Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  She pulls her hand back, withdrawing to the stool. “If you’re sure.”

  I nod. “I’m tired. I think I’m just going to head to bed after we’re done cleaning the kitchen.”

  Georgia nods slowly. “You’re so right—it’s been an eventful day.”

  “Hey.” I stop. “How did your meet go today?”

  I feel like a dick for not asking about her events—I forgot she had a track meet.

  She seems pleased I remembered. “Good. I killed it.”

  “Didn’t doubt it.”

  We move about the kitchen after we’re both finished eating, loading dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the counter, putting the cartons in the fridge.

  I refill both our water glasses before flipping the kitchen lights off as we head for the stairs.

  At the top, Georgia pauses.

  Nibbles at her bottom lip. “Thank you. I’m…”

  She hesitates, blushing again, pausing bashfully.

  “You’re…?” My hand goes to the banister, hand holding it whilst I wait.

  “I shouldn’t have rushed the field today—I’m sure I looked like a lunatic, but I got the text while I was sitting there and I just could not help myself.”

  She did indeed look like a lunatic but, “A happy lunatic.”

  Her grin right now is worth the trouble she caused me today—I fail to mention how I got my arse chewed out by the coaching staff. The referee called a foul on our team, unsportsmanlike conduct, penalizing me for running with her around the field.

  Like any of it fucking matters.

  Not right now—not with that look on her face.

  The way she’s looking at me now, all starry-eyed and…

  And…

  I shake my head.

  Nah.

  It’s just a look; no reading into it as anything else. Georgia Parker is not into me. Isn’t attracted to me. We established that on day one.

  “Good night,” I say at last.

  She leans forward, planting a soft kiss on my cheek, not far from the gash in the corner of my mouth.

  “Night.”

  How the hell am I supposed to sleep with my skin searing where her mouth has been?

  Lying here with the image of her face, the look she had on it when she came running toward me earlier.

  For the past week, since that night I jerked off to the thought of her and imagined what she might look like naked with her mouth on my hard dick, I haven’t been able to sleep. Haven’t been able to look at her without undressing her with my eyes.

  Haven’t been able to distract myself from thoughts of her.

  Just like I’m doing now.

  Alone in my room like every goddamn night, same old same old.

  Same shite different day.

  I can’t stop my hand sliding beneath the covers, only this time instead of fantasizing about Georgia coming into my bedroom here at the house, my imagination has her sliding into my bed in Las Vegas at the hotel.

  How the hell am I supposed to make it through the nights with her in the same room, sharing a shower, sharing a bathroom, sharing a bedroom. Really nowhere to have any privacy.

  Nowhere to take a shit.

  Am I seriously supposed to take a crap and stink up the bathroom like I do every single morning around nine o’clock with her sharing a room with me?

  Fuck no.

  Focus, Ashley.

  Focus on not being a total pervert. Focus on not totally lusting after your roommate.

  She trusts you.

  You’re going to get through your two nights in Vegas the same way you’re going to get through the rest of the entire semester with your hands off the merchandise. She did not move in with you so you could seduce her—not that you’ve seduced anybody in your entire life.

  You will not be starting with her.

  I pull my hand back out of my drawers, feeling guilty.

  As if I’m doing something wrong. I might just be paranoid, but for some odd reason I feel like she knew the other night when I was jerking off and saying her name. There’s no way she could’ve heard me calling out, could she?

  I don’t think I was that loud.

  I’m pretty sure my voice didn’t carry down the hallway—then again, I was lost in my daydreams of her and how good it felt stroking myself off.

  You have to get a grip, man, and not on your dick.

  Maybe I should try dating.

  Agree to that date with Ariel. I might not be attracted to her, but it never hurts to put myself out there. Practice makes perfect even when it comes to dating, right?

  I stare up at the ceiling before giving up my thoughts to reach for the remote hiding somewhere on the bed, hand feeling around for it in the dark. Hit the power button for the telly mounted on the wall and lay my head back against the stacked pillows.

  There’s not a whole lot I’m interested in watching, but it beats closing my eyes and only thinking about one thing: Georgia down the hall in the next room over.

  Wondering what she’s doing in her own bedroom.

  Wondering if she’s masturbated at all under my roof since she’s been living here. Does she use toys? Or does she just use her hand like I do?

  Half an hour into a television series I have yet to catch up on, there’s a soft knock on my door. Alert now, I sit up, putting the remote on the bedside table.

  “Come in.”

  The door creaks open slowly and it’s dark in the hallway, but Georgia’s little nose is the first thing I see as her hands push the door open gently.

  “Are you awake?”

  Duh. I told her to come in, didn’t I?

  “I’m awake.”

  “Oh good.” The door opens wider. “I thought I heard the TV. I couldn’t sleep either.”

  She heard my telly?

  Shite, I don’t even have the volume up that loud.

  Georgia lingers in the doorway tentatively; it’s obvious she wants to talk.

  I relent. “You can come in if you want.”

