Jock Romeo Read online

  His mouth.

  “Don’t you think it’s only fair that you have your shirt off, too?”

  “Good point.” I like the way he’s thinking and quickly shuck my shirt, also peeling off my shorts although no one asked me to.

  I’m in nothing but a thong, grateful I had the good sense not to wear what I call my “nighttime underwear,” which are high-waisted granny panties that come in packs of six with elastic bands.

  I highly doubt Roman would notice if I was wearing a brown paper bag.

  In fact, if there’s one thing I’ve noticed about guys in general, it’s that they do not judge your naked body—all they see is that you are naked. They see boobs. They see vajayjay.

  Naked flesh is so seductive men don’t see what I perceive as flaws.

  He has no idea where to touch me first, his hands roaming the entire length of my body starting with my feet. Graze up my leg (and thank God I shaved yesterday), over my hip, up my stomach, over my boob. Down my arm and up again, brushing the hair off my shoulder before kissing me there.

  Kissing, warm breath below my ear. I get wet between my legs all over again.

  “You are so sexy,” he tells me.

  “You are, too.”

  Our mouths meet again, more heated this time, more tongue, more excitement, more urgency.

  I cannot get enough of him; I want to eat him up and swallow him whole. Judging by the way his hands are all over me and his tongue is in my throat, he feels the same way. I pull at his shoulders so he will crawl on top of me and cover me with his body. He obliges without much urging.

  He’s wearing bottoms, but I can still feel him through the fabric, the thin thong I’m wearing doing little to conceal or barricade my vagina from his swollen dick.

  It wants to summon him inside.

  As if he was reading my mind earlier, Roman begins an unhurried, steady and rhythmic thrusting motion. We begin mimicking sex, the tip of his dick easing inside my swollen folds.

  So. Wet.

  So needy.

  More.

  Thong. Sleep pants.

  Nothing but skin on top, my nipples pressed against his bare chest, the hairs tickling my boobs.

  Still, I want more.

  I push the hemline of his bottoms until he’s lifting his thighs in the air, making it easier to shuck them and kick them off onto the floor beside the bed.

  He kisses me everywhere, inching his way down, reaching the apex of my thighs, taking off my thong then parting my legs with his elbows.

  Licks me. Sucks.

  I squirm, anticipation reeling through my core. Clutch at the bedcovers, teeth biting down on my bottom lip when he parts me with his fingers so he can suck harder in the one spot I want sucked.

  Sucks like he’s eating or lapping up ice cream.

  “Oh god…” I keep my voice down, knowing if I’m any louder, Eliza and Jack may be able to hear me. I would die if they came into the room.

  “You taste so fucking good.”

  Do I?

  I’ve heard it before but have never believed it. How does a pussy taste good? It’s not candy and it’s not fruit—what’s so great about it?

  I do not raise the debate.

  I do not want to come in his mouth, so I pat the bed, urging him to take his mouth off my lower half and crawl up beside me. I want to straddle him, take a bit of control.

  Make him feel oh so good.

  He stays down on me for a few more seconds—minutes—hours—TOO LONG BECAUSE I WANT HIM UNDER ME before relenting; I am good and lathered up when his back hits the mattress and I climb on top of my new friend.

  My friend.

  What an odd sensation to be friends with the person you’re sleeping with—we’re connected in ways I’ve never been to someone. I’ve never allowed myself to connect to a guy before, and now I want his dick inside me, fingers crossed.

  And toes.

  I gaze down at him, hair falling in waves around my face, hitting his chest.

  “Hi,” I whisper, kissing him on the cheek.

  Kiss the tip of his nose.

  “Hi.” He is whispering too, hands now curiously trailing along my spine, up and down, fingers pressing into the vertebra. When he is done with that, those same fingers sweep the hair back from my face. “You’re beautiful.”

  I know that. I’ve been told so a hundred times beginning when I was a young child, but until this moment, I’m not sure if I’ve ever…felt it.

