How to Date a Douchebag_The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  My room.

  Our house.

  Her skin.

  “Elliot?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You stopped.”

  “Oh.” I move my hands to the base of her neck, kneading. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I can hear her smiling into the pillow. “Should we stop and watch a movie?”

  “I can keep going if you want me to, it’s no big deal.”

  She wiggles her ass. “You’re sweet, but I can tell you’re getting tired.”

  I’m not tired; I’m turned on. Huge fucking difference.

  “Sure, let’s watch a movie. I’m done with all my studying and you’re done with that ridiculous book you’re reading.”

  Anabelle rolls to her side, taking my comforter along with her, covering her breasts. “It wouldn’t be ridiculous if it actually contained useful information.”

  I’m on my side now, too. “Face facts, Donnelly, you don’t have the heart for revenge. You’re too kindhearted for that life.”

  “That’s true enough.” Her hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair off my forehead, and I almost rear back in surprise.

  I’ve noticed her doing that a lot lately—touching me. Taps, poking, teasing. Not wanting to read anything into it, I chalk it up to comfort in our growing friendship, evidence of her trust in me.

  Christ, it sucks being the good guy all the fucking time.

  “My dad texted me today.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He wants me to come to a wrestling meet soon. They have a big one at home coming up.”

  “Who are they wrestling?”

  “I’m not sure, he didn’t say. I think either Penn State or UConn? Someone blue.” She laughs. “And I’d really rather not go alone.”

  I swear she’s batting her fucking eyelashes at me. “What are you getting at, Donnelly?”

  I haven’t been to a wrestling meet since Oz and Zeke graduated. Neither of them had their parents in the stands on Senior Night, so I went to represent, with bouquets of flowers for both miserable bastards, even though their girlfriends were in the audience.

  “Want to come with me?”

  “Yeah. I could probably do that.”

  Anabelle’s blue eyes bore holes into my bare chest, pink lips parting. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  I’m still not wearing a shirt.

  She’s still not wearing a shirt.

  We’re on my bed, in the middle of the evening, flirting like we have an interest in each other. A sexual attraction. Crazy chemistry.

  “Would you be so kind as to turn your back so I can put my shirt back on?”

  I swallow, too chicken-shit to make a move and kiss her.

  “Sure. While you do that, want me to grab us ice waters?”

  “Thanks, Elliot.” Her eyes sparkle. “You’re the best.”

  Anabelle

  Thanks, Elliot, you’re the best?

  Ugh.

  As I mentally face-palm myself for sounding like his little buddy, I grapple for my shirt, yanking it back down over my head, flushing. Remember his big, rough hands running over my skin. Over my naked flesh, not once touching me inappropriately. Not once skimming down to accidentally caress my side-boob or lower back. Not once trailing his fingers anywhere indecent.

  Damn him.

  I sigh, giving the rubber band in my hair a tug, loosening my top knot and letting the hair fall around my shoulders. Free, uninhibited, like I’ve resolved to be around him.

  But he’s not getting the hints.

  So, either I suck at flirting or he’s clueless, or we’re both just really scared to make the first move.

  I’ve been touching him all week—little touches on the arm, bicep, chest. Teasing pokes, nudges. Laughing at all his dumb jokes. Following him around the soccer field, secretly admiring his masculine force. His speed, his skill. His calves and the back of his neck, wanting to lay my lips on the baby fine hairs there.

  Last week at our soccer game when his friend Dev jogged up next to me and began peppering me with a million Elliot-related questions, I was taken aback by his direct approach. Was I attracted to Elliot? Did I want to be more than friends? Was it hard living in the same house with him and not having sex?

  Yes, yes, and yes.

  At an alarmingly increased pace.

  I am attracted to Elliot.

  I do want to be more than friends.

  It’s hard living in the same house with him and not thinking about sex all day, every day. It’s impossible not to; Elliot is big and sexy and strong and sweet.

  Polite.

  Funny.

