Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance (6 page)

“Dalton!”

I let out a hooting laugh. “Sweet dreams, darlin.”

A
fter that
, there is no
way
I’m staying at that house.

I can feel the flush from my first foray into drinking buzzing through me like a live-wire as I change back into my clothes from earlier. And part of that is the illicit thrill that comes from doing something
bad
like drinking. But I know - as much as I pretend it’s not - that another part of it comes from
him
.

The
real
“something bad”.

We’re basically across the street from campus anyway, so I head back to the dorms on foot, ignoring the sound of music blasting from his guest-house apartment above the garage as I traipse up the driveway.

And it’s not until I get back to my room that I finally meet my own eyes in the mirror above my vanity, rolling them at my flushed face.

God, did I seriously just MAKE UP a boyfriend?

I cringe at my own ridiculousness in the mirror, shaking my head. Yes, yes I did just do that. I mean, Paul is a real boy, who I really did go on two dates with this past summer. But he’s not, nor has he ever been, my boyfriend.

And I’m ninety-nine percent sure Dalton knows that, because I am one-
hundred
percent sure I’m not nearly as good a liar as I think I am.

I toss my clothes off, knowing I should shower the chlorine off, or brush my teeth for that matter. But I’m still too buzzed and still too embarrassingly wound up to think about anything but curling up in my bed and pretending like I didn’t just horribly embarrass myself in front of Dalton.

I close my eyes, trying to force sleep to happen out of sheer will alone. But I only make it three minutes before I groan and turn over onto my back, knowing it’s just not happening. My thoughts are still going at a million miles an hour, going over every minute of my bizarre night with Dalton Cole.

‘I bet you’re dying to know.’

I feel a warm flush creep up my body at the memory of it - his piercing blue eyes, that cocky, wolf-like grin flashing across his criminally attractive jaw.

…Knowing he’s not wearing anything under that towel that’s hanging precariously off the grooves of his hips, and knowing the pool isn’t the only thing to blame for the wet heat between my legs.

I bite my lip in my bed as the image of that
bulge
in his jockeys as he pulled himself from the pool comes creeping into my head.

No, no freaking way.

It was a shadow, or…
something
. I mean it’s a myth, of course. It’s all part of his press image to get him on magazine covers and to make him sexy enough to sell underwear.

…I mean, no one
really
has a peni- a
cock
- that big.

I’ve seen all of
one
, once. That would be the aforementioned Paul - the boy I knew from my model U.N. class. Paul who was always sweet, Paul who was smart and going to Harvard in the fall.

Paul who was the first person I thought of when I decided there was
no way
I was going to college without ever having had sex. It’s not like I thought I was missing out on anything, or felt any sort of pressure. It’s just that I knew perfectly well that sex was going to be
everywhere
at school, and I didn’t want to be distracted by it.

Yeah, my decision to lose my virginity
really was
that clinical.

Paul was
sweet
, and…
awkward
, and
very
apologetic. It didn’t hurt like the movies always said it would, but then it’s not like I saw fireworks or anything either. But, I checked it off the list.
Pack clothes, remember to have Dad sign my student insurance papers, enroll for freshman classes, get laid.

I’m not thinking about that right now.

It’s not
sweet
, apologetic Paul who’s got my body tingling and my pulse beating fast under the sheets of my bed late at night in my dorm.

It’s Dalton Cole.

It’s
crude
, gross, wildly
un-
apologetic Dalton. Dalton who’s rough, and arrogant, and who I am quite sure doesn’t have a
sweet
bone in his whole body.

Dalton who’s got
my
body buzzing with this sort of nervous, illicit energy.

Dalton with the alleged ten inch cock which I
cannot
even picture in my head.

A thought hits me, and my eyes dart furtively to the small tool-box my dad packed away into one of my boxes - the one with a few IKEA Allen wrenches, a small hammer-screwdriver combo, and…

…The tape measure.

Hailey Garrison, You are NOT actually going to do that.

