Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  I feel heat rising to my face, pleased by her praise. I’m not naïve; I know girls fancy the tattoos because strangers tell me that all the time. Men too. But who cares about them when I have Georgia Parker tracing them with her finger whilst we lie in bed together.

  There’s hair on my chest, and she must like that too because she lowers her head and kisses my nipple. Tongue darts out, licking it. She blows until it’s hard.

  Fuck.

  I can’t help but be mesmerized, watching as my roommate runs her hands all over my body and licks my heart and nipple. Nuzzles my chest with the smooth skin of her cheek. She seems to really enjoy touching me and I am here for it, not wanting to move a muscle. Letting her do and touch and taste and look at whatever she wants.

  It’s almost impossible not to reach out and touch her too. I can’t see her breasts, but her cleavage is mouthwatering, and I want to know what she looks like in her thong.

  I kick at the blankets so they fall—at least the top half covering her upper torso—letting my eyes look their fill. Finally giving in and putting my hands on her, pulling her in. Running them down the curve of her spine to cup her butt cheeks in my giant palms.

  She gives a throaty little moan. “I could eat you up.”

  Whoa.

  Whoa Georgia.

  “I’m going to eat you up,” I vow in her ear, nipping at her lobe with a low laugh, intent to make my way down her body and between her legs.

  I inch away.

  Roll her so she’s on her back and in the center of the mattress, beginning the journey down her body toward the foot of the bed, noting that her legs spread of their own accord—the perfect landing spot for my face.

  She is wearing a thong, as I suspected; it’s the same color as her tank top but almost entirely see-through. Where the hell has she been hiding underwear like this? In a magic drawer somewhere? What else is she hiding in that bedroom of hers? She’s barely decorated.

  Georgia is already making little delighted moaning sounds of anticipation, breath hitching when my large shoulders part her thighs.

  I let my finger trail down the center of her pussy, over the thin fabric of her underwear.

  I wouldn’t have pegged Georgia as the kind of girl who waxes herself bare, and I’m not sure why that surprises me. Probably because I wasn’t thinking of her in a sexual way before she moved in.

  Leaning forward, I cover her pussy with my mouth and let the warm breath warm her slit. She moans quietly, dark hair fanned out on the white pillow.

  She’s beautiful.

  She’s smart.

  And she’s mine for the weekend.

  If there’s one thing I’m good at other than rugby and being big and strong and brooding, it’s going down on a woman. I might not have had a lot of experience with sex and kissing and romance, but I have plenty of experience with oral. I think it’s because I never thought I was that good-looking, though women always wanted to date me—blame it on the scars and bruises on my face, or the gap between my teeth that made me feel mostly unattractive as a teenager.

  So I got good at eating girls out.

  My finger soon joins my mouth, hooking itself into the edge of her panties, pulling them away from her skin. Pushing them aside and causing a wonderful friction that I know is going to drive her wild.

  “Oh my god…” She gasps. “That feels so good.”

  Georgia raises herself up on her elbows so she can watch me put my mouth on her pussy, and she does that thing she always does when she’s excited—she bites her bottom lip. It’s a tell I’m learning about her; she does it when she’s nervous or turned on.

  And right now I think she’s probably both.

  Opening yourself up like this to somebody you hardly know, even if you’ve lived with them for a few weeks, is a vulnerable position to be in, and we’re not even home. We’re in a strange city surrounded by millions of people and a hotel room up in the sky.

  It’s a weekend for adventures and great sex.

  My tongue licks at Georgia.

  At the sensitive nub between her legs, licking and sucking until her legs begin to shake. I have to hold them open because she’s trying to close them, and I want them on my shoulders. I want them to remain open so she comes hard when I want her to and not a minute before.

  I’m about to discover whether or not she’s one of those girls who come quickly, who takes a little bit longer, or who doesn’t come at all.

  Georgia takes her time.

  Her head lolls from side to side, almost thrashing from urgency, her delicate hands clutching the pillowcase.

  I’m torn. Do I watch her in the throes of ecstasy? Or do I continue to lick and suck her clit into submission?

  I do both, raising my eyes as my tongue lashes out to flick her sensitive spots—the spots I’ve already been that had her moaning out loud and calling my name.

  She says it again. “Ashley…”

  And again as I suck.

  “Ashley…Ashley…”

  I used to hate my fucking name. When I moved to the States, everyone made fun of it, but hearing Georgia say it whilst I’m fucking her with my mouth?

  Brilliant.

  “Oh god…” She uses the lord’s name in vain for the second time tonight, calling up a prayer that he’ll finish her off.

  God isn’t going to save her now.

  I’m going to be the one to do it.

  Me.

  Twenty

  Georgia

  Ashley went down on me.

  That’s the first thing I think about as I’m lying here, legs spread, his head between my legs.

  My fingers go to his hair, sifting through the strands he just made tidy with a trim in time for our trip, lazy strokes on his scalp as I lie here in post-climax bliss.

  He’s still between my legs, hands gently running back and forth along my inner thighs. Occasionally he licks at my crotch, though he’s done going down on me, having made me come a few minutes ago.

