Sacked (Gridiron #1) (16 page)

Knox makes a sound in the back of his throat. “What’d your parents do?”

I swallow to get rid of the bitterness so I don’t sound like shrew. “They weren’t there. Another parent called the ambulance. Jack held my hand on the way to the hospital and helped take care of me after.” I stop abruptly because the pain of the remembered rejection feels raw. I don’t want to cry. Not over my parents and definitely not in front of Knox.

Without any more questions, he empties the water, and drapes the towel over the side of the sink. He picks up the shirt he took off and then wraps his hand around mine. Silently, he leads me into the bedroom.

In the dark of the room, he pulls off the T-shirt I’m wearing and tugs his own over my head. The shirt smells of Knox—like fresh dirt, energy, and warmth. He kicks off his shorts and climbs into the bed, scooting all the way to the wall.

“Come in here. I’m cold,” he says.

I move like a robot. When he’s done tucking himself around me, he kisses the side of my throat, my ear, and then my temple—a trail of sweet affection that begins to thaw the cold that had settled in when I think of my parents.

“We don’t get to pick the family we’re born into,” he says into the quiet night. “But we do get to choose the family we live with. I choose you. You’re all that I’ll ever want.”

My throat closes up. The words I’d love to say back get choked by my fear.

“Shh,” he whispers. He lays his broad hand over my left chest. “You don’t need to say anything, baby. I can hear your heart.”

That’s enough for him.

I fall asleep wrapped in the embrace of someone I couldn’t even dream of having—not in a million years. I never imagined someone like Knox Masters existed. Or that he might love me. But if he knew what I did for Jack? How it could jeopardize their whole season and the pursuit of the championship?

He wouldn’t want to hold me at all.

T
he flight
to Michigan takes an interminable three and a half hours, which I pass staring at the last text from Ellie.

Ellie:
I’m wearing your jersey.

She sends a picture with the message. Her head is cut off, but she’s kneeling on her bed and her ripe tits are pushing at the top of my number as she pulls at the bottom of the jersey. Her legs are bare, and I swear I see a shadow of my favorite spot beneath the mesh. My number looks really good on her. Really good. As Matty said when he saw her in the bar, a holy mother of God smokeshow.

I lied when I said I was good at waiting. This week has felt unending. Worse? We had an away game, which meant by the time that Ellie felt better, I sat on a chartered plane to Michigan. I saw her a couple of times this past week, and each of those times left me with a hard-on the size of a log and balls bluer than a Smurf’s.

On Tuesday after dinner, I stopped over to her apartment and found her pulling out winter gear. Apparently girls have seasonal clothes. Late fall meant boots and sweaters.

“Wear this one. I like you in red.” I pulled a soft, furry red sweater from the pile.

“Since when do you like me in red?”

“Two days ago you wore a red shirt. Flowy.” I shoved over a bunch of soft stuff and sat down on her bed. Her shirt was black and had a nice V that hinted at her equally nice cleavage.

“It’s Bohemian Chic.” 

“Whatever. The color looked good, but it seemed too loose. I couldn’t see your pretty tits. Plus, I like V-necks because you can do this.” I hooked a finger along her neckline and drew it down low enough to expose one lace-covered breast.

“You’ll stretch it out,” she protested.

“I'll get you a new one.” I could see one really good use of my future NFL money—buying clothes for Ellie. Sexy ones. Ones that show off her tits and ass and legs.

“I bought this a year ago on vacation and—” Her breath caught when I latched on to one large, juicy nipple, built for sucking on. “What are you doing?” Since I had my mouth full of tit, I didn’t answer. I had better things to do than form words for a question with an obvious answer.

She leaned into me, her hands dug into my scalp. Mmmm, that felt good. “I thought you were a virgin.” 

“I have a good imagination,” I mumbled as I moved to the other side. Didn’t want the left breast to feel abandoned now, did I? Hell no. The T-shirt got in my way so I tugged it up and over her head. The bra clasp confounded me so I settled for pulling down the lacy cups, which actually had the added benefit of pushing the boobs together.

I shift in my seat thinking about it.

That led to more making out and Ellie rubbing herself against my leg until she came. She wouldn’t let me touch her under her clothes. But I forgot to complain when she whipped open my jeans and introduced me to ball sucking.

I take a deep breath and try to regain some self-control. I tug the bottom of my shirt down, but it doesn’t do a hell of a lot to hide my hard-on. I should probably think about something other than Ellie's hot mouth around my dick and balls.

I didn’t go home with her after the softball game on Wednesday because I wasn’t sure I could take another bout of teasing and dry humping with her. But by Thursday, my already thin willpower whittled away when she showed up for dinner with Jack wearing a short blue skirt and a tight Warriors T-shirt under a button down sweater. After dinner, I took her to my apartment where I spent a good hour becoming familiar with every patch of skin above her waist.