Except I am, and I’m blushing even if there’s no one here but me and my dirty, wicked thoughts as I flick on the bedside light, slip from the bed, and pad across the room.

I pull the measuring tape from the box and then roll my eyes.
What
the hell am I doing? Why am I even thinking about this? And yet as ridiculous as it is, and as insanely out of character as it is, here I am thinking dirty thoughts about the boy I’ve got
no
business thinking about like this.

I slowly pull the tab of the tape measure, biting my lip, feeling utterly ridiculous. But also feeling that illicit thrill - like I’m doing something
deliciously
naughty.

I pull it past the five-inch mark, and then six, and then past seven. My eyes go a little wide as I pull it another inch to eight, feeling a shiver run down my naked spine. The tape pulls past nine, and my jaw drops a little.

Holy shit.

At ten, I lock the tape measure in place and just
stare
at it in my hands, holding it out away from me like it’s some sort of ticking time bomb that might go off at any moment.

There is No. Freaking. Way.

Not a chance. It’s impossible, and absurd, and
gross
.

So why are you suddenly so warm?

Or wet, for that matter.

It’s horrifyingly embarrassing, but I’m suddenly picturing that the measuring tape in my hand locked at ten inches is Dalton’s legendary, world-famous, impossibly big cock.

I quickly set it down and step away to sit on the edge of my bed.

No way.

I reach for my laptop even as my brain screams at me to let the whole thing go and just go to sleep. But I’m already opening it up, and opening a browser, and searching for the underwear ad.

The
underwear ad, the one they shot right after he turned eighteen - the one that scandalized the world, and made him a legend.

I’ve seen it before - I mean, you’d have to be blind, or living on the moon to
not
see it since it was
everywhere
at the end of my senior year. And it’s just an
underwear
ad, but I still blush like I’ve just been caught looking at porn or something as the image blooms big on my screen.

He’s sprawled across a big leather couch, one hand behind his head, a football in the other, and his legs slightly spread. I stare at the photo, letting my eyes move across that smoldering look in his eyes and that token cocky grin. I feel my pulse beat in my ear as my eyes rove lower, down over his chiseled chest muscles, the rippling abs, and then down towards the front of his jockeys.

The famous bulge.

I peer at it, biting my lip.

No way - it’s photoshopped or…something.

It’s not
real
, that’s for sure. I glance back up to the measuring tape still locked open on my desk and then back to the sprawled out Dalton on my laptop screen.

And then, as much as I’m trying to fight it because I am simply
not
one of those girls, I’m imagining it.

I’m picturing that cocky face as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband, his muscles rippling as he pulls those crisp, white cotton briefs down lower, past that happy trail of hair over those Hollywood abs. The laptop gets pushed to the end of my bed as I lay back into my sheets, closing my eyes. I’m getting warmer, and
wetter
as I imagine him pulling them off lower and lower, until suddenly it’s just
there
.

His cock.

I bite my lip as my fingers slide over my bare torso to my breasts, dancing across my stiff nipples and I let out a sigh.

This is the booze - that’s what this is.

I say it to myself again and again as I pinch my nipples between my fingers, rolling them gently and letting the dirty, illicit thoughts of Dalton Cole and his
big
cock dance through my head.

I turn back to the laptop, reaching over with one hand to scroll through the images on the screen. There are pictures from other articles - shoots he did for that men’s magazine where he’s dirty and sweaty in a locker room like he’s just finished a game. His pads are half off, his chest slick with sweat - that look in his eye burning a hole in the camera.

My hand is creeping lower before I can even think about stopping it, brushing against the waistband to my panties. My breath catches as I wonder for the hundredth time what the hell is wrong with me, but I don’t care anymore as my hand slips lower.

I’m soaking wet, and my body shivers as my fingers slide across my aching clit.

God,
I am
not
like those other girls! I’m not some puppy-eyed star-fucker of a groupie getting
wet
over Dalton’s over-the-top bad boy image, or his
status.

Or his cock, for that matter.

