THERE ARE NO
DOUCHEBAGS IN THIS STORY.
Well, there
are, but they’re not who this story is about.
This story
is about me—the coach’s daughter.
When I moved
to Iowa to live with my dad, the university's take-no-prisoners wrestling
coach, I thought transferring would be easy as pie—living with my father would
be temporary, and he'd make sure his douchebag wrestlers left me alone.
Wrong on
both counts.
ASSHOLES
ALWAYS COME OUT OF THE WOODWORK WHEN THE STAKES ARE HIGH.
A bet is
placed, and I'm on the table. After one humiliating night and too much alcohol,
I find the last nice guy on campus. And when he offers to rent me his spare
bedroom, I go all in. It’s time for the nice guy to finish first.
Midnight
chats and spilling my problems turn to lingering touches. Lingering touches
turn to more.
And the
ultimate good guy has the potential do more damage than any douchebags ever
could.
AMAZON | AMAZON UK | AMAZON AU
EXCERPT:
She perks
up. “Wait, you’ve never had a back massage?”
“No?”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what
the hell? How can I, in good conscience, lie here letting you rub my back when
you’ve never had anyone rub yours?” She scoots over, pointing to the mattress.
“Lie on your stomach, I’ll do you first.”
I wave my
hands in front of me in protest. The last thing I need is her warm hands
roaming my body. “No, no, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you
crazy? Back massages are the best—like, better than an orgasm. You’re first, so
lie down.”
“And you
call me the bossy one?”
“Quit
stalling and get on the bed.”
Obediently,
I climb to the middle of my bed in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, legs
hanging off the side. Next to me, the mattress dips, Anabelle on her knees,
approaching my side.
A finger
glides down my spine. “It will be easier for me to do this if I’m sitting on
you. Hope that’s okay.”
“Is that the
approved method?”
“No, but my
arms will get tired if I have to lean over you the whole time.”
“Do whatever
then, I don’t care.”
I stiffen
when Anabelle swings one leg over my body, straddling my ass. Warm palms at my
lower back.
“You’re so
tense. Try to relax,” she coos, making it worse. “Tilt your head to the side,
that’s it.”
I hear the
lotion bottle snap open. Click closed. My roommate’s palms rubbing together,
warming it up. “Sorry, I don’t have any actual massage oil. This will have to
do.”
When her
hands make contact with my back, I almost groan it feels so fucking good. Warm.
Smooth. Pressure in all the right places, pushing gently into my muscles.
Slowly.
Slower
still, caressing along my shoulders, thumbs and fingers working together to
soothe the burning on my right side.
“Doesn’t
this feel great?” Her soft voice cuts into the silence. “You’re loosening up.
That’s good.”
I feel her
leaning as her hands move up and down my spine until they stop, hovering at the
base of my neck. Thumbs stroking the skin below my hairline, back and forth.
Kneading.
Her torso
dips, hands maneuvering my arms, placing them at my sides. Palms slide up and
down my biceps.
For several
minutes, she rubs my arms and shoulders. Then she skims down my ribcage
unhurriedly, in no rush, making little humming sounds inside her throat.
I know I’m
not imagining the feather-light way her hands drift down my spine. I remain
still, letting her touch me, basking in it.
Remain still
when her lips kiss the tender spot of my shoulder where it meets my neck, nose
nuzzling behind my ear, her breasts rubbing against my back and what the fuck
was that all about? What does she think she’s doing, trying to drive me insane?
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte's, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
She lives with her husband, children, and her ridiculously large dog.
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