Her tits and I are close friends now. Best buds, really. And she’s very sensitive at the nape of her neck. I can place my hand there, and a second later, she’ll shiver. I enjoy doing that in public knowing that she’s getting turned on. That her panties are getting wet. When I took her home, I gave her my home jersey and instructed her to wear it during the game. I took all her brother’s T-shirts out of her drawer and replaced them with five of mine. I had to ask Stella to order a few replacements.

Me:
If we lose this weekend, it will be because my hard-on killed me.

Ellie:
I’m sorry. Whatever happened to your hand?

Me:
The hand doesn’t do it for me anymore. My dick rejected the hand. It says that it’s had your mouth, your hand, and nothing else will do.

Ellie:
I’m sorry (not really).

Me:
I’ll be back around 11. Please say you’ll be awake.

Ellie:
I’ll be awake. It’s not like it’s easy for me either. At least you got off last week.

Me:
Baby, I would have done anything for you.

Ellie:
We need to stop. These texts aren’t making it easier for me.

Me:
Wear the red sweater.

Ellie:
Not the jersey?

Me:
If you wear the jersey, I’ll shoot my wad before I step across the threshold. Have a little mercy.

Ellie:
Mercy isn’t what you want from me.

Me:
Okay, going to the head now. I’m either going to jack off or drown myself.

Ellie:
Think of me either way.

Me:
You’re a cruel woman. But don’t change. I like you that way. I’ll see you tomorrow. 11. Be ready.

Ellie:
I have the rose petals, flowers, and champagne you ordered.

Me:
Is that for Riley? Because she’s not seeing you for three days.

Ellie:
I have class on Monday.

Me:
Be prepared to skip.

Matty grabs for my phone. “What are you smirking about? Is Ellie sexting you?”

“Fuck off, Iverson.” I plant my hand in his face and push.

The charter plane isn’t all that big and Matty crashes into Hammer who shoves him back.

“Fucking sit in your own seat,” Hammer growls.

We’re all getting chippy. Seventy players, many of whom are in excess of two hundred pounds and taller than six feet, means a full, stinky flight.

“I’m tired of sitting. When’s this tin can landing anyway?” Matty whines. He turns to Hammer. “Masters hasn’t said a word to me all flight. All he does is stare at his phone. He’s sexting with Campbell’s sister.”

Hammer leans over. “She sending you pictures? I could use a little inspiration for the game tomorrow.”

I stare at him. Does he really think I’d share a picture of my hot-as-fuck girlfriend with him? That picture’s mine. She’s mine. No one will look at Ellie, half dressed, sexed up, or otherwise but me. “Hammer, if you plan on a pro career, you best shut your mouth or your face will be too broken to play.”

“Sheesh.” Hammer sits back and folds his arm like a five-year-old. “I liked you better when you weren’t giving Campbell’s sister the D.”

I flick him off but force myself to put the phone away. No point in torturing myself like this.

Whether it’s just our year or we’re anxious to get back to Western, we smother the Michigan offense. They only score in the fourth quarter after we’re up by four scores, one of them a fumble on a sack that Matty picked up and ran in for a touchdown. Ace and company punch it in for another touchdown, and just like that, we’re a quarter of the way through the season undefeated.

The plane ride back feels as if it lasts twice as long as the trip to Michigan.

Hammer and Matty spend the entire trip debating whether Godzilla would beat a T-Rex.

“T-Rex has the tiny arms. There’s no way he can get in there and land a body blow.” Hammer slaps his fist into his palm.

“He hits Godzilla with his head. He always uses the head. The arms are just for balance.” Matty glues his elbows to his side and swings his head around. The rest of the team around them starts to laugh because it’s hilarious seeing Matty pretend to be a short-armed T-Rex. But Hammer? Oh no, Hammer is completely into this argument.

“No way. Look, I can punch you out with one fist to your puny head.” Hammer swings at Matty. The two start wrestling and the D-Line coach comes back before the two can have an all-out fist fight.

I guess this is better than the last argument Matty and Hammer had, which was whether road head was better than the mile high club. I didn’t understand why you couldn’t have both. I want to have Ellie everywhere and anywhere.

I pull up the picture again.

By the time the bus from the airport arrives at Western’s campus, I’m pretty much a walking erection. I try to move as normally as possible but I’m grateful that Coach gives his “Good game, don’t do anything stupid” speech on the bus so I can get out of there as soon as possible.

“Going to hit The Gas Station?” Matty asks.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.” I don’t even look at him. I jog to my SUV, texting Ellie along the way.

