“You are,” he says popping the button of my jeans.
He helps me make quick work of my clothes. His boxers flew off sometime mid-spanking from all his thrashing around. My hard dick presses against his equally hard dick as I nibble on him. I don’t wanna take him fast tonight. I want to worship him, show him how deep he’s burrowed into the molecules that make up Mercy Meyer.
* * *
For two days I listened to the team boast about a sweep. I should get a medal for not raining on their parade. I knew it was giving Jack life. He was fine for those same two days but after the first game with Boston, his mood plummeted even though we won. I pried, but he wouldn’t talk. He claimed he was fine, but I know my guy better than that.
I wish he’d let me call my contacts about this, but that’s still a hard no so I simmer and do my best to back off, but it’s not really in my vocabulary. He gets another few days and then I pounce.
In the meantime, I try to get a hold of my lovely half-brother. Logan’s phone rings and then goes to voicemailagain. Does the guy ever answer his phone? It’s clear he has little interest in spending the next few months with me and is doing this because of however he was convinced by Mommy dearest, but answering would be the polite thing to do.
Throwing my phone at my couch, I let go a frustrated growl as it sinks into the quicksand cushions. The door swings open admitting Jack. I officially gave him the key, the one he’d never given back—stolefrom me—the other night, by stealthy swiping it from the counter where he leaves it while he’s here and got onto one knee with it hidden in both hands.
“Will you … officially accept this key, buttercup?”
The look on his face. Bethany would have been proud.
“You just wait, Merc,” he’d said. “I will retaliate and you’re way more of a commitment-phobe than I am.”
“That was the Mercy of the past,” I said. “Once I’m in, I’m all in, baby. Bring it.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” He left it all cryptic like that. I’m looking forward to seeing what he comes up with so that I can retaliate with something even better.
He tosses the key into the dish I added to the counter and takes off his cap, placing it next to the key dish. That’s its spot now. Jack eyes me warily as he attempts to fix his wild hair. “That phone piss you off?”
“No. Can’t get a hold of Logan.” We go home in less than two weeks. I went through the trouble of booking his plane ticket and paying for it. You’d think he’d at least want to know that information.
“Wait, have you beencallinghim?”
“Yeah. Something wrong with that?”
He rolls his eyes. “C’n I try somethin’?”
“Be my guest.”
He fishes the phone out of the black abyss and types in my passcode—yeah, we’re that couple—and pecks away at a message. His tongue sticks out just past his bottom lip and I wanna suck on it. As he types, I slide around him from the front, and he uses my shoulder as a table to rest the knife edges of his palms on. I nibble on his neck, stirring up a soft shiver across his ribcage, but somehow, he manages to ignore me and finish the text.
“There.” He sends it without showing me what he wrote.
“Jack.” I scowl at him, and he smirks. “If I don’t like it, I’m putting you over my—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence or read the text. A “yeah” comes through from Logan immediately.
“What the fuck? I’ve been calling him for days.”
“You’re so old sometimes, Merc, and while I think it’s adorable, he won’t. We text. We don’t do phone calls. Try texting him.”
I smack his ass for being so cheeky. He laughs.
“I text plenty,” I say, finally reading over the message. It’s not that exciting. Just a note to tell him I’d email him his ticket information for his early morning flight on the twentieth. I would have rather talked to him, but it’s nice to have one more thing done. Guess he can wait until after the playoffs. I huck my phone onto the couch once more and proceed to molest my boyfriend.
He moves my hand off his dick and I stare at him as if he’s grown two heads. He’s never done that in all the time I’ve known him. He’s usually trying to get off in my hand before I have the chance to bend him over a surface or nail him against a wall. I hope no one ever goes through this place with a black light.
“What the fuck, Jack?”
“It randomly came up in conversation that none of us had sex, not even a masturbating sesh, before our game with Boston.”
I groan. The playoff superstitions get worse as we go. “I’m sure the win wasn’t because you didn’t have sex. I thought no one was washing their underwear or something else super fucking disgusting.”
