Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5

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Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5 Page 24

by Sara Ney


  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Yes, they broke up.”

  “She looks like a cold fish.”

  And properly British, too, I imagine. “That’s what he tells me. She’s a stuck-up snob.”

  “His parents look nice. His brother is married?”

  “Yes. He married his, um…college roommate.”

  “His college roommate? The one from here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting family.” I hear her laptop close. “Well, I should get ready for bed, but I’m glad you called to talk to us. We miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “You really should think about coming home—we can have a girls’ weekend.”

  “Mom, I’ve barely been at school for a few months.”

  “I know, but your birthday is coming up. We can go shopping. Have Jack bring you down.” She hesitates. “Wait—can he drive?”

  “Yeah, he drives. He has a big pickup truck—that was his brother’s, too.”

  “Wow, he really is living in his brother’s shadow. Poor kid.”

  I snort. “I don’t think he’s poor. Like, at all.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Mom lets out a tired yawn. “Okay kiddo, I’m off to take a shower before hitting the sack. We love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom. Good night.”

  Nineteen

  Jack

  I have to quit the rugby team.

  It’s the right thing to do. Not only for the team—because I suck so hard—but because I still don’t know what I’m doing on the field. Everyone knows there will be a day I’m going to get seriously hurt because of it. Not this fake limping bullshite I’ve been doing the past few days, but an actual injury that could knock me on my arse.

  Ignorance could be my downfall.

  The last thing I want is to get my face broken because I’m too stubborn to talk to Coach, humiliating as it’s going to be. Decided, I hunker down deeper into my down-filled comforter, the storm outside matching my mood.

  I do love a good rain. Good for the soul. Good for thinking about one’s life and whatnot, content to be alone with my thoughts while it thunders.

  A bolt of lightning cracks in the sky somewhere in the distance, and I snuggle down, getting more comfortable beneath my gray bedspread.

  Happy with my decision to be done with rugby, peace settles over me, despite the raging weather brewing beyond the window. We’re in for a rough one tonight, and I am here for it. Reminds me of home—not that we get horrible storms like this in England, but we do get a lot of rain.

  I listen to the steady beat of water hitting the glass separating me from the outside world as it sluices its way heavily in the dark.

  A crack of thunder shakes the house, and I sigh, quite relaxed as my entire room illuminates from the glow of sizzling energy across the night sky.

  Boom.

  Is that the sound of a splintering tree? Can’t be.

  My ear strains.

  Crackle.

  Crash.

  Yup, definitely a tree being struck by a lightning bolt.

  I hunker down.

  All of a sudden, the door to my room flies open and Eliza flies inside, body pressed flat against the wall near my closet.

  Feels like I’m bloody Fraulein Maria from The Sound of Music when all the VonTrapp children come busting into her room one by one during the storm.

  Uncanny similarity, minus the dreadful nightgowns they wear. I shudder at the thought of those hideous garments.

  “Whoa, buddy.” I laugh at her dramatic entrance. “Where’s the fire?”

  Eliza’s eyes shift to my face, to the window, and back again.

  “I’m sorry, I j-just…j-just…the weather. I didn’t know it was going to storm so bad.” She wrings her hands several times before her fingers begin playing with a long strand of hair falling over her breasts.

  I can’t help but notice she’s wearing a T-shirt and underwear but nothing on the bottom. No sleep pants, no shorts. Just a pair of skimpy underwear.

  Shite.

  “Thought we weren’t supposed to enter each other’s rooms without knocking—not that I’m complaining,” I jest, casually leaning to one side and balancing myself on an elbow.

  “I’m so sorry, I-I…” Her eyes fly to the window, flinching when another bolt lights up the sky.

  I drag my eyes up to her face. “It’s just a bit of rain, Eliza.”

  Uttering the words casually because I’m getting tired, I might as well be saying ‘just a spot of tea’ or ‘just a blot of cream’ for all she cares.

  The words mean nothing and do nothing to relieve her.

  “Aren’t you scared? Even a little?”

  “No, we have rain all the time in England.”

  She shakes her head adamantly, whispering, “This isn’t just rain—this is my worst nightmare.”

  Her worst nightmare? I can think of a million things scarier than a little lightning and thunder, starting with snakes.

  Yeah, snakes. Shady, nasty little bastards. Guess I wouldn’t want them banging outside my window while I was trying to sleep, so there is that.

  Still. I try to soothe her to no avail. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’re safe inside the house.”

  I notice then that she’s shaking—her entire body, not just her hands or her shoulders.

  “Come here.” Tossing back my covers, I make room for her, rolling to the opposite side of the bed so she can slide in. Except she doesn’t just slide in—she dives like her life depends on it, like she’s being chased by a demon.

  She disappears from sight, yanking the sheets above her head. “Can you close your curtains?”

  “Sure.”

  I climb out of bed and go to the window, hauling the blinds closed, pulling them tight so as to leave no gap. Climb back up onto the bed and pull my roommate close, embracing her like you would a child who’s hurt themselves.

  “Hey. Hey, there’s nothing to worry about.” My hand runs down her smooth, silky hair. “Hey, look at me.”

