Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

This is all about her and her pleasure, despite the growing need inside my pants.

It can fucking wait.

I want her to come on my mouth—on my tongue.

My lips suck. My tongue laps, licking up and down her center, between the valley of her thighs. I use my fingers too, slowly easing two of them in and out as I watch her face and body for signals.

The white knuckles clutching my bedspread are a good indication I’m not fucking this up.

She likes it.

The moaning is another telltale sign. The thrashing head. Flushed face.

“Want me to use a vibrator, too?”

“I-I don’t remember where I p-put it when I unpacked.”

Her stuttering makes me smile.

“That wasn’t the first thing you unpacked when you moved in?” I repeat. “Tsk, tsk. We’ll have to remedy that straight away, won’t we, love?”

“Uh-um, o-okay.”

Her thighs are quivering now, legs almost shaking if I had to describe the motion. She’s losing control, and I like it. I want her to be relaxed enough that she lets herself come—it’s the first time I’ve gone down on her, but I’m hoping it won’t be the last.

“God you taste so good.”

“Really?” she gasps. “Are you j-just saying that?”

“Pussy is no joke, Eliza.”

Lick.

Lick.

Suck.

“O-oh…”

She’s not very bossy now, is she? With my mouth and lips and tongue and teeth nipping at her delicates, making her body hum and purr, she has very little to say.

Not that she could get the words out if she wanted—I’ve rendered her speechless.

“I-I want you to come inside me,” comes her strangled moan, her hands tugging at my shoulders, pulling at my T-shirt. “Jack.”

“No. I want you to come on my mouth.”

“No. I want to come with you inside me.”

“But…” That’s not what I had planned. This isn’t about me, it’s about her, and can this be about her if I make it about me?

Shut the fuck up, idiot—take off your damn pants.

I rise, shucking my bottoms at the same time, pushing them to the floor and stepping toward the bed, hauling her closer to the edge. Reach for the bedside table and grapple for a condom. It takes less than ten seconds to tear it out of its package and pull it onto my throbbing dick.

I push inside her with a satisfied moan.

Begin thrusting.

Eliza whimpers, but not for long.

“I’m gonna c-come,” she quivers.

Well bloody hell, I better speed this along, eh?

Faster I pump, watching her expression as her orgasm hits, sweat now beading at my brow from the intense need to have my own, wishing it had been at the same time.

Oh well.

Maybe next time.

Practice makes perfect.

I might be shite at rugby, but I’m great at shagging, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Twenty-Two

Eliza

“Babe, can you come here for a sec?”

Babe.

He’s been calling me that now for at least a week instead of my name—as if he loves the sound of it spilling from his lips, whether I’m sitting across from him at the kitchen counter or he’s shouting it up the stairs to one of the bedrooms like he’s doing now.

Babe.

Ha!

I push myself up from the bed to a sitting position.

I’ve been lying here propped up for the past hour watching trash television on Netflix, a new dating show where everyone is on an island looking for love. It’s garbage and I can’t get enough.

Not my bed; Jack’s bed.

After we’d done the deed twice, he asked me to scrap the rules completely, officially asking me to be his girlfriend over wine and a fancy dinner. Since, we’ve slept in his bed every night, my bedroom became something of an office space slash closet for myself, and we’ve cohabitated happily since he went down on me.

I find him in the den, flopped down on the couch the same way I was relaxing upstairs.

Sit down next to him, my hand going immediately to his thigh and rubbing.

“What’s up?”

He struggles to sit up so we can have a conversation, shifting his entire body and propping his feet up on the coffee table, pulling me until I crash into him.

He hauls me onto his lap. “Babe, we need to talk.”

“About?” I smooch him on the cheek. He’s so darn cute.

“You know my mate Phil—from the rugby team?”

I can’t remember ever meeting anyone named Phil, but Jack has hordes of friends I’ve never met, and honestly, they all start looking the same after a while. Plus, Jack quit the team, finally conceding the facts: he did not like it, so why put himself through it.

Rugby was his brother Ashley’s sport.

Not. His.

“I don’t honestly remember a Phil, but…go on.”

Jack takes a strand of my hair and runs it between two of his fingers. “He’s got a friend named Roman who’s looking for a flat.”

A flat? “Do you mean he’s looking for an apartment?”

“Indeed.”

So proper this boyfriend of mine.

I’ve adapted a few words from him, like wanker and bloody hell and bollocks, and I use British jargon in everyday life when I feel the need to spice up my boring American sentences.