Page 114 of Small Town Firsts

I cut him off. “Don’t wanna know.”

We settle in a mostly comfortable quiet. A quick glance at Abs and I see she’s once again out cold. I check my rearview and see Stacia’s asleep as well, with her head on West’s shoulder.

“Seriously, dude, not cool.”

“Nothing really happened. Well, no bodily fluids were exchanged.”

“Swear to God, I’m gonna kill you,” I grumble, turning up the radio to drown him out.

CHAPTER 19

AJ

It’s beena few weeks since our tubing trip, and things with Brock are fucking amazing. Talk about words I never thought I’d say. But for once, I’m happy to be wrong. Because whilefuck yes,I’m an independent woman, it feels good to have someone who truly gets me. The fact that he looks like a dream and dishes out orgasms like Costco does free samples doesn’t hurt either.

Our free time, though limited, is spent together. If we’re not grabbing a meal, we’re studying…only now our study sessions are held at my apartment and typically end in my bed. Or the kitchen island. Sometimes the shower. Even against the wall a few times. Safe to say, studying has never been so fun.

Today, Brock is taking me golfing with him. While I don’t particularly care for the sport, I’m excited to see him in his element. Plus, I bet his ass will look great in his khakis.

The question is, though, what on earth do I wear to play golf? Obviously most of my wardrobe isn’t exactly country club appropriate, and while most days I don’t give a fuck, I care about him and don’t want to mess anything up for him.

After much debating, I finally settle on a somewhat modest black pleated skirt and a white polo I happen to have from high school—it’s a bit snug, but not indecent. I slip on a pair of blackknee socks and my black Converse…this is as good as it’s going to get.

Brock told me to meet him around noon, so after a quick bite to eat, I’m out the door and on my way. It’s one of those weird days where even though it’s overcast and gray, it’s bright as fuck. I rummage through my bag for my sunglasses and slip them on before exiting the building. It’s so disgustingly humid that I’m sweating from making the short trek from my building to my car.

My car being black on black doesn’t help things either. The hot leather of the seat stings my thighs and the steering wheel is almost too hot to grip. Nevertheless, I get my baby cranked and crack the windows before turning the air to full blast. I’ve finally cooled down just as I turn into the parking lot for the golf course…figures.

As I approach the clubhouse, I wind my hair up into a knot on the top of my head. In this sauna of a climate, I’ll take comfort over cute any day. I’m about to head up the steps and go inside when two strong hands grip the dips in my waist from behind. A scream lodges itself in my throat, but I swallow it down when Brock’s familiar, sexy scent envelops me.

I pivot around to face him and lightly smack his chest. “Holy fucknuggets! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Take a breath, firecracker.” His voice is a deep rasp that hits me right between my thighs. “I didn’t mean to. I just saw your fine ass over here looking like every naughty schoolgirl fantasy I’ve ever had come to life. I had to touch.”

I can feel myself melting, and this time, it’s not from the sun. “Well, warn a girl first next time, Jockstrap.”

He pulls me a little closer, and thanks to the step I’m standing on, we line up perfectly for him to press a kiss to my lips, hard and fast and over way too quick. “C’mon, I’ve already got our token, so let’s grab a bucket of balls and start at the driving range.”

“I don’t know what anything you just said means, but yeah, let’s do it.”

Brock chuckles and grabs my hand, leading me to what looks like a weird, squatty vending machine. I watch as he places a yellow basket in an opening at the bottom and then places his token into a little slot, much like the ones on arcade games. I jump when the machine starts clanging and shaking as it releases golf balls into his basket. He goes through the process a second time, leaving us with two buckets of balls to hit.

Balls in tow, Brock then guides me to the range. There are only two other golfers hitting balls right now—probably due to the stifling heat. We walk down to the far end where Brock’s golf bag is already set up and waiting. Like a kid building a sand castle, he quickly flips the bucket upside down, careful to keep its contents inside. When he pulls the basket away, our balls are arranged in a neat little pyramid. Pretty fucking neat, if you ask me—not that I’d ever admit it.

“Tell me, Abby Jane, you ever swung a golf club?” he asks as he tugs a white leather glove onto his left hand.

Instead of answering his question, I ask one of my own. “You’re right-handed; why is your glove on the left?”

“Noticed that, huh?” He brings his left out in front of him and flexes his fingers. While innocent, the motion still gives me shivers because I know exactly what those fingers can do. “Your glove goes on your top hand; it helps your grip.”

“Weird.”

“You’re so damn cute,” he murmurs as he boops me on the nose with his leather-covered index finger. “First things first: we need to stretch.”

“Stretch? Like yoga?”

“Nothing that intense. Just to warm up. The kind of shit we did in gym class.” We work our way through a few poses and then Brock grabs a club from his bag. “This is a 9-iron. Youtypically use it when you’re less than two hundred yards from the green. We’re using it now because it is a good club to learn with.

“Downside, I’m a little taller than you, so you’re gonna have to choke down on your grip. C’mere and I’ll show you the proper way to hold it.”

---