  Being pretty and cute was my job.

  My mother wasn’t happy unless there was a bow in my hair and on my dress. She wasn’t happy unless I was winning a pageant or a dance competition. She wasn’t happy unless I was smiling.

  Being pretty is a chore that I resent most days.

  Hearing it and feeling it are not the same thing, nor do they go hand in hand.

  I let him play with my hair, his hard erection meeting my backside as I sit on him and I swear to God I feel it twitch, his eyes never leaving my face. He doesn’t stop meeting my gaze.

  “So are you,” I tell him in response to his comment, believing every word of it. His light shines inside and out, and I want more of it.

  I lower my mouth and kiss him.

  “Guys aren’t beautiful,” he scoffs against my lips.

  “You are.”

  I don’t want to argue with him; I know he carries the same insecurities around with him that I do, though they’re a different breed of self-consciousness.

  We kiss and his hands find their way to my breasts, cupping them as they sway gently. They sway more when I grind on top of Roman, lifting my ass so I can place his cock under me and bask in the hard length of it.

  Back and forth…back and forth…

  It would be so good if we were naked.

  Correction: if he was naked.

  His breathing is hard, labored.

  His hands? All over.

  I’m not sure who pushes at the waistband of his boxer briefs first—Roman or me—or who it is that actually shoves them down, but soon they’re down around his knees and his dick springs free.

  My mouth waters.

  My vagina throbs.

  My heart pounds.

  Our mouths latch on, wet, desperate kisses—the kind you see in the movies—his hand on the back of my head pulling me in closer so he can kiss the hell out of me.

  I move over him, dry-fucking the tip of his cock as it flirts with the entrance to my core, getting me hotter and hotter and hotter.

  “God, I want you so bad.” He groans into my mouth, hand still gripping the back of my scalp; I can feel how bad he wants me—his entire body is tense from the tips of his fingers to the tip of his dick to the position of his legs.

  His knees are bent, legs slightly spread—he’s doing his best to maintain his sanity the same way I’m trying to maintain mine.

  The intention tonight was not to have sex with him.

  The intention tonight was not to come home with him.

  He didn’t even want to go out.

  Yet he did.

  For me.

  “I want you, too.”

  What to do, what to do…

  Just because we’re horny and naked does not mean we should be having sex right now—I know it and Roman knows it.

  My head dips again, mouth falling open—I swear my eyes roll to the back of my skull when the head of his cock accidentally goes inside me the slightest bit, giving new meaning to ‘just the tip.’

  He hisses.

  I begin to sweat, beads of perspiration forming on my forehead in the unsexiest of ways. But it’s hot in here—or is it just us?

  “Should we just do it?” I muse out loud, not expecting him to say, “Yes.”

  We kiss again, the only thing we can do now that we’ve had a good and thorough discussion on the matter.

  I move to readjust, ready to have him bury himself.

  “Wait—if we’re going to do this, I should put something on.”

  So. Resp
onsible.

  I’m on the pill—obviously I am—but don’t tell him that, pleased that he’s looking out for us both.

  Nodding, I watch as he leans over to pull open the bedside table drawer with me still sitting on top of him, rooting around. Produces a box of condoms as my fingers drag up and down his back.

  What is he even doing with condoms? I didn’t think he was the casual sex kind of guy.

  “These aren’t mine,” he explains. “They were left here by the person who lived in this room before.”

  Um—that person was Eliza, but okay.

  Naughty, naughty, smart, safe girl.

  I mentally salute her preparedness and thank her for the sex I’m about to have.

  Giving Roman room to tear open the condom wrapper and roll it onto his hard-on, I slide over but still never take my eyes off the process, mouth watering in anticipation of what’s to come. Literally.

  I never found dicks appealing until this very second—never.

