Page 40 of Full Tilt
I press my finger deeper, and she clings on to me, carving more scratches into my back.
“The best way to make a girl scream—just like I promised you would—is to do this.” I beckon my finger in acome heremotion.
“That’s fucking awesome,” she grinds out, trying to spread her legs wider.
I have a difficult time keeping hold of her, but just about manage.
“What about if I do this?” I slide my finger out and then push it back in, circling the pad around her sensitive walls.
Blue eyes burn deep into my own, holding me captive for an uncomfortably long time.
“I-I think it’s about to happen,” she says, voice barely audible. “Do that again, and I’ll come so hard.”
Because I’m a nice guy and around thirty seconds from dropping her, I do precisely as she asked.
My dick is still hard and inside her pussy when her ass squeezes my finger on a guttural groan that emanates from her chest. Her pussy grows wetter around me.
I’m certain she’s still coming when I pull my cock out and bring her into my chest, walking us across to her bed.
As I lay her down on the soft white duvet, her eyes flutter shut. Long, dark lashes resting against a perfect complexion. It’s the first time I’ve observed Jenna without her harboring an agenda or hatred toward me, and I take the opportunity to examine her features more closely.
I hate that despite getting what I wanted from her body, I’m still—if not more—curious about the girl in front of me.
“Is your beauty spot real?” I ask, coming to sit beside her on the bed.
She doesn’t answer; the soft rise and fall of her chest is the only response I get.
Carefully, I reach out and smooth the pad of my thumb under her left eye, checking to see if the spot smudges.
It doesn’t, and she remains asleep, totally taken out, as I predicted she would be from her first anal climax.
I cast my eyes around the bright room, sunlight flooding the space.
On top of her dresser sit two images of equal size but in completely different-styled frames. One is of Jenna and Holt at what looks to be her college graduation; the other is an action shot of her saving a goal. It occurs to me that there aren’t any photos of her parents. Based on the close relationship she has with her brother, I had assumed that Jenna’s apartment would be plastered with happy family portraits and words of affirmation that would make me sick to my stomach.
I fuckinghatetoxic positivity.
Her place is a mess—scattered clothes all over the floor, a laundry basket overflowing with bras and workout gear. That part of her life doesn’t surprise me; I figured she was disorganized from her loose nutritional plan alone.
The one I stood in back in Boston.
That thought has me carefully rising from the bed and grabbing my boxer briefs and athletic shorts from where I leftthem in the hallway, stepping into them before I make for her tiny kitchen just off the living space.
Her refrigerator is equally as messy as I push a box of half-eaten pizza to one side, gagging at the thought of how old it is.
What kind of athlete doesn’t have preprepared meals? How can she function like this?
Inside her salad drawer, I find a borderline passable pineapple, green beans, half a butternut squash, and a bunch of other stuff that I think were once root vegetables.
Jesus Christ.
Closing the fridge door, I move to her cupboards—which aren’t exactly bursting with food—and pause my internal scolding.
Is it possible that she’s struggling financially?
Most of the stuff is canned or condensed with long-ago sell-by dates—bringing back memories of how Mom used to get by when she was in between jobs or had her wages delayed, only leaving Alex’s child support payments to pay all of our bills. I know female pro soccer players earn a shit wage, and perhaps the absence of family portraits in her place is a clue that she doesn’t have many people to lean on.
Join the fucking club.