  As a male specimen, Elliot is highly underrated by the female population of Iowa, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

  God, moving in with him was the worst thing I could have done—the guy is too polite to put the moves on his roommate. Too polite to put his hands on me, even when I whip my shirt off during a massage.

  I know it.

  He knows it.

  Devin freaking knows it, and he doesn’t know me at all!

  Guh!

  I climb under the covers of Elliot’s incredible queen-sized bed, the flannel sheets fresh from the laundry, a familiar warmth. Welcoming and cozy, we’re well acquainted, his bed and I.

  His bed. The ultimate tease.

  If having me tucked under his covers doesn’t make his mind wander, there really is no hope for him.

  On the side closest to the wall, I give my shirt a tug, straightening it on my body, wishing I had the courage to remove it and bury myself in Elliot’s sheet with nothing on but my underwear.

  God, I’m a hormonal teenage boy.

  Worse, actually.

  And now that my hormones are screaming at the rest of my body and brain, there is no stopping them now. They’re doing the thinking for me.

  Skin against skin is what I crave.

  Soft, gentle stroking is what I want.

  Sucking is what makes me squirm.

  Oblivious to my woolgathering, Elliot returns, still not wearing a shirt. His broad chest fills the doorway, wide shoulders and tan flesh making my girly parts tingle—his pecs are perfect. Nipples dark. Collarbone smooth enough to lick.

  Maybe instead of staring, I should read a book. Climb out of this bed and back into mine and move on with my life. Find a guy who likes me back enough to pursue me, to put the moves on me.

  “I was texting with Daniels yesterday and he was telling me about this show he and his girlfriend started watching, about four couples that get married at first sight, kind of like a blind date. The new season just started.”

  I sit up, intrigued. “People get married without even seeing each other first?”

  He shrugs, setting the water glasses down on his desk. I totally check out his ass before he turns around to face me. Climbs on top of the bed, back against the headboard, legs atop the covers.

  They’re long, toned, soccer player’s legs. Fit from running every morning and playing games regularly. We both played in high school but weren’t good enough to play at the university level. Both like to run, but not long distances.

  He crosses those legs at the ankles, resting his arms behind his head, and my eyes travel the length of him. Tall. Solid. Hard in all the best places.

  I want to purr, but I also don’t want to creep him the hell out.

  “Would you get married to someone you’ve never laid eyes on before?” Elliot gives me a quick cursory glance, flipping through the channels.

  “Yes, one hundred percent.” I’m nodding vigorously because I totally would.

  He looks surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes. If I reached a certain age and wasn’t in a relationship, you bet I would. What do these people have to lose? It seems like a fun experiment.”

  “You think you’d reach an age where you’d resort to marrying a complete stranger?”
<
br />   “I don’t think any of these people are settling. The way I see it, there is someone for everyone if you’re open to it.”

  “But marrying a stranger, on TV? You think you’d be so single you’d have to?”

  “Uh, yeah, it’s a definite possibility. I mean, think about it this way. I’m in my twenties, in my prime, and there still isn’t anyone on the horizon who wants to date me, douche canoes notwithstanding.”

  I leave the bait for him to disagree, and he takes it.

  “That’s not true.” He says it slow and quiet, deliberate.

  “Well, in any case, I think the idea is kind of romantic.”

  Elliot makes a low scoffing sound in his throat. “It must be if Zeke Daniels—the biggest cynic on campus—sits and watches it with his girlfriend.”

  I consider this information. “So basically we should prepare to become addicted to yet another TV show?”

  “Basically.”

  “This constant bingeing on ridiculous shows is not going to end well, you know that right? At some point, you and I will have to leave the house for food, water, and sunlight. I can’t remember the last time I even showered.”

  He makes a show of sniffing the air between us. “Very funny, Donnelly.”

  Donnelly.

  I love it when he calls me that.

  He does it when he’s teasing me, when he’s not sure what else to say, and I like to pretend it’s his shy way of showing affection without being obvious about it, like he’s secretly harboring feelings for me but can’t let me know.

