The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

“Basically.”

“This constant bingeing on ridiculous shows is not going to end well, you know that right? At some point, you and I will have to leave the house for food, water, and sunlight. I can’t remember the last time I even showered.”

He makes a show of sniffing the air between us. “Very funny, Donnelly.”

Donnelly.

I love it when he calls me that.

He does it when he’s teasing me, when he’s not sure what else to say, and I like to pretend it’s his shy way of showing affection without being obvious about it, like he’s secretly harboring feelings for me but can’t let me know.

“It is very funny, St. Charles.” I give it right back, sneaking a peek at his abs from under my lashes.

I don’t think Elliot realizes his appeal to women. If he did, I doubt he’d be sitting around shirtless, looking like a romance novel cover hero.

Freshly showered. Bare chest.

Mesh gym shorts.

Those damn shorts do nothing to conceal the very obvious outline of the dick nestled inside, the navy fabric thinner than my tank top and making me squirm every time my eyes take a gander downward.

Which is every few seconds.

Arms behind his head, the undersides of his biceps are paler than the rest of his arms, the flesh tender. I fixate on his light brown armpit hair for a few heartbeats; I find it masculine and sexy. Very different than the parts on my body, deliciously so.

When the new show comes on, the impulse to commentate is impossible to resist. We’re shocked, outraged, and awed by what’s happening on screen. Annoyed, obviously, voicing our opinions during the first episode—until our lids get heavy with fatigue.

For a while, the lights stay on, illuminating the room; when my eyes start drooping, Elliot climbs off the bed to flip them off. Pulls back the cover when he returns, sliding in beside me, heating the small space between us.

I sigh, letting my lids close.

Content.

Body humming.

Sigh again when at some point in the middle of the night, the large hand on my hip skims down my thigh. Sleepily, across my waist it drifts, up the front side of my shirt. Floats up and down in relaxed, lazy motions over my stomach, pulling me in.

Elliot tucks me into his body, palm splayed on my abdomen.

If this is a dream, don’t wake me…

His huge paw travels north, heated, thumb hooking the hem of my shirt and sliding beneath it brazenly. Unhurriedly caresses my ribcage, dangerously close to my breasts, back and forth…back and forth….

It feels like heaven.

It makes me ache with desire.

In a dreamlike daze, I drag Elliot’s arm higher so his palm is cupping my boob. The pads of his fingers brush across my stiff nipples, first one, then the other, in slow circles. Rubbing gently. Plucking. Rolling them between his forefinger and thumb so slowly, the dull ache between my legs begins to throb.

Spooning, my ass is snug against his growing erection, so snug I feel it twitch inside his gym shorts. Straining.

Gradually, I rotate my pelvis, grinding into it.

His gluts flex.

Body stirs.

Fingers grip me tighter, flexing.

When his warm lips meet the back of my neck, hot breath fanning my skin, it’s an ecstasy I could get high from. The simple act of his face being buried in my hair is so arousing, making me hot. I squirm, our bodies entwining.

Elliot’s mouth kissing my shoulder, hand on my breast…

Arching my back, I reach behind me to pull him closer. Pull his head down, fingers plowing through his thick hair as his fingers pluck at my nipple from under my shirt.

Oh God, it feels so good.

I moan quietly.

He groans gruffly, hand snaking down my abs and stomach, inching its way below my belly button. Pads of his fingers reach into my shorts, find the valley between my thighs where it’s warm and damp and ready.

Elliot plays, middle finger rubbing tiny little circles, round and round, in the center of my slit. Mouth sucks my neck while my back arches and I twist his hair.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I ease away, flipping to face him; we’re breathing heavy and only inches apart. In the background, an infomercial illuminates the room with enough light that we can see each other.

Just enough.

His lids are open now, too, blinking back at me. Nostrils flared. Chest heaving.

Dick swelling—I can feel it against my thigh.

Wanton.

Drowsy.

So good and so hard.

I don’t know how long we lie there, staring each other down, slowly coming awake, hearts racing, but I know his heart is racing, too, because I can see it in his eyes.

They’re wide and shining and full of veiled anticipation.

Using the dark as an alibi, I raise my palm to his shoulder, running it along his collarbone, memorizing every velvety line. Trace his jawline. Indulgently run the pads of my fingertips behind his neck, lazily toying with his hair.

When my thumb brushes over his beautiful mouth, his lips part, landing a kiss on the tip of my finger. Seizes my forearm, grazing the center of my palm with his mouth.

It tickles. Tingles.

Makes me shiver.

Then…

Elliot kisses my wrist, nose running along the sensitive skin on the inside. Up to the crook of my elbow, small intakes of breath escaping us both while he inhales the smell of my perfume, the soap from my shower earlier in the evening.

My eyes flutter closed and somehow, we find ourselves moving closer, our bodies finally pressed together. Elliot’s tenacious erection demands attention.

His neck bends.

Mouth drags along my shoulder at the same time his hand moves over the top of my tank, cupping my breast.

Lips find the pulse in my neck, quietly sucking.

I moan, eyes fluttering open, staring at the ceiling, collecting fistfuls of his hair in my hands while Elliot tastes my flesh.

Then…our lips meet for our first kiss.

Press together once, exploring.

Twice.

Tongues connect, probing.

Hot, wet, needy.

So needy.

This is a side of Elliot I haven’t discovered yet, this physical, unrestrained, sensual side. I’m on fire for him, my body a flaming calamity of want and greed and longing.

Everything about him is sexy. His warm hands on my skin. His wet, ravenous tongue inside my mouth. His full, pouty lips. The flat abs and happy trail leading down into his shorts.

That happy trail leads to a place I want to visit.

I reach between us, grasping for the hem of my top, pulling it up and over my head. I want to feel him, every hot inch of him. Tossing my shirt aside, I lean back against the plump pillow, inviting him to look his fill.

He does, eyes burning in the dark, gaze fastened on my breasts, hands hovering.

Head dips.

Elliot’s hot mouth latches on and sucks at my nipple, the whole thing—not just the tip—curling my toes. Tongue swirling, he sucks while I dip my chin to watch, the desire between my legs igniting into tiny sparks of pleasure.

I get off on having my boobs played with, love when they’re being sucked on—and suddenly it’s not enough. I want the dull throb between my legs to burst into an agonizing blaze.

Suddenly, my shorts are an annoying, cumbersome burden, a barrier I can’t wait to dispense of, now desperate to feel his skin against mine.

Mouths fastening together, we shove down the waistband of my shorts until I’m entirely, delightfully naked.

My hips begin a slow roll. I part my thighs so he can fit himself between my legs, his dick snug, mesh shorts dampening with every push and pull, in and out.

Dry-fucking.

His massive, gorgeous hands grasp my waist, tugging. Grapple at my ass, harder. Sucking. Grinding. Licking.

Kissing.

Dreamy. Awake.

He scoots to the center of the bed, hauling me on top, huge paws skimming up and down my bare torso. Sliding to my backside, teasing my spine. Squeezing my ass cheeks.

I lean down to kiss him, hair falling in long waves, and he grabs a handful, holding it back, out of his way so he can see my face.

I grind on him through his shorts, the thick head of his penis rubbing the swollen clit between my legs. He might be wearing shorts, but they’re thin, and the head of his dick creates a glorious, unbearable friction I haven’t felt from a man in who knows how long.

Months. Years.

Never—not at a conservative Catholic college.