  That’s all the invitation she needs, entering my bedroom and going around to the opposite side of the bed, climbing up and under the covers like a little kid snuggling in her parents’ bed.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I mutter, moving over so she has more room—and so she’s not touching me. The last thing I need is to lie here and get a boner because neither of us are wearing many clothes and I’ve just spent the past hour thinking about her mouth on my body.

  So fucking awkward.

  Georgia flops to her side, propping herself up on one elbow to study me in the dark. “What are we watching?”

  She’s definitely not tired.

  “This show is about three roommates and they find a fourth named Jess. It’s funny.”

  I don’t know why I’m explaining this shite to her; I’ve seen her watching New Girl a few times when I’ve come in. Clearly her question was rhetorical to get a conversation started.

  Her head rests on the other set of pillows stacked on the bed. “Your bed is really comfortable.”

  Usually, yeah—but not when I have someone lying in it who I’ve been wanting to shag for the past week, making things awkward for me.

  “I shouldn’t be awake this late…I have to be up at five for a workout.”

  Same.

  Correction: I don’t have to be—it’s not required—but I like to get my workout in as early as I can to avoid a full gym and to knock it out so I have my evenings free.

  “I’ve always been a morning person,” I finally say. “What about you?”

  “Mmm, not really, although I was never allowed to sleep in growing up. My parents always had chores they needed me to do, even on the weekends. So I think the latest I was ever allowed to sleep in was maybe eight? On a Sunday if we didn’t go to church.” She pauses. “I used to hate it, but I guess that’s what created my work ethic, although I could have done without having to load the wood box in the winter.”

  “We weren’t really able to sl
eep in either at school. They were pretty strict, though most of my mates were spoiled and useless.”

  Pampered blue bloods, the lot of them. Or the sons of wealthy mobsters, corporate tycoons, and finance moguls.

  Like my dad.

  A mere baron but rich as fuck.

  “What reasons would they have had for waking you up?” Georgia wants to know, boobs pushed up and plumped up over the neckline of the white tank top she’s changed into for bed.

  I avert my eyes. “Mostly practice. I played lacrosse when I was in school, some lads had to work in the stable yard, things like that. We took turns working in the refectory. Cafeteria, I mean.”

  “Did you have to wear a hairnet?” she teases.

  “And rubber gloves.” I wiggle my eyebrows and laugh.

  “Apron?”

  I nod. “Definitely an apron.”

  We both focus on the show for a while, and I put my arms behind my head, lacing my fingers together. Georgia is still lying on her side, cuddled down.

  “My hands are so cold. I wish I could wear mittens to bed,” comes her soft voice.

  “Let me feel them.”

  One of her palms slides across the mattress, across my cool sheets and over to my hand.

  It feels like ice.

  “Damn, roomie, you’re not joking.”

  “My feet were cold before I came in here, but they’re getting warmer. Sometimes I wear socks to bed, which I know is lame, but still.”

  I have her hand in mine, sandwiching it beneath my ribcage and the mattress. “Here, let me have the other one.”

  She scoots over so she can give me her other palm, and I rub it—rub it like I’m warming it over a campfire, the friction creating heat.

  Georgia watches me in the dark, the glow from the telly casting shadows on her face.

  “Thank you.”

  After her hands are warm, she doesn’t move back to her side of the mattress, instead lying where she is, in this spot, studying me quietly.

  Eyes drifting across my bare chest.

  Leisurely, she removes the hand from under my side, her fingers slowly trailing across the ink on my collarbone. Tracing the line that goes from one side to the other.

  It’s a tattoo of ivy I got when I turned eighteen, one I hid from Mum and Dad, knowing they’d lose their bloody minds if they found out about it.

  The ivy wraps around a banner with the words Do all things with intention in Latin. Other tattoos on my body include a cross, an old ship with sails, a bleeding heart, and a few random ones I got whilst I was a bit too inebriated to make good decisions.

  The tip of my roommate’s fingers gives me goose flesh as it kisses along my skin, outlining the objects that were designed in black.

  I wonder what’s going through her head right now; it’s impossible to tell by the somber expression on her face. Furrowed brow as she concentrates, intent.

  “I like this one,” she whispers, meaning the family crest I had done last year. It reminds me of home. The Dryden-Jones history. Loyalty to England.

  I clear my throat but otherwise don’t reply.

  I can’t.

  My skin and body are humming, positively buzzing with energy.

  It takes everything inside me to lie still and not move, wanting to touch her but fighting the temptation.

  I don’t want to scare her or freak her out.

  Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, and all I can do is watch. I wish I could watch Georgia tracing my tattooed skin the way I was watching the television before; it certainly feels more exciting.

  My heart is racing as if I just played an eighty-minute rugby match at full speed. I swear if she lingered long enough over my heart, she would feel it beating out of my chest. Actually, I wonder if she already can.

  Her eyes give nothing away.

  I can barely tell what she’s thinking, if she’s fascinated or disgusted or marveling at the sight of the art on my body.

  “When did you get this?” she asks, referring to the bleeding heart. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s, um…just a symbol for how I put my heart and soul into everything I do. I never half-arse anything. I always give my full arse.”

  That makes her laugh, eyes lighting up. She bites down on her bottom lip as if she’s feeling shy. Still, her hands never stray from my skin.

