Quarterback Bait Read Online Free PDF Page B

old girl's deb ball. Zora's sister Betsy
had mousy brown hair, and she reminded me of the girls in my high school who
liked to kick around with the stage crew kids. The planning of her big day was
about as unsexy a subject as I could think of. But the whole text assault had
made me wonder, secretly, who Doll hung out with at her high school. What kind
of girl was she? Who were her friends? This was filed away under: questions I
wasn't supposed to be asking.
    With a practiced swoop of her left leg (for Yvette had
informed the whole team that she hoped to be a dancer someday, if she could
ever get the fuck out of Dodge), my conquest rolled over on her back again,
affording me vantage of her neat, round tits as they shook on her thick frame.
She was a pretty girl. A kind girl. Denny had basically ruined her with his
eyes after our first lunch at the diner, before leaning across the table to
halt my rant and say, “Dude. Forget Zora. Somebody needs to tear that up, and
I'm already hunting the Southwest flight attendant.”
    Did it bother me that my best friend had a way of talking
about women like they were actual pieces of meat, swinging in a butcher shop
window? Sure it did. But I realized this opinion made me the minority in a sea
of testosterone-charged linebackers on a sanctioned spring break. We got
released from training around 4pm each afternoon, and if one could rally after
a nap, there was plenty of fun to be found in Galveston. It hadn't taken three
days before most of the team had imprinted themselves on a “scene.” The whole
matter reminded me of a New York tradition called “Fleet Week” that Zora had
told me about, during one of our many, unfortunate Sex and the City marathons.
Fleet Week's apparently when all the Navy sailors on shore leave hit the town
to get their D's wet. Walking around in our practice jerseys and basketball
shorts, I felt of this kind of mass. Better put: women in Galveston seemed
especially interested in “getting to know” the UT football team.
    But Yvette wasn't quite like the others, which was why I dug
her so much. She had a big curly coiled mess of hair, and after hooking me up
with a milkshake one slow night, she took off her apron and kept me company
till the end of her shift. She was a runaway, I'd been informed then. Didn't
like to say why. But she seemed awful proud of the life she'd begun to carve
out for herself, speaking confidently about the money she'd managed to squirrel
away, and the five year plan that would lead her to Birmingham. “They've got a
great ballet in Birmingham,” she'd said sweetly, drawing me in with a passionate
flicker in her greenish eyes. “People don't know, but they do.” Can you sue a
quarterback for wanting to see what a dancer could teach him?
    This was our second fuck. The first had been fast and
desperate, in the bed of her pick-up truck behind Dee's. “Don't go falling in
love now,” she'd said, while scrolling the condom across my tip with her
tongue. “That's not at all part of this cowgirl's five year plan.”
    We were on the same page there.
    “Look at me when you come!” Yvette was saying now, sweat
collecting in the hollows of her lovely dancer bones. I gripped her shoulders.
I rammed into her supple cave, reveling in the smile that kept unfurling across
her face with each thrust, like a flag rippling in the wind. I leaned back and
put a discreet thumb on the mound of her clit, enjoying the view of her lovely
naked body. Her big green eyes widened, and she reached up to grab my
shoulders. Pulling me towards her and straining upward simultaneously, her
mouth rounded, and her breath came harder. I rubbed her in circles, faster and
faster. She let out a soft cry and her muscular legs tensed around me, creating
a pulse around my cock. Her eyelids fluttered, and she collapsed sweetly
against the pillows.
    “ You , my friend...” she began, but didn't bother to
finish the sentence. She just let out a callow kind of laugh. I took