“Just wait. It gets better.” He’s so large and so rigid that it’s almost a struggle to pull him out of his jeans and the confines of his boxer briefs.
“I’m trying to tell myself it’s going to be awful so that I can last longer than six seconds,” he groans.
His cock is velvet soft, like a rod of steel wrapped in the finest silk. I lean in and run my nose along the edge of it. The musk of his sex invades my lungs. I have never been so turned on. I want to drop a hand between my legs, because now the ache down there isn’t from pain, it’s from need.
I lap at the tip, licking away the salty evidence of his arousal.
“Ellie, baby,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You’re killing me.”
Beneath my hands, his legs tremble with the effort to stay still and not ram his hips forward. Have I ever felt this powerful? This machine of a man shakes with desire, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part. My heart swells at his response. I open my mouth and take him in.
“Fuck. Fuck.” It’s a curse, or maybe a prayer, and his control snaps.
His hand winds into my hair to pull me closer, to hold me still while he helplessly jacks his dick into my mouth. The shaft seems to thicken, getting larger and harder. His grip is tight. With another guy, I might have jerked back, but this one? I want him to remember this—remember me. I suck with more force, twisting my wrist in tight quick movements.
I'm kneeling on the floor of a tiny closet in a dingy college bar. My tights are likely ruined, but I don't care. I don't feel dirty. I feel great. Amazing.
The musk of his groin, the heated scent of his body and his arousal smells intoxicating. The heavy weight of his cock on my tongue, filling my mouth, pushing all the way back in jerky out-of-control motions has me so turned on that I’m drenching my panties. If I didn’t need both hands to do this right, I’d have one between my legs.
“Jesus, Ellie, baby,” he pants. “I’m going to come.”
He tries to pull away, but I follow him, sucking and licking. I refuse to let him go. He releases one long groan and gives up. He jerks against my mouth, his seed jetting down my throat and coating my tongue. As I swallow him down, he tells me how good this is, how good I am, how he can’t believe how fucking good this feels.
When he’s stopped coming, he reaches down to pull me against him. Uncaring that he’s come into my mouth, he kisses me. No, he ravages me. His hands tangle in my hair as he licks inside my mouth, tasting himself, tasting us.
“I can't believe I'm the only one who has ever done that for you,” I murmur when he lifts his head from mine and tucks me against his chest. His heart thunders in my ear. It may be wrong to be with him, but there’s no possible way for me to stay away. I’m an addict and he’s my fix.
“Believe it.” He continues to pet me, smoothing my hair down the back of my neck and over my shoulders. His chin rubs against the crown of my head. “Are you sure we can't have sex, because I don't care that it's a particular time of month.”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m sure. No sex while I’m—you know.”
“Sadly, I do.” He sighs. “Why?”
“Because it’s messy.”
“So, we do it in the shower,” he pleads.
I shake my head. “No, your first time should not be in the shower.”
“I’m a guy,” Knox reminds me. “I don’t need candles and shit. I just need you.”
The evidence of his need grows between us. “I thought you were good at waiting.”
He grunts. “I never had your mouth around me before. Eat a lot of protein this week. You’ll need your energy next Saturday.”
This time it’s my turn to groan. “You sound like you have big plans.”
“You have no idea,” he whispers.
24 Ellie
Week 3: Warriors 2-0
The pounding on the door won’t stop. I try to shove my head under the covers, but the asshole outside our apartment doesn't have a quit button. Hopefully Riley will crush the persistent intruder with her sewing machine.
“Ellie, I know you're in there.” The deep voice sounds vaguely familiar, but who can tell through the layers of blankets I have thrown over my head.
“Go away!” I yell and throw the pillow at the door. It slumps to the floor before it even reaches the door. Sad. I didn't even get the ability to throw a pillow. I slide further down under the covers as another cramp hits me. Gah. I'm not sure why it's more painful this month than in past months, but even swallowing four Advil has done nothing for me.
I spent Sunday in a daze. Knox and I sat in his apartment watching the pro games, holding each other’s hands, and kissing until we were so turned on, I felt like we could have lit the entire campus. But Monday I’m too ill to get out of bed.
The banging mercifully stops and the door latch to my bedroom clicks.
Must be Riley.
“I'm dying, Riley. I think my body wants to kill me. Would you mind picking up my pillow, putting it over my face, and ending my misery?”
I hear the faint sound of the cotton getting swept off the floor and then the soft plop of my pillow at the head of my bed.
“I never realized you could be this dramatic. If you get tired of your English classes, I think the theatre department has missed out on a talent like yours.”
The deep rumble of Knox's voice startles me. I kick at the blankets, but they seem determined to entangle me. I end up tossing and turning until I'm a pretzel shaped mound of covers. He chuckles, and then reaches out and slowly frees me from my prison.
“How did you get in?” I scowl and try to ignore the cartwheels my heart turns.
“Riley let me in. I explained to her that I'd left my playbook in your backpack.”
“That's a lie.” I push up on one arm and notice that he's undressing. His shoes are toed off and he's pulling his T-shirt over his head. His entire wardrobe must be Warriors workout gear, cargo shorts, and flip flops. “Why are you taking your clothes off?”
“Because it's more comfortable.” His hands are at his buckle when alarm bells start going off.
“Not your shorts!” I fling my hand out. “I draw the line at your shorts.”
He grins, and I realize I just invited him into bed with me. Falling back onto the pillow, I give in. The pain in my abdomen has sapped all my energy. “Fine. Undress. You'll do what you want anyway.”
The metal of his heavy buckle hits the floor, and I try to suppress the shivers of glee at the sound.
“Shit, your bed is small,” he says as he climbs under the covers.
“Maybe you're too big,” I toss back.
His body rumbles as he laughs. “No such thing.”
Then he starts rearranging me. He turns me so I face the wall and slides a big muscular arm under mine. His hard biceps turns out to be a surprisingly comfortable pillow. At my back, his body curls around mine, his knees bending to fit into the crook of my bent legs, the top of my head under his chin. His other big hand settles on my stomach, his pinkie rubbing against the lace waistband of my panties. And just like that, the heat of his body starts to invade mine, easing my aches, soothing away the cramps.
His breath is steady and even, and I find myself matching him. There's absolutely nothing erotic about his touch. It's meant to be comforting—and it is. He's like a giant heating pad. His hand makes broad, slow circles around my stomach.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Jack mentioned during film that you weren’t feeling well.”
“So, you came over here and pounded on my door?”
“Someone's got to take care of you. Your brother thinks you’re strong, but even the strongest people need someone to lean on. Besides, this is my job. Not your brother's.”
“What's your job?” My words start to slur together as he strokes me into a stupor.