Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I answer hollowly, sitting up and tucking the blanket under my chin as a barrier between us.
Dalton’s hands lower to his waistband, where he slips his thumbs inside the elastic. I don’t breathe as he frees his erection. He doesn’t touch himself this time, already so hard that veins are throbbing along his length and his balls are pulled up tight against the base.
I stare, captivated by him. Hungry for him. And still, I sit unmoving.
Tonight has been fun. I’ve enjoyed hanging out with Dalton Days, which is something I never thought I’d say . . . or think. But giving in and doing what else I’m thinking about doing is a bad idea. For both of us.
I accused him once of letting women hop on his dick to do all the work, while he lay back and took pleasure from them. Honestly, right now, I would throw a leg over his hips, settle my aching pussy over him, and impale myself as deeply as I could physically handle to ride him until we both came powerfully hard and I passed out from bliss, still attached to him, and not hold him at fault in the slightest.
I scissor my legs, squeezing my inner muscles as tightly as I can, wondering if I might come without a single touch. All from seeing his cock in all its glory.
Wouldn’t that give Dalton the ego boost of the century?
I don’t move any closer, don’t let my eyes drift, and certainly don’t check to see if he’s enjoying my obvious arousal.
After a minute, he pulls his sweats back over his penis and cups himself, adjusting so his hardness isn’t uncomfortable. “I should go,” he grunts, standing up slowly.
“Yeah, uh . . . I’ll see you after the game,” I murmur, following him toward the door as I suddenly become the hostess I told myself I wasn’t. “I mean, for an interview. Or at Chuck’s. Or whatever,” I add, realizing I sounded like I meant we were going to meet after the game, like a date or a plan or whatever the hell it is people do.
But not us. We’re not people who do that.
We’re people who have a pregame ritual to complete. And maybe we’re actually friends now? That’s what we are—friends who help each other. Benefits, but not those kinds of benefits.
At the door, Dalton freezes. “Joy, I have a question. Tell me the truth, lie to me, or tell me to fuck off, but I have to ask.” His voice is gritty and rough, his hand nearly white at how hard he’s gripping the doorknob, and his back is to me like he can’t look at me when he asks.
My mouth is drier than the Sahara, partly because all my fluid is elsewhere and also because I can feel the anticipation building as I wait for him to ask me anything. I lick my lips. “Okay, ask away.”
“After our tradition, do you touch yourself the way you did on the phone?”
I swallow thickly as a heavy tension fills the small space between us. I could reach out to him. Hell, I could answer him. Either would get me exactly what I want, but then what?
He’s still Dalton Days, the playboy and my brother’s best friend. And I’m still Joy Barlowe, who put athletes off-limits years ago and won’t change her mind now.
“You should go,” I whisper.
He dips his head, disappointed but acknowledging my nonanswer, and walks out the door, leaving it open behind him.
I’m this close to stepping into the hall and calling his name, knowing he’d turn right around and come back, probably shove me up against the wall, kiss me, ravage me, and ruin me with that dick of his. So I force myself to close it before my body overrides my brain. But I’m still asking myself . . .
Should I have told him the truth? Should I have lied?
Chapter 12
Dalton
The only way I make it home is by reminding myself that if a deputy pulls me over and my cock’s out, it’ll be front-page news and Coach would definitely bench me over pending charges.
But I still speed like a demon, pulling into the driveway of my little three-bedroom, two-bath starter house on two wheels. I virtually run for the front door, barely closing it behind me before I drop my bag and rip my shirt off, letting it fall to the floor in a very Joy-like move. Leaning back against the door, I shove my sweats down to release my cock.
I hiss in pained pleasure as I grip myself tight, stroking up and down. Pre-come is already leaking over my crown, and I use it to glide along my length, adding spit when I need more to pretend it’s Joy’s wetness coating me.
“Fuuuck,” I grunt, banging my head back against the door. My legs are shaking, both from today’s long practice and with the explosion building in my balls. I hope the door can hold me up because if I collapse and hurt myself in a jacking-off mishap, the guys will never let me live it down. But I’m too far gone to move anything other than my hand.