  It surprises me that he hasn’t climbed off me, or the bed, to wash up or retreat. Or get in a position to sleep.

  Ashley Jones is a cuddler—I can see that now in the way he’s watching me, content in the spot he’s at, happy to be touching me.

  He’s a giver.

  I know he’s hard; I can feel the erection on my leg, but Ashley makes no move to do anything about it. He’s not rubbing it and he certainly isn’t pushing me to blow it.

  Or stroke it.

  But I’m a giver too, and I did say I wanted to use this weekend to do what we wanted with each other, not to act like roommates and friends—see where the wind blows us.

  “Come here,” I tell him, patting the spot on the bed next to me.

  It’s completely dark in the room, the TV having shut off automatically (how convenient). If not for the light streaming in through the windows, I wouldn’t be able to see him at all.

  Ashley shifts his large body and crawls up the mattress toward me.

  I lean over to kiss him when he settles down into his sleep spot, a firm kiss with tongue, despite the fact that he just went down on me.

  I taste myself.

  I taste his tongue and the champagne he drank in the hot tub, mixed with a little beer too.

  He’s so very masculine, his five-o’clock beard stubble scratching my chin as we make out. I feel myself getting turned on again, though my nerves are still tingling from my orgasm.

  I’m so turned on by him.

  He’s so freaking sexy.

  Bloody sexy he’d say in that accent I’ve grown to dream about in my sleep. I hear it in my daydreams.

  For some odd reason, I get the feeling that when it comes to relationships, I’m much more experienced than Ashley despite my own inexperience. He’s much more reserved when it comes to women than I am when it comes to men—I think I probably put myself out there more because in the end…I am looking for love.

  Maybe not exactly at this second, but someday I do want to get married and I d
o want to have kids.

  And honestly…I don’t even see myself working full-time when I have them; I see myself being a mom and going to soccer games and volunteering in the classroom in my free time.

  I think that would surprise him.

  I have a feeling there are many misunderstandings between us stemming from that first night we met—but I can see that his perspective of me is changing each and every day, the more and more time we spend together.

  The more I open up to him and show him what I’m really like.

  Ashley, for all that he tries to be aloof and withheld, is actually more of an open book. He wears his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts show in his expressions. Whenever he doesn’t like something, his brow will furrow and his mouth will draw into a straight line.

  Easy to read.

  Easier to understand the more I know about his past.

  While I kiss his beautiful mouth and face, I gently run my hands through his hair, somewhat cradling his head—he’s half smushed into my boobs as my other hand works its way down his stomach.

  His rock-hard abs.

  I circle my index finger around his belly button—it’s an innie—and feel his body stiffen in anticipation…he knows what’s coming and he’s prepared for it.

  Round and round and round my finger goes, in slow, slow circles…

  It occurs to me then that maybe my feelings for Ashley run a bit deeper than “I really like him, maybe I want to date him.” He’s lying in my arms, letting me cradle him, eyes closed, lips pursed. Loving every minute of the affection.

  Our kisses get deeper.

  He moves me as my palm travels over his pelvis, tips of my fingers brushing the hair above his cock—moves me so I’m lying on my back.

  Braced over me, he looks down into my eyes.

  We watch one another even as my hand finds and grips his shaft, finding a rhythm that has his nostrils flaring and his breath quickening.

  His body gives a quick shudder.

  I lean up to kiss his mouth as I stroke him, working him two ways, with my tongue and with my hand.

  It’s been ages since I’ve given a hand job and I know it’s not what most men dream of when they think of foreplay, but this is my comfort level. I can’t remember the last time I was intimate with someone; it’s been ages since my last hand job and longer since my last blowie.

  They intimidate me.

  The way Ashley used to intimidate me.

  Maybe that’s what was holding me back from admitting I was attracted to him; he’s a giant.

  I didn’t want to get rejected by someone I admire for his strength and determination and the drive to succeed. He’s seen and done more worldly things in one year than I’ve done in a lifetime.

  I could certainly use the practice when it comes to men’s penises, so it may take a little more alcohol than I’ve consumed tonight to put his dick in my mouth.

  Practice makes perfect, but only if you’re not a chickenshit.

  Ashley bows his head as I work my hand over his hard-on, breathing labored.

  “I want to fuck you so bad.” He groans.

  It’s not a question and it’s not a request, and I don’t think he’s telling me for any other reason than…the words slipping from his mouth, unfiltered honesty.

  I nod.

  I want him to fuck me so bad.

  I know it’s probably going to hurt because it’s been a long time, really long, and I’ve only had sex with one other person, but I trust him and desire him and want this next time to be with him.

  I want him to fuck me.

  Him.

  No one else.

  “You’re so beautiful, Georgia,” he murmurs into my mouth. “So fucking beautiful.”

  My heart sings. Zips alive, beating fast.

  His voice sounds tortured, as if saying the words pains him in a way—as if he wants to yank them back and save them for himself instead of giving them to me.

