Quarterback Bait
Authors: Celia Loren
A Stepbrother Romance
By Celia Loren
Copyright
© 2015 Hearts Collective
All
rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the
expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations
presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness
to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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QUARTERBACK BAIT
A
Stepbrother Romance
By Celia
Loren
Ash
“FUCK!” I cried, as a second—then third—ice cube slipped
down the back of my tank top, gliding along the canal created by my shoulder
blades. Pain and pleasure co-mingled on my spine as the opaque shards shot off
my ass and onto the floor, where they instantly began to melt into pools. I
whirled around to slap my girlfriend Melanie upside the head, pinning her for the
culprit—but when I turned, I saw someone else. Someone strange, yet achingly
familiar.
Him.
“You looked hot,” he said, bending to close the distance
between his mouth and my ear. “I acted on impulse. Please don't be mad.”
“It's
you
,” I blurted, realizing in the same breath
that this wasn't a completely appropriate remark because we'd never been
introduced. I'd simply been watching him from across the room as he was shaking
the brown hair out of his eyes. Or raising his muscular arms overhead, into a
stretch. But instead of squinting at me like I was a lunatic, the
ice-cube-dropper smiled with half of his mouth and both of his eyes. Someone
jostled him from behind, and he took a single step closer, pushing himself into
my orbit. The trail of moisture was slick and cool on my back, but just as
suddenly became hot again. He leaned forward and touched me, his fingers
dancing lightly across my elbow.
“I've seen you around,” I elaborated, flicking a purple
strand of hair out of my eyes. The purple streaks were the latest in a series
of ill-advised rebellions, meant to make me—an otherwise mousy girl—stand out
in a crowd. But I apparently, miraculously, didn't need any help in that
department. Because here
he
was, talking to
me.
“I've seen
you
around,” he countered, affirming that
this was probably a dream. I watched the beads of sweat bloom along his
forehead, pushing away from the dark roots at his scalp. Brown hair, brown
eyes, and a superhero chin; yeah, of course I'd seen him around. He was the
hottest guy at this shitty house party, no contest. Searching his face, I
discovered a dimple, lurking in the crevice of his left cheek. I bit my tongue
with glee at this small signifier that he was a human, with an endearing flaw.
Somewhere back on earth, an iPod DJ put on a 90s throwback
jam—something I recognized from one of Anya's mix CDs.
Steal my sunshine...
something
something. His face broke into a loopy grin at the chorus, and he rolled his
eyes.
“I fucking
hate
this song.” His fingers fastened
around my elbow, and his eyes asked the question first. “Wanna dip?”
I pretended to quick-scan the room for Melanie, knowing all
the while that not even the girl code could stop this ball rolling. I shrugged
coolly, then nodded assent. His fingers fluttered down my arm, then grabbed my
hand. He turned and pulled me toward the door.
I followed him through the hallway like Eurydice—a quiet,
hopeful ghost. He never once turned back. After we'd woven through a dozen
drunken hallway stragglers and two corridors, we landed at an industrial door,
marked with red stencil: “ALARM WILL SOUND. ROOF ACCESS RESTRICTED.” He turned
to smirk at me before placing the heft of his round, muscular shoulder against
the frame. And when the door finally creaked open, the alarm didn't sound—which
made me laugh. It was like the whole world was complicit in this...whatever.
Giddy, I took the stairs two at a time behind him, sneaking glimpses at his
taut ass as we climbed. There was first a narrow staircase, and then a rusty ladder.
He whistled all the way up.
“Ta-da!” he cried magnanimously, spreading his arms as soon
as I'd thrust my head into the air. And there was Austin, sprawled out around
us like a postcard. The low buildings and the heavy air seemed to bend over the
rooftop, like fruit-bearing trees. Seeing me struggle with the final rungs of
the ladder, he leaned over. He encircled my waist with both forearms and
hoisted me up and out. I felt my nipples firm against my top as our chests
smashed together. The air briefly abandoned my lungs. We were both dampened
with sweat, and I could feel the meaty expanse of his pecs, his abs, the coiled
splendor of his engaged sinews wrapped around me. I let myself be deadweight in
his arms for a second. (Okay, more than a second.) And when my feet touched
ground again, I held myself against him. I allowed my hips to suggest the
slightest pressure against the crotch of his jeans. I told myself—that suddenly
tiny part of myself that still clung to reason and social mores—that it was the
alcohol, even though I'd only had one-and-and-half Mike's Hard Lemonades.
He tilted his head back and smiled, not releasing his grip
on me. For the first time, I braved full eye contact. I searched his rich brown
irises for some shade of explanation, but the only thing his gaze contained was
joy. Joy, and just a tinge of mischief. And a passing resemblance to some movie
star...that guy from
Mad Men,
maybe. His palms drifted down my back.
“This is a pretty involved...move,” I murmured, pressing my
lips together as soon as the words were out. “You do this a lot? Bait a girl
with ice cubes and then drag her to a roof?”
“That makes it sound like I'm a murderer,” he said,
smirking. His hands discovered the small of my back, and began to knead my
lower muscles. Of their own accord, my lips parted with pleasure.
“Aren't you? A
lady-killer
?”
“
Boo.
Don't quit your day job.”
“Don't you quit
your
day job. This whole Prince Eric
thing won't last forever, you know. I sure hope they're teaching you some
marketable skills at this school.”
He cocked his head and arched an eyebrow. The hands
continued to drift, slowly, slowly, until they found my hips. Then he began to
shift from foot to foot, pulling me into a sway. I realized we could still hear
the strained sound of the sunshine song from two floors below. My stomach
flipped.
