Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 15

  “What’s wrong with your shoulder?” I ask, sitting forward.

  “It’s nothing,” he responds. “Just part of the job.”

  “Have you ever had it massaged? By a professional I mean, not like from one of your girls.”

  “Never by one of ‘my girls.’” “My girls” is spoken with a different inflection that’s executed to make sure I don’t miss his dislike for my insinuation that he has many. “But, yes, we keep one on staff, but I didn’t want to go in today.”

  “I could, you know, uh . . . massage it for you.” I don’t know why that sounds so dirty, because I truly mean what I’ve offered. But I blush and swallow loudly.

  One eyebrow pops up high from under his sunglasses.

  “Slow down, it’s not what you think. I used to rub my mom's shoulders when she worked as a painter. I got pretty good at it.”

  “Is that so?”

  I make a move to get up, setting my glass on the table beside me, and Vance, moving to stop me, accidentally drops both icepacks onto the deck.

  “You’re not here to serve me. Relax,” he says, gesturing for me to sit back down.

  I get up anyway, careful not to expose the goods as I swing my leg over the chair and get to my feet. “On your stomach,” I command rather authoritatively and not unlike how I would talk to Bristol. I adjust my suit pulling it out of my butt and back over my ample cheeks. I toss him my beach towel. “Put this under your stomach to support your lower back.”

  He tosses me a look. “And you think I’m bossy?”

  Ignoring him, I gesture in a swirling motion with my finger to turn over. He flattens the back of the lounger and rolls over, towel beneath his belly, arms at his sides. “Do you have any baby oil?”

  “No, fresh out.” He sounds amused, and I silently muse about him having lube in some drawer beside his bed he doesn’t want to volunteer.

  I settle for some lotion I find beneath the kitchen sink. It’s not ideal, but it will lessen the friction. I straddle his back, sitting on his ass, and lean forward to smooth my hands up his back. I knead his knotted muscles, working my way up to his shoulder where he seems to be in the most pain. He moans into the cushion, his forehead pressed into the fabric of the lounger. His skin is warm, smooth and pliable beneath my touch. I press my thumbs into his muscle and knead with pointed pressure and feel it loosen ever so slightly. I work it another fifteen minutes, listening to his moans and an uttered curse of what I hope is more pleasure than pain.

  My body tingles, aware of the intimacy and the lack of separation between us as my hands glide over his glistening skin and my ass skims over him with my movements. Seeing my hands on him is erotic by any standards, but watching my fingers glide over his tattooed arms would make for an embarrassing situation if I could get wood. I don’t know if it would be Forrest Gump embarrassing or boner in front of the class embarrassing, but I’m glad I’m not a dude. Fortunately for me, every bit of my arousal is hidden beneath a triangle scrap of material. As I press forward so I can use some of my weight to push deeper into his muscle tissue, he flips over, taking advantage of my weight being off him.

  I now straddle his front. That narrow scrap of material concealing my girl is now spread thin and on the verge of exposing far more than my arousal. He holds onto my wrists, restraining me, but I, being on top, still have the power if I choose to assert it, which I make no move to do, curiosity winning out over control. My self-esteem is high but isn’t without its dings, and I quietly obsess over what he may or may not be thinking about me.

  “If I let go, you have to stay put,” he says, loosening his grip on my wrists while he waits for my response. With no forthcoming words, I nod slowly. He sits up, raises the reclined backrest, and moves his hips, shimmying us both up the lounger. “As nice as that was, this is better.” He leans back, his eyes intent on mine as he lays his hands on my thighs and rubs his fingers into my flesh.

  I smile. A thousand thoughts scurry through my head, none of which are talking me out of staying right where I am. I should be terrified, but no warning bells ring. Not that I would listen to them anyway. Common sense is not a dominant gene in the Sloan pool. If it were, I’d run now and spare myself being just one more of Van Hatfield’s one-night stands.