Except, I am. As much as I want to deny it, or roll my eyes at how ridiculous it is, here I am with my hand down my panties and my fingers sliding into my pussy as I picture Dalton Cole and his big dick.

I close my eyes and lay back in my bed, letting my fingers find my opening and push slowly inside. I gasp, imagining those smoldering eyes and that lopsided, charming and cocky farm boy grin.

That
man’s
body.

I moan quietly as I imagine what might’ve happened earlier if I’d said yes. Would he have actually called my bluff and pulled it out? Stroked it maybe?

Would
I
have?

The thoughts are horrible, and terribly inappropriate and
dirty
. But I can’t stop them as the feeling comes stronger and stronger and my body clenches and urges for
more and more
.

My finger slips in and out of my heat, my thumb brushing against my clit as I imagine him
taking
me. And I don’t imagine
sweet
, or
tender
, and certainly not
apologetic
.

I imagine
hard
, and
fast
, and animalistic. I don’t, and
can’t
imagine him apologizing - I imagine him
demanding
.

I picture him
making me
come on his cock.

And when I crash over that edge there in my bed, I bury my screams into the crook of my arm as my hips arch off the sheets. And it’s Dalton’s face - Dalton’s hot, cocky, arrogant,
stupid
face that I imagine as I go shattering over the edge.

Afterwards, I’m pouting and angry at myself. I yank the sheet up, burying myself beneath them, as if they’ll keep away the traitorous, horribly inappropriate thoughts about Dalton Cole that seem to make me do
insane
things.

Insane things, and insane thoughts that I just can’t get out of my head.

What is
wrong
with me?

I
don’t see much
of Hailey the rest of the weekend after that night by the pool.

Actually, I don’t see her at all. She’s not back at my mom’s place - well,
our
place I guess it is now - which means she’s probably shut up in her dorm. I grin at the thought of Hailey with her nose in a book, studying even though classes haven’t started yet.

Or playing a damn computer game,
I think with another smirk, rolling my eyes at the thought.

Of course, maybe she’s with her imaginary boyfriend. Or, at least, the
probably
imaginary boyfriend. That thought in particular has me rolling my eyes. There’s also the thought that I
maybe
pushed things a little far the other night. I mean shit, I kept trying to bring up my dick like some sort of fucking degenerate.

Maybe it’s cause I’m not used to it
not
coming up in conversation with a girl.

Yeah, again, my dick might actually be more famous than I am, which is something I should work on when I go pro. My
cock
isn’t going to slay passing records, or sign sneaker endorsements, that’s for damn sure.

I slug the cold beer in my hand and I shake my head - nah, Hailey’s fine.

It’s early in the evening on Sunday, and even if I
was
pretty good all weekend about partying, it
is
the first week of school. My reputation demands at least a
little
craziness before classes and practices start.

I mean, I’m the fucking
King
, right?

“Ten!”

I jerk from my thoughts to the sound of Evan and Jason and about half a dozen other guys from the team busting out onto the back porch of the football house where I’ve been slumped in a chair.

Evan slaps me on the back. “Dude you’ve been a fucking ghost all weekend.”

I shrug. “Yeah, just getting ready for the season,” I half lie.

Why no, I haven’t been sulking around thinking the world’s most inappropriate thoughts about my stepsister.

“Huh, guess he’s a fucking mortal after all.” I glance past Evan and narrow my eyes at Henderson. Henderson’s slowly getting under my skin with the Hailey comments and the little dings about me being “the star.” I know the power fullback was basically
me
on this campus before I showed up and stole his thunder. But he’s had a fucking chip on his shoulder about it ever since I met him at pre-orientation.

“Didn’t think you
had
to practice, Cole,” he says with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thought the plays just ‘came to you’,” he air-quotes the bullshit line I gave some sports reporter. A dumb bullshit quote that they decided to make a headline of.

Man, fuck this guy.

He wants to get bent out of shape because I’m
better
than him? Fine. Let’s see if he’s still crying when I’m winning him a championship.

