The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (18 page)

“Yes.” I push a thumb between his ribs, and he yelps.

“Jones,” he warns, skittering away when I do it again.

“
Baylor,”
I intone. “Let me see.”

“Easy with the thumbs of evil, woman.”

“Then let me see.”

“Okay, okay. The things I do for you,” he huffs, as he rolls over with a mutter.

Oh, God, but his body is a work of art. Long, lean, muscular. Perfect in proportion. His back is narrow and straight, the valley of his spine deep between slabs of tight muscle. The valley dips then sweeps up to the rounded globes of his fine ass. An ass so strong that his butt cheeks indent on the sides. His long legs are covered in a down of light brown hair and are as sculpted as the rest of him, with thick thighs and well-defined calves.

I want to lick him from neck to heel. And take my time about it in between. But he’s waiting for me. His butt is twitching as if he’s feeling my stare. Chin propped on his bent arms, he turns his head to give me a sidelong glare. “Well?”

“Just enjoying the view,” I say with a leer that makes him snort.

“Turnabout, Jones. Don’t forget it—Not the light. Gah!” He squints when I flick on the bedside light. “Are you trying to blind me?”

“The room was too dark, and I want to see this sucker proper…” My breath hitches. “Jesus, Drew, your side.”

“Hmmm?” He cocks a brow and then glances over his shoulder. “Oh, right.”

‘Right?’ I can’t hold back form leaning down and running a hand along his lower side. He’s covered in bruises. Big, ugly, bruises like berry stains over his golden skin. Blackberry, blueberry, raspberry. They’re a molted landscape of a pain. And I’d been poking him there. Jesus.

“I had a game yesterday,” he reminds me. Like it’s nothing that his body has been pummeled.

“Is it always like this?” I’m curled at his side, my hand slowly running over the smooth skin of his back and along his flank. He’s paler here, and on his upper thighs where his shorts have blocked the sun. He shivers a bit, his skin prickling.

“Some games are tougher than others. This one was a bitch.”

My throat hurts. There’s a black bruise just above his hipbone. I touch it with the very tip of my finger, and he shivers again.

Instantly, I draw back. “Does it hurt?” Of course it does. How can it not?

But Drew turns to look down at me, his hips lifting a bit and revealing the shadow of his cock against the bed. The extent of my distress is great, because I’m not even distracted. My palm comes to rest on the warm rise of his butt when he looks at me. “If I say yes,” he asks, “will you kiss it and make it better?”

He is teasing me, yet there is heat in his eyes. He doesn’t know it, but kissing his battered flesh is something I ache to do. I lean forward. And his breathing speeds up. He looks almost vulnerable, the way his body tightens and his eyes follow my movement.

Inches from him, I hover, waiting, my heart pounding as I look up.

“Yes,” he whispers.

My lips touch his skin and his breath catches.

“Yes,” he says again, more urgent.

Another kiss, soft, gentle. My lips map his pain with each
yes, yes, yes
, my hair sliding over his skin like a blood-red river.

Everything becomes languid heat. The bed sheets rustle as he turns onto his back and I crawl over him, my lips traveling along the blooming bruises upon his rock-hard belly. I trace the grooves between his muscles with my tongue, and he makes little noises of contentment. And I do too. God, he’s beautiful, his skin taut, his body so honed it looks like it’s been cast from bronze.

The silken heat of his cock, now hard and erect, brushes my cheek, and I still. He’s watching me beneath half-closed lids, his breath light and quick. I stare up at him as my lips graze the tender head, and he croaks a weak “Yes.”

Yes.
I’ve wanted to taste Drew’s cock since the moment I saw it. He’s glorious here, thick and long and straight. He smells of musk and warmth, and he’s trembling as if he’s trying to hold himself still.

The round, swollen head is satin smooth and hot against the roof of my mouth as I draw him in and give a soft suck.

Drew groans loud, his hips bucking, which shoves him in deeper. I wrap my hand around him and suck again.

“Yes,” he groans. His trembling fingers thread through my hair. He holds me there, making helpless little sounds as he lightly pumps in and out of my mouth. The sight of him, his head thrown back, his lips parted and his brows furrowed as if in pain, the way his muscles stand out in sharp relief because they’re clenched so tight, all of it, makes me so hot that I begin to sweat. My thighs tremble and my sex pulses as I flick my tongue over his head, suck him hard then light, take as much of him as I can into my mouth before pulling back out in a slow glide.

I want to drive him insane. The way he does me.

I love it when he fists my hair harder, drives himself into my mouth, his free hand clutching the bedspread like he might soon become unmoored.

“Anna...” My name is a plea on his lips as he writhes. “Baby…Please, I’m going to...”

I run my palm along the amour-plate of muscle that is his belly, and he releases with a sharp cry.

It’s warm and viscous and salty-sweet. I’ve never done this before, staying with a guy to the very end. But with Drew, I drink him down. Until he goes soft and helpless in my mouth. And I know that I am in deep, dark waters. Because I want to do it all over again. All of it. Again and again.

I NEED PERSPECTIVE. I need to remember why keeping my resolve is a good plan. I need to go home, and Mom’s off on Mondays. Fuck it. I’m skipping class. I give her a call to let her know I’m coming.

It’s a perfect autumn morning when I climb on my Vespa and head toward my mother’s house. The scooter isn’t very practical; I can’t use the highway, so I stick to back roads. And I know I’ll catch hell from my mom yet again for driving it to her house. But I love the feel of air rushing over me, and the ability to weave in and out of traffic. Even so, it would be smart to trade my scooter in and buy a car. I don’t like driving the Vespa in rain, and the winter months flat out suck. I have some savings—hell, my mom would buy a car for me, she hates the scooter so much.