  But Roman’s penis is incredible to look at, at least in my eyes: not too big and not too small, not too thick and not too thin. Perfect if there is such a thing, and I do not say this lightly because let’s face it, we all know dicks aren’t cute.

  Like, at all.

  He slides the condom on, fumbling through it a bit, hand shaking.

  He’s having a rough go of it, and I help, on the off chance his clumsy approach kills his boner—I’m way too worked up not to bang him at this point, and him going down on me again will not do.

  I want—nay, NEED his dick inside me.

  Together we slide it on, nice and snug.

  I kiss him again to get the ball rolling once more, get us more turned on, get him worked up. Flop down onto the mattress, onto my back, pulling him along for the ride so he’s on top, missionary for the win.

  I’m wet, so it’s easy for him to slide in, one slow inch at a time, holding his breath the entire way until he’s to the hilt.

  He feels big, just right.

  I squirm beneath him, wanting him to pump—hard.

  Instead, he does a steady rocking back and forth that does everything to drive me out of my mind. More, more, more!

  I try to spread my legs but pause when he moans, “Oh fuck. Shit.”

  Shit?

  Is that a good thing? I’ve never heard a guy say that while he was inside me before.

  “Oh my god, Lilly.” His forehead presses against mine and he stops mid-thrust.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper.

  “I need a second.”

  A second? A second for what?

  Is he…

  Going to come?

  Already?!

  We’ve only been having sex for like, thirty seconds.

  Dammit—I knew I should have sucked his dick when we started fooling around; he would last longer.

  I lie still as he hovers above me, and a bead of sweat drops and hits the center of my chest.

  It’s okay, I want to whisper to him. I get it, you hardly have sex.

  Stroking his back with my nails, I wait him out. He’s still terrified to move, afraid he’ll blow his load.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry?” I breathe out. “For wh—”

  And that’s when his body wrenches with a spasm, orgasm spilling into the condom.

  11

  ROMAN

  I cannot look at Lilly.

  Can’t be around her after I humiliated myself, this entire week a practice in circumvention and evasion.

  She comes into my house, I go out of it.

  I even catch a whiff of her presence or impending arrival, I pack up my shit and scram.

  I came in under a minute.

  Show me a guy in his twenties who can hold his head up and look a girl square in the eye after he comes inside her after thirty seconds, and I will bow down to him.

  Metaphors for pumping and dumping flow through my brain, even as I do my damnedest to concentrate on my engineering project. It’s no use.

  Pump and dump.

  Three-pump chump.

  Single-barrel action.

  Tossing my mechanical pencil onto the desk, I stare out the window into the backyard. There’s an alley at the very end of the property where the garbage cans are stored and get picked up on Mondays, and I watch as a woman lifts the lid on the red recycling canister and tosses in a bag. I decide to make my way to the living room.

  “Roman, it’s no big deal…” Lilly reached for me as I rolled away from her, fingers grazing my backside as I stood and grappled for my underwear. I couldn’t look at her then either, humiliation seeping through my body as quickly as the orgasm did. “Maybe if we had a vibrator or something so I could…you know…”

  I lay in bed next to her that entire night—through the night until the sun came up and she slowly came awake. I pretended to sleep when she sat up and glanced at me over her shoulder, watching me far too long, waiting for me to stir or say something.

  I didn’t.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and did my best to control my breathing, not wanting my chest to constrict, giving myself away.

  Waited until she’d risen and gotten herself dressed then tiptoed out of the room, but not before leaning over to my side of the bed and planting a kiss on the side of my neck, lips warm.

  So kind and caring.

  I lay there like a coward.

  How the hell do I fix this?

  It’s been four days.

  Four days of avoiding her. Four days of thinking about her. Four days of remembering her body, naked. The sounds she made, the faces she made, the way she smelled.

  I couldn’t make her come.

  There is no one I can talk to about this without sounding like a twat, a British word I keep hearing Jack use to describe his old friends on the rugby team.