  Georgia suddenly has this look on her face I can’t describe or identify as she inches closer to get a better look at me. It’s like she’s trying to memorize the lines in my face. Her hand moves from my clavicle and my chest up to my face, hovering centimeters from my cheekbone.

  “Is it okay if I touch you here?” she wants to know.

  I’m not sure what she’s asking, because she’s already been touching me this entire time. But maybe she thinks somehow touching me on the face is more intimate than touching my chest. Either way, I’m okay with it.

  “Sure.” I hold my breath.

  The fingers that were running along my collarbone are now running along the scar on the side of my face. Thumb and forefinger. Georgie’s eyebrows rise for real when she brushes over the gash at the corner of my mouth, the one I earned in last week’s game that bled and was sore for days.

  “Did this hurt?”

  Goddamn right it did.

  I chuckle. “Not as bad as the one I got last year, when a cleat caught me in the corner of the eye.” But that faded, thank god, and didn’t leave a scar.

  Her mouth forms a little O of surprise. “You got kicked in the face by a shoe?”

  That’s what a cleat is, yeah. “It happens.”

  She leans in closer, so close I can feel her tits pressed against my chest. “I cannot believe it didn’t leave a scar.”

  “There’s a tiny one, barely noticeable. Then again, I have scars on top of scars, so who can even tell what’s what.”

  “I can’t believe they don’t make you wear helmets.”

  Me either, sometimes. Rugby is fucking dangerous.

  Fun, but dangerous.

  Georgia’s forefinger traces my eyebrow. “Have you ever had a concussion?”

  “Several.”

  She hums in disappointment, lips pursing in displeasure. “They should make you wear helmets.”

  “I don’t think one would fit on my head.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you saying you have an inflated ego?”

  “You don’t think I do?”

  “Not at all.” She scoffs at me. “Not even a little.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  Georgia pulls her head back to look me in the eye. “In a world where every guy just wants to get laid and acts like a douchebag, no—it’s not a bad thing. It’s a good thing. Why would you think that?”

  I shrug. “I get a lot of shite because of the accent. I think some people mistake it for me being pompous.”

  “Pompous.” She giggles. “Proper, but not an ass.”

  “You’re proper too, you know.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” she seems to purr, still only inches from my face. “You think I’m a good girl?”

  I inhale another breath, her words holding a bit of daring.

  A challenge to agree with her statement, her wanting to prove me wrong.

  I’m not going to, though. I’m not going to say a word. I’m just going to let her believe what she wants to believe instead of starting this conversation with her.

  The truth is I do think she’s a good person despite the rocky start we had. And I understand why she did it, because I understand what peer pressure feels like.

  I know now that she’s not a shallow person; she’s funny and upbeat.

  She’s kind and generous and sweet.

  And speaking of sweet, her breath smells like peppermint. Her skin smells like almonds and shea butter—the same lotion she left on the kitchen counter yesterday that I rubbed on my arms thinking it was hand cream.

  “I think you’re a good per
son, yes.” I swallow, not wanting to use the phrase good girl—it somehow feels too sexy and intimate and I highly doubt she’d be pleased.

  I don’t think most young women appreciate being called girls, or cute, or nice. Or good.

  Makes them feel dull and boring, though that’s not at all what it means.

  “Good person,” she repeats, letting out a breath. “So not the bratty asshole you met at the rugby house?”

  “I don’t hold that against you. You have to let that go. Unless, of course…” I look her over. “You plan on hazing someone again.”

  “No!” she hastens to say. “I would never—shouldn’t have to begin with, you know that. That’s not me and I haven’t hung out with those girls from my team since.”

  I noticed she separated herself from them but wasn’t sure of the exact reason. I had my suspicions, and now they’ve been confirmed.

  Georgia’s fingers boop me on the nose, a smile on her lips.

  After she’s done touching the healing cut on my mouth, her finger roams to explore other places. She runs the tip along the bridge of my nose—that has been broken at least three times—then over my eyebrow once more, seemingly loving the fact that they’re bushy if the upturned side of her mouth is any indication.

  I wish I could read her mind.

  I wish she would tell me what she’s thinking so I wouldn’t have to lie here trying to guess.

  I kind of wish she would kiss me right now.

  “I probably shouldn’t be touching you like this…now I feel weird.” I don’t hate that she’s finally telling me what’s on her mind. “I’m sorry.”

  “You know,” I slowly start. “You apologize a lot instead of owning your shite. You don’t have to apologize or say you’re sorry for touching my face. All you’re doing is looking at my cuts and bruises. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.”

  “Do I do that? Apologize too much?”

  “You do it enough that I notice,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad. But she does say I’m sorry a lot—more than she knows. “Not that it’s a big deal. There are worse things in the world for someone to do, and apologizing isn’t one of them. Doesn’t even top the list of offenses.”

  “You’re right, that’s true. If it’s the worst thing I do besides accidentally asking the wrong guy on a date…” She’s teasing now, beginning to look tired, eyelids doing that saggy little thing they do when someone is weary.