I’ve never experienced a sensation as strong as this. It’s so powerful, my hips naturally gyrate in rhythm with Lennox’s. I meet his pumps thrust for thrust, moaning when the tip of his cock glistens more with pre-cum instead of the water flowing from the showerhead.
“Summer…” Lennox half moans, half groans.
After drifting my eyes from the thick head of his cock to his face, I reply, “Yeah.”
The greedy roll of my hips slows when he murmurs, “I’m gonna need you to stop humping my leg.”
“Huh?” I ask, confused. Several feet of air separate us, so it’s physically impossible for me to grind my pussy against him, even with me wishing to do precisely that.
“My leg, Sum,” Lennox repeats. “I’m going to need you to stop humping it before I blow my fucking load like a soft cock.”
“I want you to come,” I murmur, my voice super croaky. “There’s nothing wrong with coming. Please come.”
“There’s not,” he agrees. “Exceptwhen you’re lying on a cabana in the middle of a resort with your dick still in your shorts while teammates surround you.” Somehow, he makes his way from the shower to me within half a second, but instead of ripping off my boardshorts and having his way with me as my aching clit is hoping, he shakes the living shit out of me. “I really need you to wake the fuck up.”
I die a thousand deaths when my eyes suddenly pop open. We’re not in the privacy of our room like I was dreaming. We’re in the cabana Lennox hired so I wouldn’t get burned while sunbathing during his afternoon training session, and my thighs are clamped around his leg like they were the first night we shared a bed.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Lennox mutters under his breath when I attempt to unhook my leg from his waist so I can roll over and die a painfully slow and shameful death. “Stay right where you fucking are.”
The intense tingle responsible for the damp patch between my legs triples in strength when Lennox drapes my thigh back over his groin. He’s hard, and despite my brain’s numerous screams for me not to assess if his cock is similar to the one in my daydream, I can’t help but compare.
In case you’re wondering, the evidence stacks up. I already knew Lennox was packing heat from the number of times I’ve seen him naked the past three years, but I didn’t know if his already impressive package would increase during arousing periods.
It does.
Very much so.
I freeze for the second time when an exciting notion smacks into me. Is he hard because I was rubbing against him while moaning? Or did he nap along with me since our nighttime routine has been stretched a little thin the past week?
Desperate to test a theory, I scan my eyes across the picture-perfect scenery to ensure the view isn’t enhanced by artificial products such as silicon boobs and butt implants. When I fail to find any Kardashian wannabees in the vicinity, I seek evidentiary proof that I’m responsible for Lennox’s situation. An insinuation is far from factual, so I need actual proof before I jump into the air in euphoria.
While pretending to hide my flushed cheeks in the crook of Lennox’s neck, I push out a long, moaning breath. When his cock throbs underneath my thigh simultaneously with my exhale, I break out into a mental tap dance.
I’m the reason he’s hard.
Me!
Lennox slaps my backside before saying in a warning tone, “Do that again, Cocoa, and I’ll spread you across this daybed and eat you for lunch.”
Usually, his tease would have me scampering back like a virgin.
Today, it has me leaning in close before increasing the ratio of my breaths.
My excitement simmers when I recall how long it’s been since he’s had sex. The past three weeks of abstinence would have been pure torture for a man as promiscuous as Lennox. He’d probably get a stiffy from a cool breeze floating over the crotch of his swimming shorts.
I stop imagining a visual I have no right to peruse when a body blocks the midday sun. Holden is standing over us, his grin oddly playful considering what he says, “Bus is on its way. Coach called us in early. He wants to introduce us to the new recruits.”
His admission takes care of Lennox’s stiffness. With a groan Holden takes as a thanks, he slips out from beneath me, snags up our towels to modestly drape in front of his crotch, then nudges his head in the direction of our hotel room. “Come on, Cocoa. I’ll get you settled and have a shower before the bus shows up.”
Mindful that could mean my daydream may come true, I join him next to the daybed we’ve been lounging on the past three hours before gesturing for him to lead the way. Usually, he guides me there, but since that will increase the likelihood of us discussing my second leg hump I know of this month, I’d rather trail behind.
No matter how much Lennox’s response to my grind-up filled me with confidence, it gets hammered during our walk back to our room. Almost every woman staying at this hotel hoping to snag a player’s attention is wearing two-piece swimsuits. The occasional few who went for a solid piece did so because the back of their swimmers are missing more material than they would have lost if they’d chosen a bikini.
My boardshorts hit my knees, my wet shirt is two sizes too big, and to add to its lack of sexiness, its sleeves reach my wrists.
Now I understand why my skin doesn’t have an ounce of color associated with it. It’s never seen the sun much less been darkened by its rays.
Lennox’s steps slow when I mumble, “With my position at the merch store being approved, do you think I could use some of my first pay to get an extra pair of swimmers?” I drag my hand down my body like my lack of confidence isn’t begging for me to cover up. “I can’t keep wearing the same one every day. I’ll give myself a yeast infection.”