  Eliza shakes her head.

  No.

  She buries her face deeper into my chest, faintly whimpering when the house shakes again from another thunder crash.

  Fuck.

  Now I wish it would stop raining, although I don’t hate that she came to me for comfort.

  Poor thing.

  I try again to coax her so she’ll look at me. “Eliza. Babe, look at me.”

  It’s the word ‘babe’ that does the trick; I didn’t use it intentionally, but it works nonetheless, Eliza tipping her face up to look at me, lashes fluttering as she forces them open.

  She looks adorably scared.

  I kiss the tip of her nose. “Don’t be scared.”

  Her arms, which she has wrapped around me, give a squeeze. She’s thanking me without saying the words, thanking me for the comfort I’m providing her—I can see it in her gaze as she peers up at me.

  I kiss the tip of her nose again, enjoying the action. It feels intimate and cute.

  She’s cute.

  Her bare legs shift beneath the covers, rubbing against mine inadvertently—I know she’s not doing it on purpose, but I wouldn’t be a warm-blooded male if I didn’t notice how silky smooth they are. She must have shaved them recently, and I appreciate the effort.

  Eliza is feminine, delicate, and dainty.

  “I am scared. I can’t help it.”

  “Have you always hated storms?”

  “Yes, from the time I was little. I really try to be brave, but I’m horrible at it.” Her eyes squeeze shut again when the room lights up through the curtains.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid.”

  “I would have climbed into bed with Lilly if I was still living at the other house, or Kaylee if Lilly was at her boyfriend’s house.” She sniffs. “I hate being alone when it’s storming outside.”

&
nbsp; There’s that word again.

  Hate.

  Packs a lot of punch and meaning.

  I move my hands to her back, and she lets me. Begin rubbing her spine, fingers pressing into the pressure points, and discover a few spots where her muscles are in knots. I work through them. Kneading. Finally feel her tensed-up body soften a bit. She’s finally letting herself rest at ease.

  My palms flatten as they graze her back, trailing south in the direction of her tailbone. Press into her hips, for those need attention, too, my thumbs digging as gently as I can.

  “That feels so good,” she groans into my chest, face buried once again, but not in the same terrified way it was a few minutes ago.

  “So you don’t want me to stop?”

  “Please don’t.”

  I massage her back. Her arms.

  “Why don’t you lie on your stomach? It will be easier,” I instruct gently, wanting her to calm down and knowing a back rub will probably do the trick.

  Always works for me when I’m tense, can’t see why it wouldn’t work for her. If only the damn lightning would stop.

  My roommate rolls to her side then eases onto her stomach, and I can’t see her clearly in the dark room, but I imagine her arse cheeks are sticking out of her underwear looking like two peaches, scrumptious as can be. I resist the urge to put my hands there, instead setting them in the center of her back and pressing gently, thumbs and fingers massaging.

  Eliza’s head rests on the pillow, a tiny, breathless exhale escaping her lips as we settle into the task.

  “That feels good. Almost makes me forget the house is about to be blown over.”

  “The house isn’t about to be blown over.” I chuckle. “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Don’t steal my lines,” she grumbles, shifting so her face presses into the pillow.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie with a smile.

  Outside, another streak of light brightens the sky, illuminating my entire bedroom as if someone has flipped on a lamp.

  Eliza flinches.

  I lean forward and kiss the back of her head like an idiot. “You’re safe.”

  “Did you just kiss my hair?” She giggles.

  “Did I?”

  “I think you must have.”

  Who kisses the back of someone’s head? Their hair, and not their face or skin?

  “Shush now, stop interrupting.”

  “I’m not interrupting, the weather is.”

  Facts.

  We stay like this for quite some time. My hands are huge and my stamina is incredible, so I don’t get tired of this position or the massage very quickly. In fact, it goes on for so long that I actually wonder if Eliza has fallen asleep—she hasn’t uttered a peep.

  “Are you awake?” I whisper, not wanting to wake her if she isn’t.

  “Yes,” she whispers back. “Do you want me to rub your back now? It’s only fair.”

  Do I?

  I hadn’t thought she would reciprocate, but if she’s offering…

  “Sure, why not.”

  Eliza moves, rolling to her side before sitting up, cross-legged on the mattress as she waits for me to take her spot.

  I remove my shirt.

  “Easier to rub me down this way, yeah?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  I grin as I lie face down, wondering if that made her blush. Eliza isn’t your usual twenty-year-old; she’s not flirted with me since she moved in, if you don’t count that snog in the kitchen—the one she put a swift end to after it happened.

  No nonsense since.

  Pity that.

  Shut down by the first girl I’ve wanted as a girlfriend since…well, you know who.

  Eliza’s hands are delicate, not leveraging enough pressure to make an impact on my muscles, but it feels good just the same. They wander, beginning a more exploratory mission than a massaging one, and I wonder what she’s doing up there roaming—that was not the point of her switching places with me.

  Does she just want to touch me, or is she actually trying?

  I lie still as her palms skim my flesh.

  So gently it almost tickles—and I’m not ticklish.

  She’s next to me, still cross-legged, fingers trailing lightly over my ribcage before making their way over to my traps. Deltoids.

