My Football-player Neighbor (2)

Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds, painting golden stripes across my tangled sheets. I woke slowly, deliciously sore in places I hadn’t been in months. My body still hummed with the memory of last night—Jax’s hands, his mouth, the way he’d pinned me to the wall and fucked me like the world was ending.

I stretched, feeling the faint ache between my thighs, the faint sting of bite marks along my collarbone. A lazy smile curved my lips, it was worth it.

Then I realized I wasn’t alone.

Jax lay sprawled on his stomach beside me, one massive arm thrown possessively across my waist, his face half-buried in my pillow. His dark hair was a mess, lips slightly parted, lashes fanned against his high cheekbones. Even when asleep, he looked like sin. His broad back rising and falling, the sheet riding dangerously low over the perfect curve of his ass.

My mouth went dry.

I should have slipped out of bed. Made coffee, and at least act like a responsible adult who didn’t let her insanely hot neighbor fuck her against the wall in the middle of the night.

Instead I reached out and traced the line of his spine with one fingertip, following the dip and swell of muscle all the way down.

He stirred. A low, rumbling sound vibrated in his chest.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Heat flooded my core instantly.

His eyes cracked open, his stormy blue eyes already darkening with interest. He rolled onto his side, and tugged me closer until my breasts pressed against his chest.

“Morning beautiful,” he said, lips brushing mine in a lazy, open-mouthed kiss.

“Morning,” I whispered back, already melting.

His hand slid down my side, cupped my hip, then dipped between my thighs without warning. His fingers parted me, running the length of my slit, finding me still slick from earlier.

“Fuck,” he groaned against my mouth. “You’re still wet for me.”

I whimpered as he circled my clit with slow, deliberate strokes, teasing me, and never quite giving me what I needed.

“Jax…”

“Say it,” he ordered softly. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

Heat exploded across my cheeks even as my hips rocked shamelessly against his hand.

“Yours,” I gasped. “It’s yours.”

“Good girl.”

He kissed me deeper, his tongue stroking mine in the same lazy rhythm as his fingers. Then he pushed two inside me—slow, stretching, and curling just right. My back arched off the mattress.

He broke the kiss to watch my face, eyes hooded and hungry.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Already dripping again. You gonna come on my fingers before breakfast, baby?”

I couldn’t answer, I could only moan as he added a third finger, pumping steadily while his thumb worked my clit in tight circles.

The pressure built fast, embarrassingly fast.

“Jax—oh god—”

“Come on,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy. “Let me feel it. Squeeze my fingers like you squeezed my cock last night.”

That did it. I came with a choked cry, my thighs clamping around his hand as pleasure ripped through me in violent waves. He kept moving, drawing it out until I was shaking, oversensitive, and begging him to stop and never stop at the same time.

When I finally collapsed, panting, he withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding my gaze.

“Best fucking breakfast,” he said with a wicked grin.

I laughed weakly, still trembling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re addictive.” He rolled on top of me, settling between my thighs, his erection hot and heavy against my stomach. “Think you can handle this bad boy?”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Try me.”

He reached between us, notched himself at my entrance, and pushed in with one long, slow glide.

We both groaned.

He felt even bigger in the daylight—thicker, harder, stretching me open until I could barely breathe.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, forehead pressed to mine. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

“Already have,” I managed.

Something fierce flashed in his eyes.

Then he started to move.

Deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside me. Not frantic like last night—this was deliberate, controlled, and devastating. Each stroke pushed me higher, and wound me tighter.

I clawed at his back, my nails leaving red trails. He didn’t seem to mind, only growled and fucked me harder.

The headboard thumped rhythmically against the wall.

My neighbors were definitely awake now, but I didn’t care.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered suddenly. “Play with that pretty clit while I fuck you.”

My hand slid down obediently. The moment my fingers brushed my swollen nub, I clenched hard around him.

“Fuck—yes—just like that,” he panted. “Make yourself come again. I want to feel it when you milk me.”

I rubbed faster, matching his rhythm, chasing that release.

His pace faltered, hips snapping harder, losing that perfect control. “Gonna come,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” I gasped without hesitation. “Please—inside me—”

He slammed deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a guttural groan, pulsing hot and thick inside me. The sensation tipped me over, and my second orgasm crashed through me, sharper and harder than the first, my walls fluttering around him as I cried out his name.

We stayed locked together, breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling.

After a long minute he kissed me softly—almost tenderly—then rolled to the side, pulling me against his chest.

“Shower?” he murmured, lips brushing my temple.

I nodded, boneless.

He scooped me up like I weighed nothing and carried me toward the bathroom, smirking when I squeaked in surprise.

“Gonna wash you up,” he said, voice dark with promise, “then bend you over the sink and do it all over again.”

My pulse jumped.