Hard Pass

by Ney, Sara

  “When was your last relationship?” It’s a fair question, although to be honest, I once read an article saying it was against the rules to ask this on a first date, dismissing it as completely irrelevant.

  But I disagree. His relationship history has everything to do with me. It can tell a lot about a person—if they’re a stayer or a goer.

  “I’ve never had one.”

  “Never had a relationship?”

  “No.” He lets the answer linger before asking me the same question. “What about you?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Eh. Briefly, in college. Not anyone I brought home to meet my parents. Just a guy who was fun to hang around with.” My friends hated him, so there was that. Newsflash: when Claire or Emily or any of my other friends didn’t like a guy, didn’t approve of him, or thought he was a douche? It became impossible to date him, like him, or bang him.

  Bye-bye Brad.

  Hello single life.

  Claire introduced me to my first vibrator our junior year of college and I haven’t worried about dicks since. I miss dicks, but I didn’t sleep my way through my graduating class to satisfy my lust for one.

  Noah clears his throat as if he can see my inner thoughts, including the dicks now on my brain, even though I spent the last few seconds convincing myself I couldn’t care less about them.

  He knows.

  And now I know he knows and both our faces are bright red, leaving me no choice but to reach over and trace my hand over his strong jawline—the one dominated by dirty blond stubble—letting my thumb brush beneath his bottom lip.

  His body goes still. Rigid almost. And for a second my heart stops beating, afraid I’ve done something wrong—like that night at Rent when he bolted and didn’t come back to me.

  Don’t leave, Noah. “I’m sorry, I…”

  He repositions himself, sitting up again, fingers reaching out to circle my wrist, gently.

  Pulls me closer.

  When our lips meet, I’m not surprised—we have chemistry and have been wanting to kiss since the minute he picked me up for our date tonight.

  My body sags with relief and a bit of shock, honestly.

  He actually did it. He made the first move!

  Hallelujah! I was worried he had no interest in jumping my bones, which is something my grandmother used to say, and now I feel old.

  Ugh.

  I have just enough time to put my own dinner container on the carpet as he hauls me into his lap with seemingly little effort. I’m not tiny by any means, but I feel dainty as he hefts me over.

  For a kiss.

  Swoon! I have died and gone to heaven…

  I’m in his lap when our mouths meet again, everything I just ate forgotten, inhibitions gone. His lips are warm, but not tentative. Full.

  He’s holding me—cradling me, almost—bowing his head to seal the deal, and I let my arms rise so I can curl my hands behind his head, fingers grazing his hair at the nape of his neck.

  He could probably use a haircut, but he smells fantastic, the pheromones working their magic on my lady parts.

  His broad chest feels good. Warm. His hands on my back, supporting me? Better. The mouth fused against mine? Delicious.

  I cannot get enough of Noah Harding the sweet, sweet man child.

  I cradle his face as I sit in his lap, legs hanging over his crossed ones, our tongues finally getting acquainted.

  There is nothing timid about the way he’s kissing me, no hesitations like there are when he speaks. No shyness. No embarrassment.

  I feel my panties dampen.

  He moves me then, just out of the way of the bags and containers scattered on the floor, laying me down and rolling to hover over me, large hand cupping my cheek the way I cupped his. Staring down at me, memorizing the contours of my face with his eyes and hands.

  I don’t dare move. Or talk.

  Or breathe.

  I do not want it to end.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “Smart.” The tip of his finger runs along the Cupid’s bow of my upper lip. “Funny.” It trails up the bridge of my nose. Along my eyebrow. “Sexy.” Me, sexy? Do go on. “Cute.” No, not that! “Brave.”

  “How am I brave?” I whisper, not wanting to break the spell, but curious.

  “Because,” he whispers back, “you’re 22 and you’re starting your own business. That takes guts.”

  Oh, that.

  Yes. Yes it does.

  Noah’s brown eyes get darker the longer he looks down at me, pupils dilating, nostrils flaring a little.

  I recognize that look: he is turned on.

