20. Lizzy
Would you wanna come back to my place?
He’d asked so tentatively—as if my answer was going to be no—and I’d laughed quietly, following him to the front porch.
My roommates were home but his were not, a deafening silence getting us when we’d stepped through the door.
“Where is everyone?”
“Movies.”
“On a Sunday night?” I look at my watch. “It’s seven forty-five.”
He shrugs. “They vacated to give me some privacy. They must have sensed I needed it.”
Ha.
My brain clicks the pieces of the puzzle in place; this is likely an unconfirmed case of Sully working his wingman energy behind the scenes. Doing the Lord”s work…
Who knew?
I don’t want to sit in their common space—I’d rather be in the privacy of his bedroom on the off chance one of the guys comes home—and that’s where he leads me after grabbing us both a bottle of water from the fridge.
Such a gentleman.
So thoughtful.
He fusses when we enter his bedroom—locking it behind him—pushing in his desk chair and kicking a pile of shirts out of the way; closes the closet door and flips on a lamp. Turns off the overhead light.
It’s as if he’s never had a girl in his space before.
Sure, he doesn’t date. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had a casual hookup with the purpose of getting laid. Urban legend says athletes have like, tons of sperm built up that they have to get rid of or they get overly aggressive. Fact or fiction, it sounds logical to me.
While he’s busy fussing with the cleanliness of his room, I walk to the window and pull back the curtain, glancing outside. Obviously, I’m curious about his view since I live next door and am delighted to see the clear shot of our bathroom—and my bedroom.
“Did you know you can see my bedroom from here?” I ask, letting the curtain drop and taking a seat on the couch as a way to take less pressure off both of us. Plus, this is a friendly visit after grabbing a snack. No expectations, no pressure.
“I haven’t looked,” he says honestly.
“I had no idea you had such a good view into my window—I’ll have to be careful and make sure to wear more clothes from now on.” I smile pleasantly, knowing full well if I plan anything from now on, it’s to wear less clothes and stand closer to the window.
I practically invited him to spy on me.
How horrible is that?
Brodie putzes for a few more moments. He removes his shoes and puts his hands in his pockets, then removes them from his pockets.
I dip my head to hide my smile.
He’s cute when he’s flummoxed, not sure how to behave around me, and awkward in general. Poor baby spends too much time on the ice and not enough time around females—in my professional opinion.
Transfixed, I watch as he pulls the navy hoodie over his head, eyes fastened on the expanse of exposed skin when he has his arms up, the sight of his belly button and pleasure trail positively thrilling.
His navy shirt clings to his muscles, and I soak up every bit of it as I wait for him to plop down next to me and get comfortable—the couch is too small for both of us to lounge or even spread out but it does the trick. That is the beauty of the love seat.
Maybe I’ll lie down and put my feet in his lap…
Maybe I’ll put my head in his lap…
Maybe I’ll…
I face him, sitting so I’m crisscross applesauce. Easier to look at him this way.
“I always forget how big you are,” I tell him as I observe our differences. “Let me see your hands.”
He holds up his palms, and I hold up mine, pressing them against his and surveying the sizes.
“Yours are twice as big as mine.”
Brodie swallows, causing his Adam’s apple to bob in his throat.
I lean forward to kiss it, unable to stop myself—he’s just so yummy and delicious—and he tilts his neck, anticipating my movements.
I inhale how good he smells.
Take my palms off his so I can run them down his chest, cool moisture-wicking fabric beneath my fingers. He’s solid. Firm.
His pecs are so defined under his shirt that I could cup one in my palm as if it were one of my boobs.
I feel his nipple harden and run a fingernail over it, teasing him.
He watches intently, gaze heating.
Immobile.
Stoic, even, as if he’s fighting for self-control.
Don’t fight it, Brodie…
Grab me and toss me on the bed…
Do it…
His hands move to my hips, pulling me into his space on the couch with minimal effort—and no resistance from me. We lean forward so our mouths can fuse.
He tastes like peanut butter.