  My fear isn’t enough to keep my hands to myself any more than I can keep my mouth shut when I should. I trail my fingers down the center of his chest between the hard, curved edges of his pecs and over his tattoo. My fingers, light, uncertain, and shaking, trace the outside of the home plate tattoo on his chest. “It’s beautiful,” I offer honestly. His arousal, while no longer beneath me, thickens under his shorts, lifting the blue fabric enough to draw my eyes downward. I’ve had only a few experiences with penises, one of which was in the back seat of Nick’s Volvo. The other was a semi-failed attempt at a blowjob that left us both wondering if I wasn’t better suited for bulimia.

  He breathes in, his chest lifting with the deep intake, and I look up at him, my inexperience for once not in question.

  Hands, larger and far more assured than mine run up my outer thighs. He has long, beautiful fingers like a pianist, and he knows how to play my keys when he runs a few fingers up my spine. “Thank you. Out of all of my tattoos, it means the most.”

  “And this one?” I point to the words “Hold the Count” written in a simple black font below his left collarbone. “What does that mean?”

  He smiles. “When I was learning to pitch, I’d let the ball fly way too early, and my grandfather would yell, ‘Hold the count, Vance.’ Later, as my temper would get the better of me, he’d whisper it in my ear, ‘Hold the count, Son,’ asking me to count to ten before opening my mouth.”

  That makes me smile. I can see it. “Are the others sentimental?” He has full sleeves that would take hours to examine to see each detail, but if given the opportunity to do so, I will, gladly. The word “LOYALTY,” written in script, runs down his right side from armpit to hip bone, and I’m guessing there is a story behind it as well.

  This time he shakes his head. “Not really. Just life and lessons.” His touch is feather-light, and nails, trimmed to the edge of his skin, tickle my humming flesh and elicit a shiver I’m too inexperienced to hide. One firm tug on the string of my top loosens the bind, freeing it from me before it lands on the deck beside the chair.

  European sirens blast off in my head. Not the familiar ones of the cops in America, but those distinct ones that blare through the streets of Paris in the movies. I cover my peach-sized boobs with an arm and fret about the exposure,

  He grins and drops his hands to my thighs. “I should have asked. I got carried away.”

  “No. It’s not that.” I bite my lip, closing my eyes as I search for the exact excuse I want to offer. “It’s just that . . .” I look around, feeling too childish to say it.

  “No one can see you unless they’re flying overhead, which I won’t say is unheard of, but I think we’d notice. And I’m not The Rock. No one cares enough to send a drone.” He’s right, the walls are high and our only exposure comes from above, or at least that’s what I tell myself, because I’m starting to realize I may not want to be talked out of this. His eyes lighten a fraction. “But it’s up to you.”

  “Am I going to be the only one exposed?”

  Vance’s grin is subtle. Blink and you’d miss it. “I hope not.”

  I slowly drop my arms, aware he is watching me, them—the boobs I’ve had an issue with since they grew in small—and I want to shrink. He doesn’t lift his eyes for a long time, and while it’s unnerving, his smile offers some solace and eases that niggling voice of doubt.

  My breath hitches in between my throat and chest as he reaches up to touch them, and running the pad of his thumb over my nipple, he asks softly, “Are you okay with this?”

  I nod, eyes keeping contact with his because it’s the only way to know what he may be thinking.

  “You’re beautiful, Brenna.” It’s whispered adoringly, like he means
it, not like he’s trying to get me to bend to his will.

  His eyes stray from mine, lowering as he shifts the material of my suit bottoms aside, exposing the most private part of me. I suck in half the earth’s air supply as he runs his thumb, while he watches, over the wet center of my sex. He applies more pressure with the pad of his thumb, parting me with the pressure, before he pushes one long finger inside me.

  In a mind usually so filled with useless crap it spills out of my mouth on a regular basis, nothing is in there now. Blank. Empty. Had I known pleasure came like this, I would have straddled a few fingers instead of Nick Stevenson’s dick.

  “Breathe, Brenna.” Vance’s voice is deep, soft, and so assured of what he’s commanding me to do, I open my lungs and take air in, which in turn funds movement in my hips.