  My breath hastens more when his hand takes a leisurely trip down the column of my neck, brushing the hair back, thumb playing with the underside of my earlobe.

  Down over the curve between my neck and shoulder, palm flattening, fingers skimming lightly over my collarbone—one of my favorite erogenous zones.

  I barely resist a moan.

  Noah falters, his attention drawn to the open part of my dress, where my breasts are pushed up by a black, lacy bra. To urge him on, I reach up and rake an entire hand of fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp.

  He gets the message loud and clear, the rough palm of his hand slowly dragging across the exposed part of my skin, sending a ripple through my body and causing goose bumps to arise. My nipples pucker and he notices, giving them the attention they want, tip of his index finger tracing round and round over the fabric of my dress.

  Then.

  He draws that fabric back, hand caressing the lace bra. Thumb stroking the plumped-up mound I hadn’t realized was so sensitive to the touch.

  This time, that moan escapes on a sigh. Relief. Pleasure.

  God, I love having my boobs played with and it’s been too long—way too long. I love it. I. love. it.

  “So pretty,” he’s murmuring again, leaning in, pushing back the bra, mouth latching onto my nipple and my hands now fully buried in this thick hair, wanting him to stay this way forever and give me all the ’gasms.

  Sue me for being lazy and wanting to just lie here, but c’mon!

  Noah sucks, his tongue pure magic. So magical I swear, if he sucks my nipple long enough, I may end up coming. No lie. It feels that amazing or I’m that easy—does it even matter?

  No.

  All that matters is this boy.

  He does not miss a beat, suckling at the same time his hands go to the little knotted belt at my waist, tugging hard enough to release the loop. Big, warm, calloused hand roaming over my stomach, down to the waistband of the granny panties I wore so I wouldn’t have sex with him on the first date.

  So much for that dumb idea.

  “Cute.” I feel him smile, lips and hands all over my body.

  My knees spread at the welcome intrusion, already weakened. I am wanton.

  He makes me feel sexy, the way he’s gazing up at me, as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be when you find someone you think might…

  I stop my mind from wandering, so I can stay in the moment. So I can feel his hands and mouth and tongue.

  Lips kiss my pelvis.

  Lips kiss along the waistband of my Hanes.

  Oh yeah.

  Praise be! Yes! Don’t stop.

  He moves over me, in between my legs, positioned to pleasure, wide shoulders inching my thighs apart. I moan with anticipation, then moan again when his warm breath hits the valley I desperately want him exploring. Hot. Warm. Breath.

  Hot. Wet. Pussy.

  My head thrashes on the floor, fingers clenching the carpet, pulling, then reaching for his hair. Gently tugging.

  Noah buries his face. Licks my panties, so they’re good and wet. Tugs on them. Pulls. Creates a friction so delicious I groan out loud and pant his name, throw a little Jesus into the mix along with it.

  “Oh lord, Noah.” Oh god.

  I’m not sure what to do with myself, not h
aving done this in who knows how long—porn does not count. Watching a man go down on a woman is not like having a man’s head between one’s legs, the feel of his body keeping your legs spread apart. The soft hair on his head as you grip it, muttering and praying to the heavens above.

  “Thank you, Lord,” I mouth to the ceiling, convinced once and for all that the stars are aligning and good luck is on my side.

  First the city approving my business plan. Then the landlord accepting my application to rent the office space. Noah buying my cards, so I have the money to pay my rent, to hire an architect and a social media/bookkeeper/office manager person.

  Why am I thinking about work when his tongue is—

  “Oh! Yes…” Keep doing that. That, right there.

  Noah goes at me hard, mouth working my clit through the thin fabric of my panties, something I’ve only fantasized about. It feels so frigging good—so sexy.

  I leverage my body up a bit, resting on my elbows so I can get a view of his blond head, face buried, eyes closed.

  My head tips back but I stay elevated, wanting to enjoy the show. It turns me on more to see him going down on me, even with these half-hooded eyes of mine.