  “You feel so good,” I say, letting go of his dick and running my hand from his front to his backside, pulling him in by the ass, palming his clenching cheeks.

  The solid glutes.

  “I love the way you make me feel,” I tell him, hoping I make him feel the same way, too, wanting it to be so.

  If anyone deserves to feel desired, it’s the boy on top of me.

  I’m glad we’re not drunk; I’m glad I’m going to remember this entire evening start to finish.

  Being drunk and having sex would be so uncharacteristic for me.

  Ashley’s dick is flirting with my pussy as he drags it up and down the slit, making me slicker by the second without any actual penetration.

  I can barely stand it.

  Judging by his moans and grunts, he can’t either.

  We’re adults.

  We can have sex if we want!

  Why shouldn’t we?

  “Ashley?”

  “Yeah, babe?” His mouth is at my ear, the low timbre of his voice wreaking havoc on my senses.

  “Do you want to…”

  Once more he drags the tip of his dick back and forth over my lower region, and I desperately want him to slide it inside.

  “Do I want to what?”

  Do you want to be inside me? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want the same thing I want?

  Duh.

  Of course he does. He’s hard and dry-humping you.

  “Do you want to be inside me,” I croak, almost choking on the words, turning red with embarrassment at my boldness.

  The sentence seems to spur him on more, his head dipping to my shoulder, hair damp against my neck.

  When he lifts it: “Are you on the pill?”

  My head shakes. “No.”

  He curses.

  “Do you have protection?”

  “Condoms?” He shakes his head. “No, I…” His sentence trails off. “Wait, maybe I do have one in my billfold.”

  His billfold.

  So British.

  He clambers off me and out of bed, bare-assed and magnificent, his thick muscular thighs gleaming and flexing in the light from the neon signs outside. Damn he’s got an incredible body.

  “Uh—how long has that been in your wallet?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, like—six months?”

  Technically I don’t think you’re supposed to fuck with a condom that’s been in a wallet that long—they get hot or something. I also don’t think you’re supposed to put them in wallets to begin with, but the last time I looked that factoid up was never.

  Ashley goes to the pants he’s discarded on the floor, lifting them up off the ground and riffling through the pockets to retrieve his wallet. When he finds it, he immediately opens it, flipping through in search of protection.

  I lie watching from the bed, amused and aroused, rubbing my thighs together in anticipation.

  He holds something up in the dark, a small plastic square. “Found one.”

  Thank god.

  How disappointing would it have been to get this worked up and not be able to have sex? As much as I want to get laid, it’s not worth the price of an accidental anything.

  Baby. STD.

  You name it.

  The probability isn’t likely, but tell that to anyone who’s ever been surprised.

  Ashley beelines straight for the bed, bounding onto the mattress on all fours; we’re both laughing now, all tangled in the sheets.

  He kisses me again, caressing my face with his large warm palms, and I bask in that calloused skin like it’s the sun warming my own.

  I tear open the condom in his other hand.

  Together we slide it on him, doing the best we can in the dark, giggling at how clumsy we both are.

  “Are you ready?”

  Am I ready? “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  But I don’t think either of us is prepared for how it feels when he slowly slides inside me, both of us holding our breath, both of us gasping at how good it feels, each of us staring at the ot
her wide-eyed once he’s buried all the way in.

  I part my lips to speak, but no words come out.

  I try to say his name.

  His lips move, too.

  Oh…

  This is how it’s supposed to feel, isn’t it? When you love someone.

  When you truly, madly care.

  This doesn’t feel like sex at all, but how on earth can that be true?

  It’s not supposed to make my heart bleed deeper.

  He isn’t fucking me at all—he’s moving deliberately slow, one hand sliding beneath me to pull me in. And when our lips and mouths and tongues touch, that feels different, too.

  What is this?

  What is happening?

  He says my name again, but this time, it’s aloud through the kiss.

  This is not how this is supposed to be…

  We are not supposed to feel this close.

  Twenty-One

  Ashley

  We were not supposed to have sex last night.

  Right there, Georgia moaned with a hitched breath. Don’t stop.

  I roll over on the bed and gaze at her sleeping figure; her hands are tucked under her chin and her eyes are closed, snoozing peacefully.

  She’s still naked.

  I’m still naked.

  How did we get naked?

  There is only a sliver of light peeking through the blackout curtains, which I had the foresight to close last night after we had sex, but it’s plenty to see around the room.

  Look at her face.

  Glance at the clock—it’s seven fifteen.

  Shite. Nothing will be open for a few hours, the entire city probably passed out drunk.

  I roll to my back, arms behind my head, staring at the ceiling as I’ve done hundreds of nights at home, alone in bed. Except this time I’m not alone—I’m with the object of my recent fantasies and I’m not sure what to do about it.

  What if she doesn’t want me to touch her?

  I sure as hell am not going to wake her up.

  She’s not typically surly in the morning on those days we’ve been in the kitchen at the same time, but what do I know; maybe she’s faking the bubbly personality.

  Another thirty minutes pass, filled with many more glances at Georgia.