What can I say? I’m awesome. The best damn wide receiver Waverly’s seen in at least a decade.
Not that Stacy cares about my stats.
Or the fact that it was a team effort.
Nope. She’s all about the bone zone.
But hey, she wants to bag ’n’ brag? I’m down.
“When you caught that last touchdown in the end zone, I swear I nearly came.” She presses her tits to my chest and slides her hands in the back pockets of my jeans. The girl’s like fucking Houdini. Three seconds ago, she was holding a red plastic cup. Now the only thing in her hands is my ass. Not that I’m complaining. She’s a smoke show, and it’s clear she’s DTF. “We should go upstairs and celebrate—privately.”
Hell yeah. “I’m always up for a one-on-one celebration.”
“Perfect.” Stacy grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
Not happening. I’m horny as fuck after a game.
I leave my beer on the coffee table as we pass by and follow her upstairs. She’s wearing a short as hell skirt, and judging by the glimpse I get of her right ass cheek, no underwear.
Thank you, football gods.
Lots of people throw shade at jersey chasers, but not me. I’m all about sexually empowered women getting theirs. I like to fuck, and I’m not about to judge a woman for wanting the same casual, no strings pleasure with a hard-bodied athlete.
Especially when that hard-bodied athlete is me.
At the top of the stairs, Stacy turns and extends an arm, blocking my path. She’s two steps above, putting us at eye level as she leans forward and kisses me. Her lips are soft and warm, and when her tongue slides along mine, doing this swirling-sucking thing, my cock stiffens, ready to get in on the action.
Damn, it’s good to be me.
I’m just getting into the kiss, imagining Stacy’s lips wrapped around my shaft, when there’s a thump down the hall. I glance over her shoulder—poor form, I know—and spot a couple going at it against the wall, too drunk or too horny to care that they’ve got an audience.
One look at that man bun and I’ve got my answer. Zac’s planting sloppy kisses all over a redhead who—
Stacy sucks hard on my tongue—a scorching reminder to handle my own business—before she abruptly breaks off the kiss. “Lead the way, big boy.” She gestures, completely undeterred by the couple dry-humping against the wall.
Welcome to Greek Row.
I climb the last two stairs and drop a hand on Stacy’s lower back, guiding her toward Noah’s room. I’m a member of Sig Chi—thanks to my father’s legacy—but I don’t live at the frat house, which makes it the ideal place for hooking up.
No sleepovers. No awkward morning after. No strings.
Noah won’t mind taking one for the team. Sig Chi doesn’t have a lot of rules, but rule number one is sacred.
Thou shall not cockblock.
I try the knob, and, finding it unlocked, push the door open.
Stacy slips inside, hips swaying provocatively. I follow.
The room is inky black when I enter, just a sliver of light shining through the open window, but finding Stacy isn’t exactly a problem. Her mouth is on mine before I can close the door, her palms flat to my chest as she pushes me up against the wall. My hip grazes the dresser, but I barely feel it. Her tongue is in my mouth doing that swirling-sucking thing again, and the only thing on my mind is orgasms.
A woman who likes to take control in the bedroom is hot AF, and I’m a willing tribute on the path to pleasure.
I reach around and cup her ass, the tips of my fingers grazing the smooth flesh of her thighs as I pull her in close, sealing our bodies together. She must like what she feels—no surprise there—because she rotates her hips, grinding against my hard-on.
“You like that, baby?”
It’s cliché as hell, but whatever. This isn’t some epic romance. It’s purely physical, and we both know it.
