Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

I’d probably get lockjaw! God, wouldn’t that be a freaking train wreck.

“Charlotte…Ch-Charlotte,” Jackson mutters above me, lifting one arm, tapping me on the shoulder. “I’m…I’m gonna…”

He taps again, warning me.

But I don’t plan on spitting once he goes. He gets the full treatment, swallowing and all.

I’m no spitter—that would make me a quitter.

The poor boy deserves to come inside my mouth. His dick has been neglected for so, so long.

“Charlotte.” He sounds desperate in his attempts to get me to lift my head, to spare me from his sperm. Honestly, if it hits the back of my throat, who even cares? I won’t taste it.

I can’t explain this to him, though—by doing so, I’d have to lift my head and talk, and we can’t have that now can we?

Giving my head a shake, I let him know we’re finishing this together.

Jackson moans again—this time so loud, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, knowing someone in the house had to have heard. Moans again, head thrashing against the headboard.

Knuckles white. Rising from the bed, fingers flexing. Hitting the beddingmattress. Hips shaking.

It’s intoxicating, this level of control and making him feel this way. I’m the one giving him an orgasm—me.

He chose me to be his first.

Jackson comes as I suck, taking him as deep as I can so I don’t choke, waiting until he’s done trembling.

Pull back and glance up at his face; it’s flushed, hotter than mine. Eyes closed, his chest moves up and down, breathing labored like he’s just run the fifty-yard dash.

“Are you all right?” is the first thing I ask when his body stops convulsing.

It’s adorable.

He nods. Sort of?

“You sure?”

“Come here.” He spreads his arms wide, and I scramble to my knees. “Here.” Jackson pats his thighs.

I climb back on top, facing him, and he wraps those strong arms around my middle, pulling me close. Hugging me tight. Kissing the top of my head.

I lean back a bit so I can see his face, two sets of shining, glassy eyes. Jackson inches forward, kissing my mouth.

Opening mine, he deepens the kiss. Tongue.

Oddly, it’s romantic; this post-blow-job make-out session makes me feel close to him. The fact that he didn’t push me away or want to clean off, didn’t act disgusted because I had cum in my mouth? It’s nice.

I weave my hands around the back of his neck, fingers raking through his hair. Tilting my head, letting him hold me as I sit on his naked lap, his dick flaccid and squished beneath my ass.

Ah, modern romance…

Jackson

Hours after Charlie blows my cock, we’re flat on our backs staring at the ceiling. It’s late as fuck and I have to be up at the ass crack of dawn for practice, but I didn’t have the heart to send her home.

I like having her next to me, her warm body pressed into the side of mine.

It’s always been something I thought would annoy me—just assumed it would. Not the case, though.

We’re both still awake, the mood calm. My nerves are shot, body sated from a mouth-induced orgasm.

There were actual, important things I wanted to discuss with her before she got down on her hands and knees and sucked my dick. Things I wanted to discuss about our relationship.

I owe it to myself to get the words out.

I have to stop being a pussy.

“What are you thinkin’ ’bout?” I find myself saying, and then I groan, because it’s such a dumb fucking thing to ask. So cliché. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot, but I do know it’s the one thing you’re not supposed to ask someone. What are you thinking about right now? The trap question so many of my friends have fallen into that’s started so many fucking fights with their girlfriends.

And here I am asking it.

“I’m thinking about…hmm.” She shifts beside me, rolling to her side so she can face me head on, tucks her arm beneath her head to prop herself up.

Her face is beautiful as she regards me; like a fucking angel, pink cheeks surrounded by a halo of blonde hair. I catch some between my thumb and forefinger and rub the silky strands together.

“I’m thinking about how I like being here with you, and it’s nice just lying here, not talking.”

Yeah—it is. Usually I lie here alone, staring up at the ceiling. Night after night, by myself.

“And I’m wondering if you meant what you said about spending time with me in the romantic capacity.” She giggles.

“Yeah, I meant it.” I release the hold I have on her hair and stroke her smooth cheek. “Why you laughin’?”

“Romantic capacity—it sounds so official.”

“I s’pose.”

“Don’t get all salty—I’m just teasing. It’s cute.” Her index finger extends, and I watch it boop the middle of my nose. “You’re cute.”

“Just cute?” Jesus, listen to me, fishing for compliments. Who am I?