Me:
Your place or mine?

Ellie:
Mine. Riley is gone for the night. She’s at a friend’s.

Me:
I’ll be there in ten minutes.

I spent the time this past week researching. I’ve read a hundred blog posts and online articles about women’s sexuality. How it’s hard for them to come just from penetration and that foreplay—lots and lots of foreplay—is the key to success. I know Ellie can come for me. I licked her to one. And I’ll lick and suck and rub her to as many as her body will take.

I make it to her place in five minutes. Sure, I ran two red lights—disobeying Coach’s instructions—but if I ever had an emergency, I’m sure this qualified.

Luckily someone is leaving as I arrive. The girl holds the door for me and I run upstairs to Ellie's third floor apartment. My dick gets abused in my dress pants as I move, but getting to Ellie fast is my only imperative.

“You’re early.” Ellie beckons me inside. She must have sensed I had gotten here, because the door to her apartment opens before I can get my fist against the wood to knock.

“Really? Because it felt like forever.” I eat her up in my eyes. Against my explicit instructions, she’s wearing my jersey and nothing else. Even her feet are bare except for a tiny pink bit of shininess. It’s hard to stand here and not attack her. She backs up as I stalk inside and kick the door shut.

“Is this what you wear to your away games?” She flicks my tie, and I flinch at that small touch.

“Yeah. Coach’s rules. Suit coat and tie for away games. Dress pants and button down for home. Tie’s optional then.” I recite the rules but my attention focuses on one thing and one thing only. Taking the jersey off Ellie.

“You look hot in a suit.”

“You look hot in my jersey. You’d look better with it off.”

I reach down and whip it over her head. I’m staggered by her gorgeousness. Tipping my head back, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Shit, Ellie, I won’t last.”

“I think that’s the whole point.” She giggles—a girlish, strange sound coming from her. At my look, she sighs. “I'm nervous, like this is
my
first time.”

Thank Christ.

“It is.” I reach for her, allowing myself to only touch her hair. “It's your first time with me. You aren't ever sleeping with another guy. Okay?”

I say it lightly, but it’s not a joke to me. No way can I imagine Ellie with another guy or me with another girl.

“So, you plan to ruin me for all other men?”

“That’s the plan.” I’m dead serious. I’m also done talking.

I reach for her and we go at each other: mouth, hands, legs. She rips at my shirt, and I feel the buttons give way. It’s fucking hot how she’s attacking me as if she can’t wait for me to be inside her. I help her as much as I can while still holding her against me. Somehow, we get my clothes off and I sweep my hands under her ass until she hooks her legs around my waist. I nearly break a leg sprinting to the bedroom.

“Since I’ve got almost no self-control, baby, we’ll see to you first.”

“Oh, Knox.” She pulls me down on top of her and starts sprinkling kisses on my face. “I missed you and I’m desperately horny. Please don’t make me wait another minute.”

“You are not helping,” I admonish sternly. I take her wandering, magical hands and shackle them under one of mine. There are benefits to being bigger than her. I reach between us and slide my fingers down the front of her pussy. “Does it feel good?”

Because Christ, it feels good to me. I think of Hammer’s grotesque feet. Try to conjure up the smell of old socks and jock sweat. Anything to keep me from spewing onto her sheets. She is so soft. Must not think about how soft she is or how wet my fingers are.

I whimper silently.

“Yes. Yes, it feels so good.”

“Tell me how to make it better.” I’m determined that she has one orgasm before me because I know it will be over for me within about five seconds of getting inside of her. Hell, five seconds might be optimistic.

She dips her hand between her legs and rubs in circles. I watch her, memorizing her touch and then take over. I must do something right because she arches up, thrusting against my hand.

I lick my lips, remembering how it felt to have her on my tongue, and I dive between her legs. “You smell amazing.” I let the scent of her fill my nose, my head, my lungs. I inhale until every intake of air is scented with her musk. She quivers beneath me. Her parts are shiny and slick and the taste of her is everything against my tongue. I want to eat her up before and after every meal. I test my tongue against her body. How she likes the flat part. How she likes it arrowed and hard and lashing against that tiny piece of flesh that begs to get sucked and bit and soothed.

Her hands dig into my scalp and pull hard.

“What is it? Am I doing something wrong?” I jerk up, my lips coated with her.

“Don't stop!” she cries.

Ah gotcha. She’d tugged me closer, not away. I duck down to hide my smug smile. I must have done something right.

“I know that shoving your face between my legs is not cool but, holy hell, Knox, what you’re doing to me…”

She sounds amazed. I love that. She's having her own first. Both of my heads swell bigger.