Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

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.