Dessert.
Delicious.
He groans deep in his chest, and I know it won’t be long before kissing me isn’t enough, although the kissing is to die for. It’s literally curling my toes.
We kiss for seconds.
Minutes.
A half hour, all the while my body is burning with lust for this guy—this quiet, content-to-be-home, giant of a hockey player—who can’t decide if he wants to tear my clothes off or wrap me in a blanket and send me home.
All part of his appeal.
His charm.
“You’re so sweet,” I whisper when his rough hands trail down the column of my neck. They’re a bit scratchy and coarse but send shock waves to my pussy.
“Gee, thanks.”
“That was a compliment. I wasn’t calling you so nice.” Although he is.
So nice.
So good.
Two things guys don’t want to hear…
More things society has deemed the downfall of the male personality prompting quotes like: nice guys finish last. Articles called: how to stop being a nice guy. And preventing them from getting swiped on dating apps.
Apparently, being nice doesn’t get the pussy wet, or some other such bullshit?
Well, mine is soaking.
“I could eat you up,” I tell him, raking my fingers through his hair, moving them down the back of his scalp to his nape. “I want to climb into your lap and…”
“Uh-huh.” Slowly, Brodie nods like a bobblehead, his voice hoarse. “You should.”
I should. I abso-freaking-lutely should.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Brodie has his legs manspread. I rise from the couch, standing in front of him, figuring the best way to climb on board his big, strapping body without making it complicated or awkward. The best approach seems to be kneeling with my legs on either side of him.
His eyes are hooded—he’s got that look a guy has when he’s turned on and about to get sex face, his features all distorted because all the blood has rushed to his junk.
That face is a victory for me.
I mentally pat myself on the back, sitting in his lap, basking in the sensation of his big hands on my butt. His fingers toy with the raw hemline of my white shorts, which tickles so good.
But here’s the problem.
He’s wearing a shirt, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt, and we’re inside, so shouldn’t we be at room temperature?
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
As a girl who’s always prepared, I stuffed my tits into a lacy bralette—which doesn’t offer any support, is sheer, but could also be worn without a shirt.
His reaction does not disappoint.
Brodie has no idea what to do with his hands, palms, or arms, hands suspended mid-reach, afraid to put them on my bare skin.
Arguably, there’s so much of it and a lot of ground to cover, but all he has to focus on is one spot, and we’ll both be happy.
His eyes roam.
Go ahead—stare.
Look.
Look your fill…
Still, he isn’t touching me.
So I shift, moving forward and reaching down his body, pulling the hem of his navy shirt up…up his stomach…up his chest, tugging until the light bulb goes off in his brain, and he inches forward, making it easier to take his shirt off.
Pussy. Settle yourself down…
Calm yourself.
But my, my, my is he beautiful…
Bruised. Scarred.
Has at least a half dozen cuts that I can see, along with a chiseled stomach. The most perfect clavicle.
He gets goose bumps as I gaze at him, and I reach down to take his hands, placing them on my rib cage.
His hands are shaking when they move higher, thumbs caressing the lace of my bra; my breath quickens as my heart races. I could look at him touching me all day, my gaze lowering so I can watch as his thumb hooks the cup of my bra and draws it aside.
First, he strokes my nipple with the tip of his thumb, drawing slow, leisurely circles around the areola.
So sexy…
Slowly.
Then he pushes my bra strap down so he can palm it in his hand, stroking the delicate skin.
I bite my bottom lip, wanting to grind on him, wishing he wasn’t wearing denim. But then I give in, moving my hips round and round on his lap, searching for the hard shaft in his pants.
He grips me by the waist, hands large enough to splay my stomach—that’s how large this dude is—and pulls me in, closer so his mouth can suck on my nipple.
Licking…
Sucking.
“Oh god…” My hands are in his hair, and sure, this isn’t the most comfortable position, but it’s sexy. I feel like I’m giving him a lap dance, and I know I’m giving him an eyeful.
And a mouthful.