This was happening.
“It's not really fair,” he said, bending toward me again.
“You know who I am, but I don't know who you are.” Hands on the curve of my
ass. Hands pressing further, coming to rest on my cheeks, beginning to massage
the crease where my thighs met my legs.
“Who do you think I am?” I whispered. Our faces had become
close during the half-assed dance. He spoke the next words into the damp crook
of my neck. I felt drunk, but I wasn't. The whole evening had already taken on
the ethereal quality of something half-remembered from a dream.
“I think you are a girl...who doesn't do this kind of thing
so often.” The tickle of his words on my bare skin sent a fierce jolt down my
spine. I became aware of a pulse in my groin. My heart beat fast. “And you're a
girl...who's beautiful. But maybe doesn't realize it.”
“And you're a boy who knows how to work it.”
He pulled back from me, holding my waist at arm's length. I
watched him watch me, drink me in from tip to toe. I wasn't afraid. But before
I'd quite articulated the want, he'd pressed himself close to my face. One hand
slid up my back, and buried itself in the thatch of my ratty black and purple
hair. He peeled me away from him slightly, tugging on my tresses, then swan
dove onto my mouth.
His lips were soft but needy; they mashed against mine with
furious intent. When I allowed my eyes to flicker open I saw that his gaze
continued to probe me, unashamed. I let out a soft moan, and sank further
backward into his hold.
When he resurfaced, I started to laugh again. It was just
too bizarre not to. I doubled over, inelegant, and rested my palms on my knees.
In another second I realized that this stance afforded him a prime look at my
low swinging cleavage, so I righted myself.
“I'm not a
boy
, you know,” he said, pushing his hair
back from his eyes. He took a big step toward me, invading my space once more.
This time I held my face away, even though I desperately wanted to feel his
lips again. He noted my movements and placed two comforting hands up in space,
as if to say, 'Don't worry'—but then his eyes narrowed.
“Sweetheart, I'm a man. And when I take you for real, you
won't be able to move after. You won't be able to speak. I will make you liquid
with wanting me. I will suck you dry and fuck you
senseless.
”
I swallowed. In a wave, my hot center was slick. I swayed on
my heels. This time when he advanced on me, I let the perfect stranger kiss me
for a long, luxurious while. His arms flitted about my ribcage, unsure where to
settle. I felt his erection straining through his pants, and slid my palm up
against it, surprised at its girth.
Below us, another song ended—to the apparent distress of the
other partygoers. We broke apart. My lips felt raw, but I was starving for
more. And at the same time, I was furious.
“You shouldn't fucking talk to strangers like that,” I said,
swatting him away. Turning my back, I let my eyes shift over the ragged skyline
of my newest hometown. So far, Austin seemed like plenty of other places in the
Southwest: hot and Spartan, with occasional pockets of culture. I'd been moving
all my life, and never made attachments a priority. As sexy as this mystery
dalliance was, I wasn't about to change my policy now.
He came to stand beside me, keeping a respectful distance.
We didn't look at one another.
“I'm sorry,” he said sincerely, after the clattering in my
heart had begun to die down of its own accord. All I had to do to stay abreast of
the spell was not look at him, or any part of his perfect body. We'd had our
fun. “I didn't mean to—I mean, I did—I felt something strange back there, is
all.”
“And you always follow your impulses.”
“Most of them, yes.” He inched closer.
“I don't know who you are, you know,” I said, having
regained some composure. “You probably just have one of those faces.” I
extracted a Virginia Slim from the shiny silver case in my jean pocket, and
pointed its earthy end in the direction of the skyline. In a single fluid
gesture, he removed a Zippo from some interior fold in his vintage letterman
jacket and lit me as I pulled.
“You shouldn't smoke.” That's when I saw it again—the
familiar glint, in his eyes. The electric jolt that had made me recognize him
from across a room at a frat party. I had this uncanny sensation that he was
both an illusion and someone I'd known for years.
“Okay, who are you, actually? Some townie hotshot? Cause I
could care less.” To prove myself, I blew a long stream of smoke in his face.
He didn't waver, but his eyes implored me. Then his gaze shifted. His
beautiful, dark eyes became...quizzical.
“You're serious, aren't you?”
“Are you an actor or something? Because my Mom has dated
actors. Actors are the
worst
.”
“Hmm. This is interesting.”
“Are you...a...cowboy?” The iPod cranked up again, emitting
another fey dance song. This was one I recognized, by the Scissor Sisters. I
realized I was holding my breath.
“How about this? If you hang with me tonight, I'll tell you
my name when I drop you home.”
“
All
tonight?”
“
All
tonight. It's a party, isn't it?”
I laughed. When he loped towards me again, it was in a
companionable way. I decided to stop asking questions, and just give in. He
wrapped his arms around my midriff and gazed at glittering Austin, placing his
perfect chin on my shoulder. He pressed his lips lightly along my collarbone,
and I pressed my ass into his rigid crotch in return. I giggled again. I felt
electric with possibility, just staying in space with him.
“Attention must be paid, you know,” he murmured, his lips
tickling the side of my cheek. I giggled. The faintest echo of stubble ran
along the underside of his superhero chin. “This kind of thing doesn't happen
every day.”
“I actually think strangers
do
make out at parties every day. That's
kinda why parties exist.”
“This isn't that,” he said. His fingers splayed around my
stomach. I sank into the touch and said nothing, not wanting to admit that he
was right.
If this is college,
I
thought to myself as he rocked us into a lull,
then bring it on.