  “It is very funny, St. Charles.” I give it right back, sneaking a peek at his abs from under my lashes.

  I don’t think Elliot realizes his appeal to women. If he did, I doubt he’d be sitting around shirtless, looking like a romance novel cover hero.

  Freshly showered. Bare chest.

  Mesh gym shorts.

  Those damn shorts do nothing to conceal the very obvious outline of the dick nestled inside, the navy fabric thinner than my tank top and making me squirm every time my eyes take a gander downward.

  Which is every few seconds.

  Arms behind his head, the undersides of his biceps are paler than the rest of his arms, the flesh tender. I fixate on his light brown armpit hair for a few heartbeats; I find it masculine and sexy. Very different than the parts on my body, deliciously so.

  When the new show comes on, the impulse to commentate is impossible to resist. We’re shocked, outraged, and awed by what’s happening on screen. Annoyed, obviously, voicing our opinions during the first episode—until our lids get heavy with fatigue.

  For a while, the lights stay on, illuminating the room; when my eyes start drooping, Elliot climbs off the bed to flip them off. Pulls back the cover when he returns, sliding in beside me, heating the small space between us.

  I sigh, letting my lids close.

  Content.

  Body humming.

  Sigh again when at some point in the middle of the night, the large hand on my hip skims down my thigh. Sleepily, across my waist it drifts, up the front side of my shirt. Floats up and down in relaxed, lazy motions over my stomach, pulling me in.

  Elliot tucks me into his body, palm splayed on my abdomen.

  If this is a dream, don’t wake me…

  His huge paw travels north, heated, thumb hooking the hem of my shirt and sliding beneath it brazenly. Unhurriedly caresses my ribcage, dangerously close to my breasts, back and forth…back and forth….

  It feels like heaven.

  It makes me ache with desire.

  In a dreamlike daze, I drag Elliot’s arm higher so his palm is cupping my boob. The pads of his fingers brush across my stiff nipples, first one, then the other, in slow circles. Rubbing gently. Plucking. Rolling them between his forefinger and thumb so slowly, the dull ache between my legs begins to throb.

  Spooning, my ass is snug against his growing erection, so snug I feel it twitch inside his gym shorts. Straining.

  Gradually, I rotate my pelvis, grinding into it.

  His gluts flex.

  Body stirs.

  Fingers grip me tighter, flexing.

  When his warm lips meet the back of my neck, hot breath fanning my skin, it’s an ecstasy I could get high from. The simple act of his face being buried in my hair is so arousing, making me hot. I squirm, our bodies entwining.

  Elliot’s mouth kissing my shoulder, hand on my breast…

  Arching my back, I reach behind me to pull him closer. Pull his head down, fingers plowing through his thick hair as his fingers pluck at my nipple from under my shirt.

  Oh God, it feels so good.

  I moan quietly.

  He groans gruffly, hand snaking down my abs and stomach, inching its way below my belly button. Pads of his fingers reach into my shorts, find the valley between my thighs where it’s warm and damp and ready.

  Elliot plays, middle finger rubbing tiny little circles, round and round, in the center of my slit. Mouth sucks my neck while my back arches and I twist his hair.

  When I can’t stand it anymore, I ease away, flipping to face him; we’re breathing heavy and only inches apart. In the background, an infomercial illuminates the room with enough light that we can see each other.

  Just enough.

  His lids are open now, too, blinking back at me. Nostrils flared. Chest heaving.

  Dick swelling—I can feel it against my thigh.

  Wanton.

  Drowsy.

  So good and so hard.

  I don’t know how long we lie there, staring each other down, slowly coming awake, hearts racing, but I know his heart is racing, too, because I can see it in his eyes.

  They’re wide and shining and full of veiled anticipation.

  Using the dark as an alibi, I raise my palm to his shoulder, running it along his collarbone, memorizing every velvety line. Trace his jawline. Indulgently run the pads of my fingertips behind his neck, lazily toying with his hair.

