Sweet as Syn

9: GREYSON-Hold up... Boobs?

Gentle hugs and innocent cheek kisses? Yeah... not my thing. They don't turn me on or get me off, so what's the point? Another trick question for you: Why do I feel everything when I do those things with Syn? When she was curled in my lap last night, lips on my skin, I genuinely considered hooking an arm around her head and holding her hostage in that exact position in my arms. Not bent over, ass up. Not under my body, thighs spread. But chastely on my lap. Though, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not opposed to pinning her in those other positions. Anyways, I'm getting off track. Thing is, I like her sharp tongue and IDGAF attitude, but Je-zusss, when she offers me those rare tastes of her sweetness, I melt for the girl.

And now I'm in my element on the field, scanning the crowd trying to find her. Not smart considering there's about forty thousand people watching me, but I'm a superstitious guy, and she's my people now. I want her here, is all.

I purposefully avoid the girls in tight, sexy uniforms, screaming my name. But one quick glance holds my attention for a fraction of a second. There's a new addition. I can tell because in the sea of fake blondes, midnight black hair flips in the air right along with the talented little body it's attached to. Whatever, I'm not going to let my new keen eye for dark-haired beauties distract me from the fact that I've got beef with those girls.

And nothing—I mean n-a-d-a—could distract me from my game. I don't care if those cheerleaders are ass-naked, shaking their titties at me; my heart, mind, soul and body are in this game. In every game I play. And good thing, because we've got this dub in the bag. The score is already 38-18 with only a few seconds left on the clock.

The second the timer runs out and the game is called, the crowd bursts onto the field, screaming that deafening sound that drives me. I don't play the sport for the benefits, but I gotta admit I feel like a king in moments like these. Overexcited girls jump on me, taking stolen kisses from my lips and the rest of my face; Teammates reach out to slap my back and dap me up; NFL scouts give me the look, the one that tells me they want me on their team as bad as these broads want my cock down their throats.

But what gets me is the flash of black I see before I'm trampled like a tackle that nearly knocks the oxygen from my lungs. I think it's the black-haired cheerleader that caught my eye in the first quarter. I strongly consider shoving her off, but I'm a dude, and she's soft and warm and feels nice with her legs wrapped around me.

But then I smell her. Sweet vanilla and coconut...

I think my heart drops out of my ass when she lifts her head, touches her forehead to mine, and baby blue-turquoise-royal blue swirls come into focus. "Syn!?" I roar over the crowd, blinking rapidly.

"Greyson!" she squeals, then hits me with a grin that could knock me out cold. "I knew you were an NFL prospect, but I wasn't expecting that. You... You're unbelievable."

She remains clung to my body as I grab her face in my hands, scrutinizing her. Every sparkle of dark eye makeup, every stroke of deep red lipstick, every strand of half-up half-down hair, curled and held up by a red bow. The maroon and gold uniform. The Eagle's emblem across her boobs that matches the one on my jersey. Hold up... Boobs?

"The fuck?" The rough words accidentally slip my mouth and make her flinch, wincing at my reaction. Which makes me want to die a little. You were hiding a solid rack under there? I think to ask but decide better of it. "You're a fucking cheerleader?" Ah, shit, that one was just as rough.

My reaction has wiped the sweet grin off her face, and now I'm stuck looking at pouty red lips, which, if I'm being quite honest, I want to kiss the shit out of. I'm pissed as hell she kept something like her being a fucking cheerleader from me, but how could I really be angry at her when she's giving me this look that makes me swell with pride from head to toe. It's not the lusty look the punt bunnies give me or the starstruck, money sign eyes the scouts give me. This is an unconditional look, one maybe a proud parent would give. One I hadn't been given since my mom saw me play my first ever football game. I was only ten and probably tripped over my own two feet trying to run around, but I remember her face lighting up like I was the best thing that's ever happened to her. That look is mirrored in Syn's oxygen-stealing eyes.