  Noah pulls his head back, fingers easing their way beneath the panties. Hooking either side of the waistband, hauling them down. Down. Towing them all the way off and discarding them at my feet, his mouth glistening.

  “You taste so fucking good” are the last words he says before diving back in, lips and tongue and teeth clashing over my clit, licking and sucking until I’m moaning out loud—loud enough, it seems, to wake the dead.

  Loud enough that I would be embarrassed if I cared enough to be embarrassed.

  I don’t.

  The noise doesn’t faze him, only seems to spur him on, arms hooking under my knees, pulling me deeper into his mouth. Spreads my legs wider. Kisses harder.

  Everything quivers. Shakes. Vibrates.

  I squirm.

  He holds me down.

  I gnash my teeth.

  Noah braces my hips.

  He is not letting me weasel my way out. He is going to refuse to—“Fuck me. Oh my god, I want to feel you inside of me so bad.”

  He ignores me, sucking harder.

  I tip my head back, hair landing on the carpet beneath me, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Come for me, baby,” he urges, still lapping me up like it’s his day job and he’s gunning for a bonus.

  “I want to come so bad,” I moan like a porn star, beginning a slow roll of my hips, mimicking the motion I’d make if he were actually inside, screwing me. Grip his head, yanking on his hair as gently as I can—which isn’t all that gentle given how lost in the moment I am.

  How lost we are.

  He’s enjoying it too—I can tell by the noises he’s making in his throat. How he’s looking at my pussy when he runs his fingers over my clit. How he watches me as his fingers go inside.

  Jesus he’s good at this.

  I wonder how many women he’s had to sleep with to achieve this skill level…

  Stop it, Miranda. He isn’t that kind of guy.

  Noah is sweet and shy and sexy—hardly the womanizing playboy his friend Buzz is. Or maybe he doesn’t have to work at it at all; maybe the women flock to him without him even trying. Oh my god, there must be groupies everywhere.

  I tense up.

  Noah notices. “What’s wrong?”

  I push his head back down like a strumpet. “Nothing. Keep going.”

  He does. He does and he doesn’t stop until the pulses in my stomach are the pulses in my vagina, reverberating in my thighs, and my body is racked with exploding nerve endings.

  Yes, yes, hell yes!

  I want to die.

  And laugh.

  And cry.

  Cry? Let me rephrase: weep tears of joy from the climax I just experienced, a true gift from the Almighty.

  Dramatic much?

  But seriously, I could kiss his mouth right now out of gratitude; this orgasm feels amazing. Incredible. I shall forever be indebted to the first orgasm of the year I didn’t give to myself.

  Mostly naked, on the floor, it dawns on me for the first time that Noah is completely dressed…and probably stiff as a board, hard as a rock—whatever analogy you want to use for massively erect. Guilt washes over me as my gaze scans over the front of his dress pants when he repositions his body next to mine.

  Yup.

  He’s totally hard.

  I reach between our bodies, flattened palm working its way down to his belt, none too expertly fumbling with the gold-plated clasp. Pull it through the loops as he sucks in a breath, our mouths fusing while I diligently free the smooth leather.

  He tastes like me and I like it.

  My fingers find the button on his slacks. More fumbling. The zipper comes down with a satisfying whir, the bulge of his hard on covered by the dark fabric of gray underwear, and it has my clit pulsing all over again, my mouth watering, excited.

  Jesus. I’ve never been this desperate to see a dick before. Normally they’re not my thing—I mean, who thinks dicks are cute? Literally no one except the owner of any given penis and most men haven’t gotten the memo that no one wants to see that shit, especially unsolicited.

  Noah’s dick, though? I want to see it.

  It’s thick, and warm, and when I touch it, it moves.

  My eyes dart to his face: eyes closed, mouth slightly open, arms braced behind his head. He peels said eyes open to look at me and our gazes meet at the same time I run the tip of my finger along the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  Hard stomach.

  Hard thighs.

  Hard cock.