  Perhaps I should talk to him about it? Get some advice on how to get a woman excited?

  Just kidding, he seems like the kind of guy who was born into this world knowing how to have sex with a female and exceling at it from day one.

  Unlike myself.

  Pump and dump—literally.

  Honestly, I came in under a minute—I should be drawn and quartered or publicly called out.

  How the hell am I going to see Lilly again without sinking into a hole in the ground?

  As if on cue, my roommate walks into the living room carrying a bag of potato chips and a soda, plopping down onto the opposite side of the couch, immediately ripping into the bag.

  Pops a chip in his mouth and chews. “What are we watching, mate?”

  Nothing. I was watching nothing because I cannot concentrate.

  “Erm, nothing really.” I toss him the remote and he catches it on the fly, instantly flipping through the channels before clicking open the app and scrolling through those shows.

  He settles on an action film about the end of the earth where only one man can save it from destruction.

  Jack chomps on a chip, cracks open the pop, and slurps off the top. Eventually, after lots of chewing and slurping, he glances over at me.

  “What?” He leans forward, setting the pop can on the coffee table, licking the chip salt off his fingers. “Something on your mind? You look ill.”

  How can he tell something is wrong just by glancing at me for a few seconds? Do I look that sick?

  Because I am; I want to vomit at the thought of Lilly out there, thinking I’m a premature ejaculator when I’m not. I was nervous and excited and it felt so fucking great. Amazing, like nothing I’d ever felt before.

  “Nothing is on my mind,” I lie.

  “Bollocks,” Jack argues, putting the chips on the couch beside him and crossing his arms. “You’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”

  Honestly…

  I barely know the guy; I’m not going to spill my guts and tell him I spilled my load within one minute when fucking his girlfriend’s best friend.

  Not happening.

  “Does this have an
ything to do with Lilly?”

  I raise my head a bit too fast, his keen eyes sparkling.

  Shit. Is this guy psychic?

  He nods. “I got it right, didn’t I?”

  “Uh…”

  “Did something happen? She was here yesterday looking for you but seemed troubled.”

  He resumes digging into the potato chips, bag crinkling in a way that’s almost triggering as one of my pet peeves.

  Ugh, the sound!

  “I wouldn’t say something happened, no.” On the contrary, something didn’t happen—her orgasm.

  And by now she must be on to the fact that I’m avoiding her; if she’s stopping by to see me and I’m not returning any of her calls or text messages—this is indeed a problem.

  One I’m too chickenshit to resolve.

  Sex is a big fucking deal, and I blew it.

  Literally.

  I probably came off as a selfish, greedy asshole. Should I have gotten her off after I climaxed? Why did I just roll over and pretend to die?

  Why didn’t I give her an orgasm—what is my fucking problem?

  “Mate?” Jack is staring at me from his place on the sofa. “Did the two of you have a row?”

  “Not…exactly.”

  His hand is buried in the bag as he cocks his head, fishing out some chips then slowly putting them into his mouth, one by one as he thinks.

  “Then what could she be cross about?” He crunches loudly. Pauses. “Wait. Bloody hell, did you shag?”

  That settles it—Jack has psychic abilities.

  I don’t know what to tell him; do I admit it or deny it? Either way, I’m screwed. He’s going to have questions—and though I definitely need answers and advice, I’m certainly not ready to admit I’m a failure in the sack.

  “Erm…”

  He smacks his knee like an old codger. “I bloody knew it. I told Eliza you were shagging when we came home from the party Friday night, but she didn’t believe me. Kept going on about Lilly being on a guy detox and giving up dick for good.” Crunch, crunch. “Told her that couldn’t possibly be right or you wouldn’t have had your door closed.”

  He’s not wrong, but it’s still weird he hit the nail on the head.

  “Did something happen?”

  Now is the time to confess that I was unable to fulfill Lilly sexually. Do guys talk about this shit with each other? Will he think I’m nuts for bringing it up?