“Fuck off, Henderson,” Evan throws over his shoulder as the bigger guy grabs a beer from the cooler and heads back inside. Evan shrugs. “He’ll get over it when we start stomping on fuckers on the field.”

I grin. “Amen to that.”

Jason tosses me a fresh beer and jerks his head back towards the house. “Let’s go, freshman.”

I crack the beer in my hand with a frown as I stand up, “Whats up?”

Evan grins, “Got you a little pre-first-day-of-practice present, buddy.”

I raise a brow, but follow them back into the house, through the first round of party-goers setting up a beer-pong table in the living room, and down the stairs to the team-only hangout in the basement.

“Dude, what-”

“Shut up and get down the stairs, rookie.”

I roll my eyes and jog the rest of the way down to the hangout spot before I just about choke on my beer.

Holy shit.

Three girls - the three girls from my parade float, actually - are laying around the lounge area on couches and cushions.

Totally topless.

There’s a clap on my shoulder as Evan comes down the stairs behind me. “Welcome to the team, brother.”

I raise a brow. “Uh, what is this?”

“This,” Even grins and gestures with his hand at one of the blonde, smiling, topless chicks. “This is
Jen
, the head of the Kappa house down the street, along with a few of her friends, and they’re all yours, bro.”

Fuck me sideways.

The three of them wave at me. “
Hi
, Dalton,” Jen says, patting the sofa next to her, winking at me.

I turn back to Evan and he shrugs. “Hey man, it’s our ‘welcome to the team’ present.”

“
All
of them?”

“All three of us, baby,” Jen says with a giggle, laying back across the couch. “We heard it took three to handle you.”

Fuck. Yes.

I’m into this. I mean, of
course
I’m into this. I’m a straight, red-blooded male with the chance to fuck
three
hot, blonde, sorority girls. It’s like something out of a fucking porn movie. I mean, this shit does
not
happen to mortals, or in reality.

“Guess you don’t have to work for anything, do you Cole?”

I turn at the sound of Henderson’s voice as he stomps down the stairs, beer in hand. Evan flips him off, but he just grins as he brushes past him to throw a meaty arm over my shoulder.

“Starting QB position, a new fucking car, a free ride at school, and now pussy, huh?”

“Dude, what is your fucking problem?” Evan yanks Henderson away from me. “Go jerk off with your fucking tears, man. Give the kid a break, he’s earned every bit of this.”

Goddamn right, I’ve earned it.

I’m naturally gifted, I get that. I was born with an arm that can fire footballs like a fucking tomahawk missile. But I’ve sweated
every day
to get to this point. I was born
good
- I sweated blood to get
great
.

So fuck Henderson, I
have
earned this.

“Hey hey, I’m just giving him a hard time,” Henderson says, grinning past Evan at me as I stand there glaring at him. “Besides, I thought we already decided what the real prize is this semester.”

I see the evil little glint in his eye, and I know
exactly
what he’s talking about.

I know
who
he’s talking about.

Shit.

And just like that, the wind goes out of my sails. Just like that, I’m not thinking about the porno-fantasy in front of me.

I’m thinking about Hailey fucking Garrison -
rolling
her eyes at me,
judging
me for even being in the same room as these three meaningless…what did she call girls like this? Skanks?

I frown as they leave, trying to push Hailey’s face out my head.

Why do I even fucking
care?
Why am I even
thinking
about uptight, prudish, one-piece-bathing-suit-wearing Hailey and her damn opinions on me banging three sorority chicks?

More importantly, why does the thought of her and the mental image of her peeling that bathing suit off get me
vastly
harder than the idea of doing damn near anything with these three girls?

Evan nudges me. “C’mon, dude. Do us proud.” He laughs as he starts to shove Henderson up the stairs. “Holler if you need food and water, bro,” he says as he heads upstairs and shuts the door.

Goddamnit
. My head’s like this teetering scale, with the untouchable, uninterested, unavoidable Hailey Garrison on one side, and the debaucherous orgy and my lady-killer reputation on the other side.

