,” she urges with that sexy whisper of hers. “Take it off.”
Like I have to be told twice.
My trembling palms glide up her stomach. My nimble fingers pluck one button free. Then another.
I part the sweater, hands sweeping across her ribcage, the tips of my thumbs brushing over her stiff, dusky nipples. My eyes are fastened on them, palms stroking them tenderly, caressing.
Her tits are perfect, full and round, filling the palm of my hand. I want to suck and fuck them both. Taste them until her panties are soaking wet.
Jameson inches forward, whimpering, her arms coming down, grasping the back of my head. Her fingers plow through my thick hair when I lean forward and drag my tongue over her nipple, flick the tip, draw the entire thing in my mouth.
Suck it. Lick it. Suck it some more.
Her labored moan fills the room, a moan so loud and arduous I thank fuck my roommates are gone for the night.
I suckle her fantastic tits. Run my tongue along her collarbone. Lick the side of her neck. Our lips connect, tongues so wet and needy with want we’re desperately seeking ecstasy. Deliriously frantically fucking with our mouths.
She mounts my lap. Straddles my thighs. Lines herself up and covers my giant erection with her hot, wet, pussy.
Hovers there.
Shamelessly, Jameson grinds down on my dick, giving a lap dance worthy of a goddamn stripper, working her pelvis until my eyes are rolling back into my skull, breasts shoved in my face.
“Shit, fuck, shit.” I’m close to coming from the erotic gyrations. Jameson’s ass cheeks fill my hands, and, unable to handle the sensations building inside my junk, I bear down, bracing myself before rising to my full height.