  My lower back where the curve dips into my boxer briefs.

  I feel her nails.

  Then…

  “Is that your hair?”

  What’s she doing? It’s hard to tell, what with my face in the pillow and all.

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe? Damn, I wish I could see her. Can definitely feel her, but that isn’t the same.

  I feel like a defenseless animal playing dead, not wanting to cause alarm to the predator—although I would kill to be eaten alive by Eliza.

  My dick stiffens a little from the thought and the contact of her hands on my body. I have zero control of my lower half; it controls me.

  I shift uncomfortably, wishing it would go away but wishing—

  “Why don’t you roll over and let me do your front side,” she suggests graciously.

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I have a hard-on? Because my limp dick is now at half-mast? Because you’re turning me on?

  Obviously I say none of these things—I don’t want to scare the shite out of her or make her feel vulnerable considering she’s in my bed, in the dark, during a storm that already has her scared shiteless.

  “Flip over. Why are you being weird?”

  “I’m not being weird.” But I really don’t want to admit why I won’t roll to my back.

  “You are.” Her hands are on her hips now, even though she’s sitting on the bed.

  Cheeky little thing.

  “Just do it.”

  Bossy too.

  “Fine,” I relent, grunting as I roll from my stomach to my back, dick relieved it’s no longer being crushed mercilessly into the mattress.

  If Eliza notices my erection, she doesn’t comment on it, setting to work learning my front side. Hands taking the same route they took while I was on my stomach, at the same methodical pace.

  It’s torture, really, and I do my damnedest to forget I have a penis and it’s excited, to not think about how the blood flow to my brain is rapidly moving south.

  It’s not my fault she turns me on.

  She’s not even trying—and if she is, she hides it well.

  Every so often, she hums while her palms glide along, aimlessly drifting here and there about my upper torso, lollygagging without a care in the world.

  Oblivious to the racing heart beating inside my chest.

  My skyrocketing blood pressure.

  Okay, she’s right: I am being dramatic.

  None of these things are accurate, but they feel accurate, and I’m incredibly uncomfortable with her rubbing my body. Last thing I need is her judging my involuntary stiffy.

  “Hold still,” she demands, her thumbs pressing into the curve of my neck, still not hard enough to make an impact. “You feel stressed.”

  “Me? Stressed? Never.”

  “You’re stressed out about the rugby team enough to land on the ground and pretend to hurt yourself.”

  “Um, why would you bring that up? We were having a nice bonding moment.”

  “A bonding moment?” She laughs. “You goof.”

  Never in my life has anyone called me a goof.

  “We’re not bonding?”

  More humming from inside her throat. “I suppose.”

  Eliza’s fingers graze over my pecs, one of her hands brushing across my nipple.

  And again.

  Circles once, twice, before moving along.

  Whoa.

  Whoa, whoa—hold up. What was that all about? There was nothing professional about that nipple drive-by she just pulled, and now I’m on high alert, body keyed up another notch.

  Shite.

&n
bsp; Not what I need right now: more sexual awareness.

  The air crackles, and it isn’t from the bolts of electricity outside—there is more energy in this bedroom than beyond these walls.

  Eliza’s finger makes its way toward my belly button, down the center of my chest, over my abs, unhurriedly dipping inside of it.

  Yet another place no masseuse should dare to go.

  She’s got to be the worst one ever.

  “What’s this scar?”

  “I had my appendix out when I was nine,” I croak out, voice hoarse.

  The tip of her finger goes back and forth, back again along the fine flesh-toned line. “Did it hurt?”

  “No, I was drugged up.”

  “Any other scars?”

  “I don’t think so.” Although one time at boarding school, Timothy Henry Wentworth, Fourth Earl of Glennenshire, cracked me over the knob with his cricket bat, the rat-arsed tosser. I’m surprised to this day that bat didn’t leave a scratch, and trust me, I had the nurse at school check thrice.

  Eliza’s hands continue to roam freely, seemingly unaware of my uneasiness. I shift in place, moving the blanket covering my hips into a more secure position.

  Distracted, it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her what she’s doing and where her hands plan to go next.

  “I thought you were giving me a massage.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re shite at it, love—there is zero benefit to the rubdown you’re giving me.”

  “Sorry. I’m distracted.”

  Distracted?

  Interesting…

  That I like.

  The rain hasn’t slowed down; if anything, it’s gotten worse, pelting the windows at an increasing pace as the wind picks up, too. It’s the perfect storm.

  “Good night for a cuddle,” I lament quietly, worried my voice is going to crack.

  Nothing could’ve prepared me for Eliza losing her hands inside the blankets and sneaking them down over my thighs. Her fingers gently encounter my kneecaps then slide up again. Down. Up. A rhythmic motion that feels nothing like a massage and everything like foreplay.

  Once again, I hold perfectly still, afraid to move a muscle, afraid she will take her hands off my body and go back to her spot on the bed.

  Is this what happens when it rains outside? She gets all kinds of horny and touchy-feely, forgets every rule she created? Not that I mind, but still—I don’t want her to blame this on me in the morning when I’m just lying here stiff as a board.

 

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