  To my horror as much as my pleasure, he watches me ride his fingers, eyes turned down to watch them move in and out of me while the pad of his thumb circles my clit. Sitting up with no noticeable change in his rhythm, he leans forward and, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth, growls softly.

  That small seed of pleasure has grown, blooming into something I’ve never felt other than by my own hand, and it’s incomparable and utterly inconceivable that I would try to duplicate it on my own. I know my body, and I’m still not as good at pleasuring it as he is.

  He whispers something heavily into my breast while he nips my nipple between his teeth. “Fucking beautiful.”

  His strokes are shorter and faster while his thumb rubs in a circle. I’m so close, but the edge scares the shit out of me, and I just want him to stop and fuck me like a normal person would. It feels almost like an audition, and my body is on display for his intimate inspection. This one-sided orgasm isn’t for the faint of heart, and I’m realizing that way too late.

  I arch my back, my breath hisses on the intake, and the whimper that escapes on my exhale makes me blush. I collapse, my body shuddering at my climax. Vance wraps his arms around me, and I press my forehead into his shoulder while the rest of me collapses in his arms.

  His lips caress my shoulder, then he kisses my neck, his tongue slipping across my flesh. “That was hot as fuck,” he whispers into my neck. “Jesus!”

  With my arm across my little goods, I sit up straight and meet his gaze even though all I want to do is cover up and cower. His blue eyes assess me, and I wonder how I’m not supposed to over-think things when he looks at me like that.

  With a finger, he tips my chin up, giving me no choice but to meet his gaze. “How ’bout we take this inside?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In the shower, we wash off the ocean and sweat from our skin. I rinse the last of the lather from my body and find myself pressed against the wall, Vance’s hard body holding me there while his hands hold mine in place above my head. Heat, and not just from the water, circulates around us. My chest heaves with my breaths as I anticipate his next move.

  His kiss is deep, hard, and filled with pent-up passion that he has denied himself since offering me a gentleman. His knee parts my legs, and he drops one of my hands so he can touch me in that spot that has craved him since I met him.

  With his mouth against my ear, he whispers heavily into it, “I would fuck you right here if I didn’t think you deserved a better experience than your first.”

  “I’m okay with right here.” Breathless from his kiss and uncertain where my next breath is going to come from, I don’t care if I sound desperate. I want him.

  “You deserve better.” He grins, scraping his teeth over my lip before lowering his head to lick my nipple.

  I moan loudly, arching into him, wanting more from his mouth than a few nips and tugs. “This is already a big improvement over that.”

  His fingers pleasure me while his mouth devours me. His words rumble against my chest. “Trust me, it gets better.”

  I realize, as I’m growing frustrated with the R-rated shower he’s insisting upon, that I haven’t contributed much to creating the X-rated version I want. I’ve memorized every hard muscle of his body except the one between his legs.

  I don’t want this to be one-sided yet again, but I’m also terrified I’ll do it wrong. I’m not a complete stranger to the male anatomy, but Vance is a definite upgrade from Volvo Nick, so I can’t help but wonder if different sizes require different things.

  I am not shy, most likely never will be, so I take the bull by the horns, if you will, and reach between us to grab a hold of him. Stroking slowly at first to get a feel for what’s required, I gather momentum based on his sounds and his movements. He thrusts his hips forward, pressing himself into my hand, and I move faster, cupping him, stroking him, until he stills my hand with one of his own.

  “You’re going to be the death of me,” he pants into my neck.

  “I don’t have to be.”

  “Not here, Brenna. I mean it.” Naked, wet, and so sexed up we can’t stand another second of torturous denial, he lifts me off my feet and I wrap my legs around him. I don’t miss the moment he takes to stare down between us at what most certainly is one hell of a sex shot.

  Unconcerned about our wet bodies, he lays me on his bed and climbs above me, hovering out of reach of my mouth but not my hands. Water from his hair, chest, face, and every other rippled section of his body drips down onto mine.

  I’ve only just begun to navigate around his body when he stills my hand once more.

  “I love your touch, baby, but, Jesus, you’re going to make me come.”