Indecision regarding my scooter fills my thoughts, and I’m happy about that. It keeps me from thinking about other things, other people. Soon enough, I’m pulling up in front of the house I grew up in. It’s a 1920s colonial made of Georgia red brick.

I love this house, with its five windows along the top floor and four windows, two each flanking the red center door, on the ground floor. I love that somehow it managed to escape the dreaded Tara style front porch that so many Southern homes try to emulate. It’s a simple, unpretentious house. And though the front walk has always been clean and inviting, I’ve never really used it, choosing to go in through the side door instead.

I pull up into the carport, parking next to my mother’s ancient blue Mercedes. She’s had the car as long as she’s had me. Just looking at it fills me with a sense of homecoming, as does the smell of old brick and decaying crepe myrtle flowers.

Through the window, I spot mom at the stove. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t aged. Then again, my mom never seems to age. She’s magically preserved. Slim and fit, she wears sky blue silk lounge pants and a thin cream cashmere sweater. Her glossy black hair tumbles artfully around her shoulders, and she gives it an impatient flick as she pulls the old battered moka pot off the stove. While my mother might be a southern lady, she’s also a doctor and second generation Italian, which means I’m getting a cappuccino and fruit for breakfast instead of biscuits and gravy. Her one concession might be some fresh, low fat scones.

I smile and open the door. Her heart-shaped face brightens. “Banana!”

She hurries over to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I’m surrounded by the scent of lavender that she favors. “How has my baby been?”

“Good.” It’s the only answer she wants to hear anyway.

With a nod, she sways back to the moka pot and proceeds to pour thick, rich coffee into a waiting cup half-filled with heated milk. The scent is homey and mouthwatering. If I could just once achieve my mother’s coffee perfection, I’d be a happy girl indeed.

“Come,” she urges, “let’s sit and talk.” She places the cup next to a set place, complete with linen napkin. Freshly cut melons, strawberries, and raspberries wait in a crystal bowl. This is my mom at her finest. Warning bells ring in my mind. More so when she turns and pulls a tray of hot scones from the oven. They do not look low fat.

“So,” she says as she serves me a scone and doles out some fruit, “anything new going on?”

This is standard fare. Mom doesn’t like to pry, but at least she’s interested in my life. I think she’d be less gracious about it, however, if I told her that I’ve been fucking the star quarterback in my bedroom. My cheeks heat as I take a sip of coffee. God, that’s good.

My eyes close to savor the flavor. “I’ve missed you, Mom.” I don’t know where that came from, but it’s the truth.

Silence falls over me, and I open my eyes. Her eyes, so like mine in shape but a deep, dark brown, stare at me. “Is something wrong, Banana?”

I shrug and take another needed sip. “Can’t a girl miss her mother?”

“Of course she can.” She cups my cheek with her cool hand. My mom’s skin is always cool. “Only, I know my baby and something’s upsetting you.”

Sighing, I start in on my scone. I was right. This is not low fat, and it’s my favorite, orange and lemon flavored. There’s even fresh butter on the table, soft and waiting for me to dive in. I slather some on a section of scone before popping it into my mouth. Heaven.

“I’m fine. Happy.” And though doubt assails me on a constant basis, I am happy. It hits me like a brick to the face, so hard that I actually flinch in my seat. I’m happy. I wake filled with anticipation. Fight sleep to keep the feeling close to me. Why can’t I enjoy it? Accept it? God, what a fucked up mess I am.

“Mom—”

The back door opens again and Terrance, my mom’s boyfriend of the hour, walks in. I should say “of the year” because that’s about as long as these guys last. I’ve hated every one of them. And while that might sound petulant, it’s always been with good reason. There was Marcus, who called her trash to her face, spat in her food, and then cried that she didn’t love him enough. All in front of me. There was Oliver, a thin spaced out professor who ended up stealing ten grand out of her bank account. And Jeremy who criticized her so much that she gained twenty pounds and forgot to wear makeup to work one day, which is the equivalent of a mental breakdown for my mother. At least none of them hit her. Not that I know of, anyway.

Terrence owns a used bookstore and pinches pennies by collecting packets of salt, pepper, ketchup, and whatnot from various fast food restaurants around the area. I can’t make this shit up. He also generally loathes being left out of any of Mom’s business.

“Hello, Anna,” he says as he comes further into the kitchen and stares at my boobs. Intently.

He takes a seat next to my mom and immediately drapes an arm around her shoulder, leaving his long, pale fingers to dangle right over her breasts. Because, while he might stare at my boobs, he takes any opportunity he can to touch my mom’s when I’m around.

My stomach turns. “Hello, Terrance.” I keep my eyes on his greasy hair, parted severely down the middle. Like Hitler’s. When my stomach turns again, I look at my mother, who is trying to appear casual and calm, even though some creep is stroking her like she’s a lapdog.

I don’t bother giving my mother a dirty look—he’s here on my day with her. He does it every time.

If I live a hundred years, I’ll never understand my mother. She’s smart,
brilliant
, beautiful, and talented. And she has the self-esteem of a gnat. I cannot fathom why she’d rather not be alone than settle for these… I don’t even want to call them men.

“Did you tell Anna the good news, Cecelia?”

Mom has the grace to flush, and I know it will be bad. God, just don’t let it be marriage. I’ve feared that since I was ten and finally realized that one of these jerks might become a permanent fixture should Mom actually marry one of them. Luckily, the relationships ended before then.