I frown, trying with the last of my willpower to get Hailey’s judging, eye-rolling, smug face out of my head, before suddenly the idea hits me. I grin and turn back to the girls.

“Ladies, let’s get to know each other first.”

They look at me like I’m nuts for not immediately whipping my dick out and pouncing on them.

Part of me thinks they’re right.

I head over to the bar in the corner of the basement and grab a bottle of some sort of girly fruit-flavored vodka, turning back to brandish it at the three of them. “How about a little game of Never Have I Ever, huh?”

They all slowly start to grin, nodding.

“Sure, Dalton,” one says, batting her eyes at me.

Perfect
.

I grin and sink back into the couch full of blondes. I’m not the
raging
alcoholic some guys on the team are, but I’m pretty sure I can drink three sorority girls under the fuckin
table
.

Which is entirely my plan.

“I’m gonna start with a cheat,” I say with a wink, cracking the bottle open. “Never have I ever had a dick in my mouth.”

There’s a collective round of groans and giggles as the girls slap my arm playfully and reach for the bottle while I lace my hands behind my head.

Yeah, time to get these girls
drunk
. And unlike most star-athlete douchebags in this position, it’s
not
for the reason you might think.

* * *

T
hree hours later
, the plan is working.

Well, sort of.

See, saying “sorry ladies, I can’t fuck the shit out of the three of you in a wildly debauched orgy of bad college decisions” would have been a mistake. It’d have been reputation suicide, and that’s something I can’t have. I mean, I’m fucking Dalton Cole - when the hell have I
ever
said ‘no’ to pussy?

When Hailey Garrison won’t get the fuck out of my head, that’s when.

Except three hours later, I’m fairly sure
not
fucking these girls isn’t going to raise any eyebrows.

Actually, it’s
fucking
them right now that would be an issue, because they are
passed the fuck out.
Yeah, mission accomplished.

Well, again, sort of. Because college sorority girls apparently have the alcohol tolerance of Irish dockworkers, which is a bit different than the two-drink drunks from high school.

Three hours drinking two bottles of nauseatingly sweet raspberry vodka between the four of us, and they’re finally out cold. Somehow, I’m still standing -
barely
. But I’m drunk as
fuck
and I barely manage to stagger upstairs to find the rest of the party passed out in chairs or face-down on the beer-pong table.

Evan’s got his face in some girl’s tits, the both of them seemingly out, but he half-cracks an eye as I stumble past him.

“
Atta boy,
” he mumbles, raising a limp fist for me to bump. “Don’t forget…” he croaks out. “Practice in the morning, Freshman.” He drops this face back into the sleeping girl’s cleavage. I pat him on the back and teeter out the front door of the house.

Fuck
. I’d actually sort of conveniently forgotten about practice in the morning - “morning” as in five hours from now.

Jesus,
Coach is going to fucking kill me if I show up hung-over and still half drunk. I groan as I stumble towards my Escalade and fish around my pockets for the keys before I stop and roll my eyes.

What the
fuck
am I even thinking? Coach won’t even have a
chance
to kill me if I do it first by wrapping my new car around a fucking guard rail trying to drunk drive home. What a clichéd way
that
would be to end the streak - the drunk, douchebag sports hero that dies in some easily avoided drunk driving accident.

Yeah, no thanks.

I fumble my phone out of my pocket to call a cab, before I realize it’s dead as a brick.

Wonderful.

The idea of finding some beer-soaked couch back in the football house to crash on makes my stomach churn. The thought occurs to me that I
do
technically have a room - and a bed - somewhere here on campus, but I also realize I’ve never actually
been
to that room.

Fuck, I don’t even know what Goddamn dorm building I “live” in.

I groan and run my hand through my hair, muttering to myself and gearing up for the world’s shittiest walk back to my mom’s place, when another idea hits me. Because actually, there
is
another place on campus I can stay.

I grin as I stagger off in the direction of her dorm.

Oh yeah, this is going to be
hilarious.