“Jesus,” I murmured, head falling back against the pillows again. I was sweating hard and fast from my temples. Landon reached his free hand across the expanse of my naked chest and began manipulating my other breast with the slow, loping motion he rubbed out on my mound.
“Just like that,” I heard myself say, and soon my hips were bucking, accomplices to the rhythm. Landon sped up. His thumb gently spread my folds, granting him deeper purchase into my wet heat. He rubbed and rubbed, faster and faster. I clawed at the bed below me like someone possessed.
“Yes,” Landon said, his voice firm, all command. As if by his own instruction, his cock began to push deeper and deeper. I was hovering on the tip, in a way I never had before. No boy, no vibrator, no memory had ever made me feel this good.
“Oh, FUCK!” I cried, pressing my shoulder blades into the damp bedspread. In one swift arc, my breasts tumbled forward—all the better for Landon's grip. I felt my legs part of their own accord—wider, I figured, than they ever had before. His fingers were racing one another now, roving in faster and faster circles. I opened my eyes for a split second to drink in his gyrating, taut body. The muscular span of his arms, hovering over me. The threads of chest hair spiraling down his perfect abs into the thatch of his magnificent cock.
I felt my legs tense, my eyes bulge. With a screech and a shiver, I came, clenching and releasing all at once—and yet again, we were flooded with the sweetness of our mingled juices.
The bed was tiny, and we both seemed to be expanding like bread—our lungs seemed to require huge gasps just to recover all the spent air. In the ensuing silence, I thought I heard the footsteps of a tentative roommate, out in the hall. At this, I started laughing.
“Oh, he owes me,” Landon whispered, tilting his sweaty face so he spoke directly into my ear. His morning stubble tickled. We tittered together, until the laughter snowballed into a full-on guffaw-fest. He would smile, and I would smile, and then we'd start up hooting like goblins again.
After the goofing had subsided, Landon rolled over and drew his index finger from the pearl of my sternum down my shaking body, passing first my breasts, then my belly, then the damp expanse of my lower body. His touch was light and sweet. Had my eyes been closed, I might have thought it was wind, or a feather. I turned to look him straight in his deep brown eyes and felt nothing but incredible peace.
“I'm glad we did this,” he said. Then, just as quickly, rolled his eyes. “Gah—I'm sorry. Is that super lame? Something a Dad would say?”
“You're not lame, Landy.”
“Glad you think so, Doll.” His eyes blinked slowly as he spoke my silly nickname. I leaned over and kissed him on the nose.
“So,” Landon finally ventured, after a few dozy minutes had passed. “Did I live up to the hype?”
I reached across the tiny bed until I'd grabbed hold of a striped pillow. Then, I thwacked my stepbrother neatly across the face.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Landon
“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Clay murmured, through gritted teeth. It took a second to snap back down to earth. I shrugged, then waved away my buddy's attentions. A whole pile of MYOB, Clay.
“Boys, I know y'all have been paying close attention to your coach,” came the then-unwelcome voice of Special Teams Coach Yeardley, a tall, oily, skeleton-like man with bad teeth and a comb-over. “He's been talking about the scouts coming to watch the A & M game tomorrow. But then, because you're a useful and contributing member of the Longhorn community, you must know all about that. Landon.”
I wanted to throttle the sucker, but instead I nodded, tightly. As soon as Yeardley had wandered farther afield Clay raised his eyebrows at me, in a way I knew contained sympathy but also a willingness to lend our coach a break. His sarcasm hit a chord, after all. For assorted reasons, I had been super distracted the past seven days—or specifically, all the days leading up to the big A & M game, the one that would allegedly decide my future in the NFL. Or outside of it.
For starters, just about every minute I hadn't spent in practice these past few days had been spent with Pop. After Anya had decided she didn't want to press charges about the beating, Carson and I got together and had a pow-wow. Missus Bohemia herself had given me the names of a few anger management counselors she knew, several of whom had connections to the VA and would be willing to work with Pop on his insurance plan. “Landon, you have to do something about this,” she'd told me, when I'd protested. I was still so mad at the geezer that it seemed just as well that he be sent off to a funny farm. But Carson, something of an amateur shrink herself, had convinced me that I'd feel guilty forever if I abandoned the old man full-out in his time of need. She even got me to talk about some of my childhood shit with the Pastor, which was surprisingly freeing. It's not like I'm going to sign up for group therapy anytime soon or anything, but I must say—it did feel good to talk.
Anyways, I'd had to go crawling to just about every UT Professor I'd ever had and get them to vouch for my personal problems so I could get an extension on all my mid-terms while I shuffled Pop to and from therapy. That was no picnic. Fortunately, our school was sports-crazed enough that the whole Biology Department was willing to go to bat for a quarterback. Lucky break.
But the sessions were slow-going. Pop, styling himself as a man of the cloth, wasn't exactly sweet on the idea of psychotherapy. But when I'd finally found him, that fateful morning after—curled up in a miserable ball, clutching a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red that'd been some congregant's wedding present—he had expressed nothing but remorse for the way he'd treated Anya. I still get a cold feeling in my gut, any time I remember walking into the living room and seeing him look so small. “I want to change, son,” he'd actually told me, through a desperate mask of boozy drool and tears. That was the worst I'd ever seen him.
Third straw on the camel's back was then, of course, the fact that I had a new lady friend. Specifically, a lady friend who I couldn't go blabbing about to friends or meeting in public, for the following (very good) reasons: 1) Coach was in the mood to roll heads if he found out anyone was spending what he deemed to be “excessive time” with a member of the opposite sex. (“You can fall in love when football season ends, boys,” he liked to say. “For these last few weeks, consider your nuts in a vice.”) 2) The lady friend's mother and my father were still technically married, and dealing with a shit-ton of personal problems. Didn't seem like a good idea to add “By the way, I'm dating my sister!” to the long list of topics Pop and I had yet to explore in therapy.
As a result of all this BS, Doll and I had elected to kick it on the DL. This actually had its perks. Being with Ashleigh was nothing at all like being with Zora. The former never flinched away from my touch. She was proud of her body, and would walk around naked in my room like it was no big thing. And best of all—she actually seemed interested when I would go on at length about whatever geeky science thing was jazzing me that week from Earth Science class (the only one I dug), or the latest mini-gossip on the team. I was fascinated just to hear her talk about her classes. I truly believed, for the first time, that despite the age difference my girl was way smarter than me.
The first day we got together, Ash and I didn't get out of bed. We'd fuck, then fall asleep, then fuck, then order takeout, then watch some dumb movie on my laptop. Denny had texted me at 6:05 to ask why I was late to practice, and Doll had laughed at me from bed as I'd hastened to get dressed, hopping foot to foot. I'd waited to shower until I got home, so she could come in with me. I'd taken her from behind as our bodies were lathered with soap, one hand in the thatch of her dark wet hair, the other stroking the supple flesh of her pussy. My roommates definitely weren't pleased with the state of affairs (or the screaming) but then, what did they know about being smitten?