  I stretch back the cotton just enough to play peekaboo with the tip. The head. The best part of the entire thing.

  Noah hisses through his teeth, a powerful aphrodisiac that goes to my head; I am drunk with the idea of making his knees weak.

  But I do not plan to suck it.

  I do not plan to blow him.

  What am I going to do?

  I’m kicking this old school with a good old-fashioned hand job, the way we did it in high school before we were brave enough to put one in our mouths and suck it.

  I tug at his pants, pulling them down his hips and leaving them down around his calves. Then, I run a finger along his shaft, wanting to see it jump again.

  It does not disappoint, eager for my touch, wanting attention.

  It’s not so big I’m afraid to pull his underwear down, and I sigh with relief; I’ve never seen a monster dick in person, but Claire and Emily have told me horror stories, and I’m suddenly grateful that Noah—for his tall size and stature—possesses a proportionately average, Noah-sized package.

  I wouldn’t know how to handle a giant one, so I’m giving thanks for the one in my hand. The man on my living room floor gasps when skin-on-skin contact is made, his underwear having joined his trousers.

  There is a bottle of lotion nearby—another thing we used back in the day when we were too chicken to buy lube at the pharmacy, the only store in town that sold condoms and contraception—and I reach for it.

  Unscented. Left there from when I moisturized after shaving before our date.

  Noah is unfazed when I squirt lotion into my palms then rub them both together, warming up the cool cream. He’s barely coherent, breathing heavy—waiting.

  Is it too soon to blow him?

  Gretchen once said if you blow a guy on the first date, he’ll never take you home to meet his mother, but Noah’s dick is right here, in my hand, and he’s so sexy lying on my floor…

  Ugh. It’s been so long and I just want it.

  IS THAT SO WRONG?

  13

  Noah

  “Harding, Phil wants to see you in his office after practice.” One of the assistant coaches has been waiting for an opportunity to shout the message at me, the bat in my hand dangling after I hit a fly ball over second base, watching it soar into the air.

/>   Shit. It’s never a good thing when the team’s publicist, Phil Scilara, wants to have a meeting after practice. Usually it’s tactical, to strategize about a public fuck up someone on the team was involved in, and usually those have nothing to do with me. Wallace, yes. Espinoza, yes.

  Me, no.

  Besides, unless there’s a situation—drunken photos emerging, or misconduct all over the news, or a woman claiming paternity—Phil is rarely in his office.

  “Do you know what he wants?” I toss the bat in my hand to a different assistant and wipe my forehead with the towel in my back pocket.

  “No clue.” He shrugs. “Sorry man.”

  “I know what it’s about.” Wallace—the sneaky fuck—is behind me, and I turn, batting gloves coming off one at a time, as I watch him walking toward me.

  Why is he always around when there’s drama?

  “Are you going to tell me?” I can’t stand when someone beats around the bush. If he knows why I’m being called into the principal’s office, I want him to spit it out.

  “You’re all over the news.” He spits on the ground. “You and your friend.”

  Friend? “You mean Miranda?”

  “Yeah.” For once in his life, Buzz Wallace comes at me looking bashful instead of cocky. Hesitant instead of aggressive.

  That…cannot be good.

  “And?”

  His feet shuffle in the red dirt, the toe of his cleats soiled. “Fuck, man. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  What does that mean?

  “Shit.” Wallace pauses, hands stuffed in the pockets of his team issued athletic pants, company logo of our sponsor emblazoned on the side. He takes them out and claps them, as if trying to psych himself up. “Okay, I’m just going to say it—like tearing off a Band-Aid.”

  I wait for him to fill in the blanks.

  “You’re in the news—you and Miranda. And the headlines are…” He dips his head, staring down at his shoes. “They’re embarrassing.”

  “We were at dinner.” How could that be considered embarrassing?

  Buzz begins a slow pace to home plate, to where the catcher usually squats, then back to me. His arms rise and his giant, sweaty palms clamp down on my shoulders, squeezing firmly. “Look dude, you’re my best friend…”