Page 55 of Sweeper
I wince to myself as the song continues. This is for sure one of the most desperate moves I’ve ever made with a girl. But I have a rare weekend off from soccer because it’s an international break, and I wasn’t called to play for Team USA this time around. It was a damn miracle that the sadist, Coach Z, let us all have the weekend off too. Which means I need to make the most of this. And I can think of no other person I’d rather spend it with.
Yesterday, after I gave Daphney three orgasms, she had to shower and leave for work. I offered to wash her back, but she said we hadn’t reached that comfort level yet. That was a hilarious response because she looked pretty damn comfy when I was eating her out and she told me she wanted to taste herself on my lips.
Fuuuck, that was hot.
In fact, it was dirty hot, which is a nice contrast to the good girl persona Daphney projects most of the time. I intend to make many more dirty memories with her. Starting today.
A knock on my door causes a giant smile to spread across my face. When I jump off my sofa and run to see who it is, I’m pleased with the sight before me. Daphney wears a big, girlie, shy smile that I really want to kiss off her face.
I school my features to look aloof as I grab my phone and press pause on the music. “Oh sorry, is my music too loud for you, neighbor?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and hits me with a devilish smirk. “Why on earth would you think that?”
I lean on the doorframe and can’t mistake the flare of heat in her eyes as her gaze moves down my body. “Oh, maybe because I was playing it at max volume to get your attention.” I waggle my brows at her, making no mistake the dirty thoughts crossing my mind as well.
She bites her lush lower lip. “You are such a cheeky arsehole. You could have just knocked on my door.”
“I was trying to be charming,” I state plainly and glance down at her appearance. She’s wearing a slouchy green sweater and tight jeans with high-heeled boots. Her makeup and hair look freshly done, too. She didn’t just wake up. She’s been up for a while. What the hell? “How long have you been up? I thought you’d still be sleeping since you worked late last night. I’ve literally been sitting here quiet all morning waiting for you to wake up.”
“I woke up an hour ago.” She slides her hand through her loose blonde curls. “I’m meeting Phoebe for brunch.”
I eye her seriously. The fact that I wasn’t her first priority upon waking is an offense I will not take lying down. “Well, what a coincidence. I love brunch.”
She barks out a laugh. “You want to go to brunch with us?”
“I’m ravenous.” I narrow my eyes wickedly at her.
“You have met my friend Phoebe, right?” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder.
“Yeah, she seemed cool.”
She purses her lips together, and that little dimple appears on her chin. “Very well then, come to brunch with us, Soccer Boy. This should be entertaining.”
She turns to retreat, but I reach out to grab her by the sweater and yank her toward me. “Do we have time for an appetizer?”
She stares hungrily at my lips. “They’re called starters in England.”
I laugh and don’t even try to hide the smile on my face as I kiss her smart mouth.
The car ride with Daphney is surprisingly comfortable. Not that I thought it’d be awkward. But I can’t say that I’ve had many experiences hanging out with girls I’ve had sex with outside of the bedroom. Maybe a nightclub, or a bar. But in broad daylight with nary a beer in sight? Not typical.
Then again, nothing about Daphney is typical. Most girls who found out they lived next door to a professional soccer player would have been tripping over themselves to flirt with or impress me. Daphney tripped over herself to yell at me. Until she kissed me, obviously.
And what a kiss that was. I guess what they say is true, the chase really does make things taste so much sweeter. And look, I’m not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I swear Daphney seems cheerier since we’ve hooked up. Maybe we’re actually alike in one way. Good sex equals a good mood.
Daphney chatters as she drives us to brunch, telling me about the different areas of London and the types of people who inhabit each part. I’ve gathered she has two brothers who live near our apartments, and it was a big deal for her to move out of her parents’ home in Essex last year. It’s a bit of a foreign concept to me because as soon as I started college, I basically never went back home. I considered myself close with my parents but not in the way that Daphney appeared to be.
We arrive at some fancy-looking brunch place in Soho. The restaurant is covered in white tablecloths with servers bustling around in black and white uniforms. It feels like I’m watching an episode ofDownton Abbeythat my mother made me watch with her for an entire season.
“No fucking way,” a voice yells, and I turn my attention to see that it’s Daphney’s friend Phoebe sitting at a small square table with her eyes fixed on us.
Daphney’s eyes go wide as she clocks a woman with two small children at a table right beside Phoebe. She shoots a furious look at her friend as she grabs my hand and hurries us over to the table. “Watch your language, Phoebe,” Daphney hisses as she all but shoves me down in a seat beside her.
Phoebe gapes at us like we’re covered in blood. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t expect you to bring the slutty footballer.”
“Phoebe,” Daphney nearly growls and mouths an apology to the woman who is now openly glaring at us.
“Also known as Zander Williams,” I reply with a mock hurt tone. “It’s nice to see you again, Phoebe.”
