The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

We dry-hump like horny teenagers until we’re both panting quietly, quick breaths masked by the sound of the television. Elliot’s hands massage my breasts, squeezing gently, head tipped back in ecstasy as I ride him.

We want more.

But more isn’t enough.

Lazy and slow and still in a daze, he raises his hips. Shucks his shorts down, not all the way, just enough for me to slide onto his hot, thick erection.

Bare.

Easing onto his dick, I impale myself on its round-tipped perfection.

G-Gasp.

Because…

Oh.

My.

God.

Our mouths fuse as he thrusts up, going deeper, over and over and over until I’m a useless, weightless ragdoll, rocking back and forth. Hair falling down my back, hands on his knees for support, I’m lost in myself.

And him.

Lost in the sensation of my own sexuality, finally getting what I want. Giving him what he wants.

And what he wants now is me on my back.

Flipping me onto my back in one instant motion, Elliot drives into me methodically, sedately, spreading me wider, hands holding my thighs apart.

Silent fucking perfection.

Slow, unhurried thrusting.

I’ve never heard myself whimper before, but I do, in time with Elliot’s grunts. Our sounds primal.

When I raise my arms to push against the headboard for support—to prevent my head banging into it—he rises to his haunches, dragging me farther onto his pelvis, driving into me on his knees, brows creased. Concentrating on every deep, deliberate thrust.

His body tenses at the same time I throw my head back, mouth falling open, the waves of my orgasm pulsating around his cock. We come together, his face buried in my neck, teeth biting gently into his shoulder. Cock throbbing, spilling himself inside me.

I can feel it, warm and wet and breathtaking.

Intoxicating.

Elliot

Holy shit.

I’m naked.

It’s morning. I’m in bed with Anabelle, and I’m naked.

Worse yet, I glance across the mattress at my slumbering, sleeping roommate whom I fucked in the middle of the night. Sweep an embarrassed hand down my face, groan.

Pass a hungry gaze over her body, because Anabelle is still naked, too.

Bare-assed naked.

Beautiful.

I allow myself the luxury of checking her out; her tits are incredible, rosy-tipped nipples playing peekaboo with the edge of my navy sheets. Dark brown hair fanned out on the pillow in messy tangles. She stirs, arching those beautiful breasts in my direction.

I glance down the length of my body at the exposed, half-hard woody begging for permission to stiffen against my inner thigh. I must have gotten overheated and kicked the covers off at some point while we were sleeping—after we finally dozed off—and I feel an embarrassed blush spreading throughout my body at the memories assailing me from last night.

Leaning, I reach for the quilt, concealing my junk, unsure of how Anabelle will react when she wakes up and sees me lying here buck-naked.

For now, I’m content to watch her, shoulders and clavicle and plumped cleavage. Pale, creamy perfection. I don’t know how long I lie here, quietly fighting the temptation to reach over and touch her, but eventually she stirs, lashes fluttering against her pink cheekbones.

Blue eyes focus in my direction, drowsy, gleaming.

Peach mouth bows into a secretive smile.

Anabelle strokes a hand in circles against the mattress, drawing back the covers to beckon me into the center.

It’s an alluring sight.

In the light of morning, I can see everything I didn’t in the dark, in the glow of the television. The exact color of Anabelle’s nipples. The groomed patch of hair between her legs. The skin tone of her breasts, stomach, and legs.

Quietly, we lie still, regarding each other before I scoot over, grasping her slim waist. Immediately, my fingers itch to wander, and she’s satisfied to let them, lounging on the pillow, languidly watching me explore her body.

Reclining on the pillow while I hover, she props her hands behind her head. Eyes slide shut when I cup her breasts in my palms, stroking her nipples with my thumbs, getting them hard, getting us both turned on in the process, my semi-hard morning wood now a rock-solid boner.

When her hips begin a steady roll, I know last night wasn’t a fluke.

I get excited, even her unsteady breathing is turning me on.

My mouth waters, wanting to go down on her.

“What?” she whispers, meeting my eyes, the word barely audible, licking her lips.

Instead of greeting her with words, I kiss her collarbone. Then the valley between her beautiful breasts. Pull a nipple into my mouth before dragging my nose down her stomach, tongue wetting her skin on the way down.

Instinctively, Anabelle spreads her thighs.

Eager.

My broad shoulders nestle between her legs, settling in. I spread her with my fingers, torso and tongue disappearing beneath the sheets.

She clutches the quilt, arching her back. Moans when I lap at her clit, splitting her apart.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she says as she pants, begging.

I don’t stop—of course I fucking don’t.

I suck and suck until she’s coming hard and I’m satisfied, drawing out her climax.

Climbing back up her limp, sated body.

“Anabelle?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you on birth control?”

Considering we had unprotected sex last night, it’s a little late to be asking, but it’s necessary. I don’t have a single condom in this house—stupid, I know, but it’s not like I was sleeping with anyone before last night.

“Of course I’m on birth control.” She exhales lazily. “You think I would have let you come inside me last night if I wasn’t?”

Come inside me last night.

Fucking A, that’s one sexy sentence—almost as sexy as the sounds she made last night when I was inside her. Silent, breathy moans. Tiny gasps.

My eyes drop down to her naked tits. “I don’t know. Would you?”

“No. The last thing I want is…” she pauses then wiggles her hips, causing the rushing blood in my brain to skyrocket to my dick.

It surges, giving me the green light to slide home.

Bracing my arms on either side of her head, I glide inside her slick pussy, still wet from my tongue, bearing down, all the way in.

Deep.

So deep, our pelvises connect.

When Anabelle’s mouth falls open, head listing to the side, I suck on her neck, the mattress below us dipping. Headboard hitting the wall, bedframe squeaking.

Low moans.

The slowest tortured thrusting.

The world’s most perfect morning fuck.

Her long, lean fingers fasten on my ass, urgently pulling me deeper. Emboldening me, urging me on.

It’s so goddamn intense, I swear my fucking eyes roll to the back of my head.

“Oh fuck,” I groan when my balls tighten. Body stiffening, one last grunt into her hair and I’m dumping my load inside her.

Heaven.

It’s fucking heaven.

Me: Dude. I have a major problem.

Oz: NOW what?

Me: What do you mean, NOW what?

Oz: **shrugs** Nothing, it’s just that you’ve been texting me a lot lately.

I have been texting him lately, but no more than usual.

Oz: I’m in the middle of something, so can you get to the point? No offense, but I don’t have tons of time.

Me: I had sex with my roommate.

Oz: How was it?

Fantastic, but obviously that’s not why I’m messaging him.

Me: No, you’re not listening dude. I had SEX with my roommate.

Oz: No, no man, I understood you perfectly the first time, and mad props, bro. It’s been forever since you’ve gotten laid—am I right, or am I right? HIGH FIVE.

Me: You are no help at all.

Oz: Moving along—was it a fuckfest, or just so you could get the lead out?

Me: Fuckfest.

Oz: See? Aren’t you glad you’re not living with a dude? How awkward would that have been this morning? Am I right or am I right?!

Me: Why do I bother talking to you?

Oz: Because I give good advice.

Me: No you don’t—but your girlfriend does.

Oz: Yeah, that too.

Oz: I have to give you mad props—you put your hot dog in Coach’s daughter’s bun.