Page 72 of Topping the Jock
I chuckled, running my lips up his neck and loving the soft shudder that racked his body. “I knew you liked me.”
Quinn snatched hold of my chin and brought my face up to his, kissing me. His erection poked my stomach, and mind did the same to his as we rolled around in bed, teeth clanking and hearts beating faster. His fingers glided along the crack of my ass before exploring inside, opening me for him. After grabbing lube and a rubber from the drawer, Quinn eased into me, our light groans joining the sound of the rain.
It was a perfect morning after.
And I hoped it was the beginning of something great between us. Something real.
Once our bodies were spent, we walked together to the bathroom and showered. Which, of course, resulted in Quinn pushing me against the wall and devouring my mouth before dropping to his knees and doing the same to my dick. By the time we were finished showering and had dried off and dressed—me letting Quinn borrow a clean shirt and sweats so he didn’t have to wear the same clothes as the day before—it was almost 10:00 a.m.
“Please tell me you have coffee,” he mumbled as we entered the kitchen. He put on his glasses and brushed his fingers through his bangs, moving them aside.
“Here I am starving and all you can think about is coffee.”
Quinn hooked an arm around my waist and nipped my shoulder. “Who needs food when I can just eat you?”
“Cannibal.”
He laughed and stepped away, scanning the counter until he found my coffeepot. He added water to the machine, then added coffee grounds, before hitting Start. He moved around my house so comfortably, as if he belonged there. Or maybe he just belonged with me. Anywhere I was.
My phone rang from the other room, and I headed that way. Who would be calling me on a Sunday? Zane, maybe? I grabbed it from the bedside table and glanced at the screen, my skin prickling.
“Hey, Dad,” I answered.
“Took you long enough to answer the phone. Don’t tell me you were still in bed.”
I was twenty-fucking-nine years old, and he still spoke to me like I was fifteen.
“Well, it’s Sunday. If God can rest today, so can I.”
Dad scoffed. “Don’t mock my faith, Montgomery. Maybe you would’ve turned out better had you continued going to church instead of rebelling and doing what you wanted.”
“I think I turned out fine.” It wasn’t like he’d been around anyway. He was a hypocrite. “Why did you call?”
“An inaugural event is being held for me next week where I’ll be sworn in as the new city mayor,” he responded in a matter-of-fact voice. There was no warmth or anything fatherly about it. “Appearances are important, and you are to attend. You won’t be required to say anything. Just stand behind me beside Savannah as I give a speech. And wear a suit. Don’t come looking like a bum.”
Dad had moved to Parkview, the bigger city just outside of Blue Harbor. Close enough to see me, but far enough away to where I wouldn’t bump into him in town. Ever since I’d moved back, he hadn’t bothered reaching out to me. I hadn’t reached out to him either.
“I can’t drop everything and attend some bullshit event for you.”
“Bullshit?” he said. “This is important to me.”
“Yeah?” My voice rose in volume as the pent-up anger I had toward him hit its breaking point. “Where were you during all of the important events for me, Dad? After being injured and losing my whole damn future, you cut me out of your life. You weren’t there when I hit rock bottom and didn’t care whether I died or not. Then I picked myself up—without your help—and enrolled back in college. You weren’t there when I graduated college or when I coached my first football game. You only remember I’m your son when you want something.”
“Do you hear yourself?” he snapped. “You sound like a spoiled child. Grow up, Montgomery.”
“You were never there for me,” I continued, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. I had held it in for years. “In high school, all my friends said I was so lucky because my dad let me throw parties every weekend, when really, I felt invisible to you. You let me do that stuff because you didn’t care. You didn’t pay attention. I acted out sometimes just to get you to fucking look at me, Dad. But even then, you’d just throw money at the problem and cast me aside.” Emotion clogged in my throat. “You never loved me.”
Never once had he ever said those words. I couldn’t even remember him ever hugging me.
He was silent a moment, and I waited—hoping—that he’d say what I wanted to hear. That I was wrong. That hedidlove me. That he was sorry.
“Are you done?” he finally said.
A single tear slipped from my eye, and my chin quivered as my jaw tightened. He had no remorse. Like always, he didn’t care.
“If you don’t want to attend, so be it,” he said, disappointment ringing in his tone. “Just know that you are no son of mine if you let me down.”
He disconnected the call.