  When my thumb brushes over his beautiful mouth, his lips part, landing a kiss on the tip of my finger. Seizes my forearm, grazing the center of my palm with his mouth.

  It tickles. Tingles.

  Makes me shiver.

  Then…

  Elliot kisses my wrist, nose running along the sensitive skin on the inside. Up to the crook of my elbow, small intakes of breath escaping us both while he inhales the smell of my perfume, the soap from my shower earlier in the evening.

  My eyes flutter closed and somehow, we find ourselves moving closer, our bodies finally pressed together. Elliot’s tenacious erection demands attention.

  His neck bends.

  Mouth drags along my shoulder at the same time his hand moves over the top of my tank, cupping my breast.

  Lips find the pulse in my neck, quietly sucking.

  I moan, eyes fluttering open, staring at the ceiling, collecting fistfuls of his hair in my hands while Elliot tastes my flesh.

  Then…our lips meet for our first kiss.

  Press together once, exploring.

  Twice.

  Tongues connect, probing.

  Hot, wet, needy.

  So needy.

  This is a side of Elliot I haven’t discovered yet, this physical, unrestrained, sensual side. I’m on fire for him, my body a flaming calamity of want and greed and longing.

  Everything about him is sexy. His warm hands on my skin. His wet, ravenous tongue inside my mouth. His full, pouty lips. The flat abs and happy trail leading down into his shorts.

  That happy trail leads to a place I want to visit.

  I reach between us, grasping for the hem of my top, pulling it up and over my head. I want to feel him, every hot inch of him. Tossing my shirt aside, I lean back against the plump pillow, inviting him to look his fill.

  He does, eyes burning in the dark, gaze fastened on my breasts, hands hovering.

  Head dips.

  Elliot’s hot mouth latches on and sucks at my nipple, the whole thing—not just the tip—curlin
g my toes. Tongue swirling, he sucks while I dip my chin to watch, the desire between my legs igniting into tiny sparks of pleasure.

  I get off on having my boobs played with, love when they’re being sucked on—and suddenly it’s not enough. I want the dull throb between my legs to burst into an agonizing blaze.

  Suddenly, my shorts are an annoying, cumbersome burden, a barrier I can’t wait to dispense of, now desperate to feel his skin against mine.

  Mouths fastening together, we shove down the waistband of my shorts until I’m entirely, delightfully naked.

  My hips begin a slow roll. I part my thighs so he can fit himself between my legs, his dick snug, mesh shorts dampening with every push and pull, in and out.

  Dry-fucking.

  His massive, gorgeous hands grasp my waist, tugging. Grapple at my ass, harder. Sucking. Grinding. Licking.

  Kissing.

  Dreamy. Awake.

  He scoots to the center of the bed, hauling me on top, huge paws skimming up and down my bare torso. Sliding to my backside, teasing my spine. Squeezing my ass cheeks.

  I lean down to kiss him, hair falling in long waves, and he grabs a handful, holding it back, out of his way so he can see my face.

  I grind on him through his shorts, the thick head of his penis rubbing the swollen clit between my legs. He might be wearing shorts, but they’re thin, and the head of his dick creates a glorious, unbearable friction I haven’t felt from a man in who knows how long.

  Months. Years.

  Never—not at a conservative Catholic college.

  We dry-hump like horny teenagers until we’re both panting quietly, quick breaths masked by the sound of the television. Elliot’s hands massage my breasts, squeezing gently, head tipped back in ecstasy as I ride him.

  We want more.

  But more isn’t enough.

  Lazy and slow and still in a daze, he raises his hips. Shucks his shorts down, not all the way, just enough for me to slide onto his hot, thick erection.

  Bare.

  Easing onto his dick, I impale myself on its round-tipped perfection.

  G-Gasp.

  Because…

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Our mouths fuse as he thrusts up, going deeper, over and over and over until I’m a useless, weightless ragdoll, rocking back and forth. Hair falling down my back, hands on his knees for support, I’m lost in myself.