The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

“You smell good,” he croons, spooning me from behind. “I could eat you up.”

“Okay,” I say as I exhale, completely out of breath.

His hands slide up the back of my shirt, unclasping my bra, palms gliding over my ribcage, cupping my bare breasts.

Kneading them gently, thumbs stroking the undersides while his teeth nip at my neck.

It’s bliss.

Pure nirvana.

I raise my hands out of the water, wrapping them behind Elliot’s bowed neck. Bubbly fingers plowing through his thick hair while his hands rub down my boobs.

I turn my head and our lips meet. Tongues connect.

Then, I’m facing him and Elliot is hefting me up by the ass, setting me on the Formica countertop, fingers tugging at the waistband of my pants. I work the button on his jeans, frantically unsuccessful until he relieves me and finishes the task.

Anxious, I eagerly watch as he tugs down his zipper. Shoves those dark denim jeans down his lean hips, boxers shed along with them.

I lift my hips, pulling my leggings as far down as they’ll go, bare ass on the cold counter. Elliot hauls me toward the end of it. Lines up his stiff cock. Together we watch as he slips his dick into my pussy, both our heads tipping back when he’s buried to the hilt.

“Oh God.”

For a few seconds he doesn’t move, just stands there inside me, staring down at our joined bodies.

“I swear to God, Elliot, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”

He pulls out.

Pushes in.

We groan in tandem.

“Say that again.”

“I swear to God, Elliot, if you don’t fuck me right now…” My breath hitches when he pumps faster, over and over, my lower half quivering. He’s the perfect height to screw me on the counter. We’re effortlessly lined up, pelvises grinding.

He grabs my hips, tugging me forward into him, thrusting in and out, my legs wrapped around his waist.

“Not so fast—slow down,” I moan. “Make it last.”

“Take your top off,” he says between pants. “I wanna see your tits.”

“You take my top off.”

We’re getting rough, and I like it.

Hard and gentle.

Fast and slow.

I’ve been on the verge of coming twice now, a third time when he lifts my shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, my nipples sensitive to the cold. Even more sensitive to his tongue sucking on them.

I plunge my fingers into his hair when our mouths finally connect, tongues twirling. We’re louder than we were in bed, the moans long and drawn out, panting, grunts guttural.

“Anabelle,” Elliot chants, kissing me. “Anabelle.”

Anabelle.

I’ll never forget the way he says my name in that moment.

Never.

“It’s probably a terrible idea for us to continue living together—we need a chaperone.”

“Should we get another roommate?”

“Fuck no.”

We’re in bed now—his bed—having cleaned up the kitchen, put away my homework, and shut off all the lights. His hand reaches for mine beneath the covers, lacing his fingers through mine.

“Elliot?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you think at some point we should talk about this?”

“Talk about what?”

“You know, the fact that we’ve…that we’re physical.”

He shifts to face me. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I’m not trying to make this weird, but it’s been on my mind the past few days. I’m not one of those girls who can do things casually. I just can’t. So, before we get carried away, I want to talk about where this is headed.”

“What do you mean?” He pushes a stray lock of hair out of my eyes, tucking it behind my ear.

“What are we doing? Does this change our relationship?”

“I hope not. I like you and I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”

“That’s not really what I meant. I need to know if your feelings for me have changed now that we’re having sex, because I like you.”

A lot.

And I don’t want to be fuck buddies.

I don’t want us to be just roommates.

I don’t want to be just friends, either.

“I like you, too, Anabelle. I just…”

Oh God, he’s hesitating.

He hesitates so long it becomes awkward, and I’m afraid to pull back to get a better look at his face.

“What, Elliot. Just say it.”

“This isn’t a good time for me to be starting an actual relationship.”

My bare shoulders tense against his cozy cotton bedding. “So are you saying you don’t want one?”

“I do, Anabelle, but it’s complicated.” He says it kindly, almost consoling. “I’m applying to grad schools all across the country, but none here. Chances are, I won’t be back after the end of the semester.”

I did not know that.

I mean, I knew he was applying to graduate programs, but we’ve never discussed where. Not once did he tell me he was leaving at the end of this semester.

Which is in a matter of weeks.

“Right. I get that, I was just asking.” I fake a laugh. “Relax.”

I release his hand, rolling away from him, toward the wall, distancing myself so we’re no longer touching. Stare at the beige paint and blank space, fighting back tears.

Elliot runs his hand up my bare spine; I want to shrug it off and tell him not to touch me, but I don’t want him to see me pout. Or worse…cry.

“Anabelle…” The rawness in his voice is so thick, I ache for him, too, even though he’s the one hurting me. “Anabelle, I’m trying to make something of my life. I didn’t have it easy growing up—my parents weren’t financially successful until I was older and wanted to make sure I had a strong work ethic. I’m not here on a scholarship, and they’re only paying for a portion of my schooling.”

I didn’t know that either. “Where have you applied?”

“Michigan. Texas,” he continues in a low, soothing voice. “LSU, and a few other smaller places.”

Wow.

Just…wow.

My eyes sting, blinking hard, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. The last thing I want is for him to feel guilty. He’s not my boyfriend.

He’s my roommate and he’s moving and I’d be wise to remember it. Just because Elliot is the sweetest, most thoughtful guy I know doesn’t mean we were meant to be.

“When will you know where you’re accepted?” I try not to sniffle.

“Soon.”

“Oh.” I dip my head into his soft pillow, letting the cotton soak up the tears that have begun to fall, doing my best to keep them out of my voice. “Where do you want to end up?”

“I don’t know. I’m from Iowa, but I’d rather not stay in the area. There’s nothing for me here.”

A hard lump forms in my throat. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The room is silent, and I stopped breathing minutes ago.

“Anabelle,” he whispers gently. I wish he’d stop saying my name. “We’ve only had one semester together and we’ve never been on a single date—you know it makes no sense for me to stay.”

We never went on any dates because he never asked.

“Do you care for me at all?” It’s desperate and needy but I don’t care. I only care how I feel in this moment, and the words I crave to hear, memories and words I can latch on to, to replay in my mind when he’s gone.

He scoots closer, wrapping his arms around my middle, chin resting on my shoulder, burying his nose.

“If I were to stay behind for anyone, it would be you, but I can’t give up my education or career for what-ifs.”

I go quiet for a moment, thinking. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m not gone yet.” He’s quiet, too, and I hear him swallow a lump in his throat. “Do you still want me to come with you to your dad’s wrestling match tomorrow?”

“Of course I do,” I barely manage. “If you’re not busy.”