  While I’m wrapped up in my glory and contemplating making him call me ‘baby’ all the time, he apologizes and leaves me to hunt for his wallet where he keeps his provisions. He has two nightstands, a foot thingy at the end of his bed, and he has to find his wallet for his condoms? Where does he do his fucking?

  He spends a few extra minutes kissing me and priming what’s been primed since meeting him. “Brenna, if I drag this out a second longer, we’ll both be disappointed.”

  “So don’t.”

  Resting on his forearms and elbows he thrusts slowly inside me, giving me only half of what I expect. It’s a tight fit, and it hurts slightly, but the pleasure far exceeds the pain. He’s gentle, considerate, as he presses forward slowly.

  “Ahh,” I breathe out as he fills me.

  “You okay?” he asks, slowing again and brushing my hair away with his fingers.

  “Uh-huh.” Proper words aren’t at the forefront of my thoughts, and therefore none are ready. Needing to feel him, I run my hands up his sides, along his ribcage, and along his back, pressing my fingertips into him.

  He pushes forward, thrusting harder, moving me up the bed, but I am so lost in the feeling, little else registers. We both pant, our breathlessness the only sound I hear over our moving bodies. I move my hips to meet him, and dig my fingertips into his flesh, needing another release as I feel an overwhelming upsurge of pleasure. Knowing what I need, he assists my climax with his thumb and pumps harder.

  “Please tell me you’re close?” His voice rasps into my ear, but his body keeps its momentum, no backslide, only commitment to my pleasure as he fights off his own.

  Utter delirium ensures I am unable to measure my distance from the finish line, but not long after his inquiry and without the courtesy of a warning, I am liquid beneath him, my release a silent surprise based on the inner porn star I channeled earlier. He still chases his, and I tighten around him, finally sending him over the edge.

  He rolls off of me and onto his back beside me, his stomach rising and falling in sync with his chest. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath before he is up and taking care of the condom. Upon his return, he throws a blanket over me and slides in next to me, snuggling me up to his chest.

  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  I shake my head, ready to go again if I were forward enough to ask. Who am I kidding? I’m pretty damn forward, but years of trying to prove I’m not just made of slutty rumors and Sloan indiscretions have left me a bit gun-s
hy. There is so much more to me, and my hope is he gains an appreciation for those things too.

  He kisses my forehead, and even though it’s a sisterly location, it feels tender and intimate. I want to believe he’s falling for me like I’m falling for him, but do guys like Van Hatfield fall? I know if I read too much into it, I’ll spoil the moment, and if all I’m going to get is one moment, I’m damn well going to savor it. Deciding words aren’t necessary to get my point across, I reach between us and cup him. Even soft or semi-hard, he is impressive, and I try to gently coax him out to his full potential.

  Vance laughs. “You’re an optimist, that’s for sure.” Again, he kisses my head and pumps once into my hand. “Thankfully for us both, I know how to pass the time until I’m ready again.” He flips me on my back and straddles me, pinning my hands against the bed above my head. He kisses me hard, biting my lip, inciting a little bit of sting. He rotates his hips against me, rubbing himself up against my clit while he watches.

  He kisses his way down between my breasts, taking a detour to tend to each one before heading further south. His hands let go of mine to skim down my arms, sides, and hips, until he is directly over that pulse aching for him. He looks up through his dark lashes, and that devil grin, easily the sexiest part of him, grows wide. “You can thank me later.”

  His tongue skims over my slit, and I grip the bedding and hiss in a breath. Rocked by the intense intimacy, I instinctively close my legs. Not having it, he presses his palms against my inner thighs and pushes them back open, looking up at me while he flicks his tongue over that white-hot spot.

  A few minutes of that, and I am writhing and moaning, finding once again my inner porn star. Another orgasm lifts my ass off the bed and makes my legs quake. Vance is relentless and drags it out long past my tolerance, and I become a puddle of skin beneath his tongue and touch. I can’t even lift my head when he allows my surrender, and I silently wonder if I’ll ever be able to reciprocate, or if a quivering mass of contentment is all I’ll ever be.