Fair Game: A Football Romance (74 page)

“Ready?”

“Yep.” He’s excited, and it’s adorable.

“You’re sweet; have I told you that?”

“Hmm . . . not lately,” I say, tapping my finger against my lips and shaking my head back and forth.

“Well, you are. Don’t forget that, okay?”

I nod and close my eyes. Sometimes this seems like a dream instead of a nightmare, and this is one of those times when I have to actually pinch myself to be sure.

After ten minutes, he pulls into the garage of Ecstasy and I glance over at him.

“We just have to stop here for a couple of minutes.”

“That’s what you said the last time. What are you cooking up?” I ask.

“You’ll see, come on.” I love this playful side of King. In the midst of all of our problems, he can still act like a kid.

When the elevator doors slide shut in front of us, King presses a button I’ve never noticed before.

“What does the
R
stand for?”

“Roof.” He winks and sidesteps next to me, slinking his arm around my waist.

“And I want you to know that I’ve checked with your obstetrician, and she assures me this is okay.”

“What’s okay?” I ask just as the elevator opens and I’m twenty feet from a helicopter. Its blades whir and chop, and I instinctively cover my eyes and turn into King’s side. He holds me tighter and speaks directly into my ear.

“You okay with heights?” he half shouts, and I pull away to give him a leery wide-eyed stare. I hate heights.

“Ah, so you’re not okay with heights?” he says, shaking his head back and forth.

“Not really.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re with me. You can cover your eyes, and we’ll sit in the back.” He’s rubbing my arms up and down, trying to reassure me. I can’t believe I’ve got goose bumps in ninety-five-degree weather.

“You’re shaking, baby.” He steps back and bends his knees to look up at me through the veil of hair covering my face.

“I pinky swear you will be perfectly fine.” He offers me his pinky. I giggle at his juvenile comforting tactic and link my pinky finger with his. After a quick shake, he tucks me under his arm and hustles me across the helipad before I have time to change my mind.

My hair is whipping around my face as we crouch and hustle toward the chopper door. King lifts me into the fuselage, and when we are seated, he moves my hair out of my face and places his large hands on either side of my head.

“I’m going to help strap you in, and we will be in the air in a couple of minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

He sets about clicking and tugging on straps while the blades begin to whirl faster and faster and the whup whup whup begins to match the pace of my pulse pounding in my ears. I try not to think about being thousands of feet off the ground in this tin can, but my body and mind betray me. I’m going to faint, or puke, or faint and then puke.

I look over at King, and he must see the panic in my eyes.

“Breathe, baby, in and out.” He inhales through his nose and gestures for me to do the same. “Close your eyes and concentrate on your breath flowing into your lungs and back out.” He blows out his breath, and I do the same.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doing great. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll be in South Padre in forty-five minutes, on the beach, having dinner. Just breathe . . .” His voice is so soothing and calm. He continues talking to me, encouraging me to take deep, cleansing breaths while we take off, and by the time we’re at the correct altitude, my nerves have settled, but not my stomach.

“Thanks. You’re gonna make a great birthing coach,” I say, and he winks at me from across the aisle.

“It’s all about the breathing. Do you meditate?”

“No, but playing the violin is sort of like meditation, I guess.”

“Then next time, we’ll bring it and you can play while we fly.”

“Next time? Can’t we just take a plane? It’s much quieter.” He doesn’t respond, so I know there will be a next time.

Being a pregnant party pooper sucks. I can’t even bring myself to look out the window. The constant queasy feeling is so bad that I’m afraid I may vomit all over King’s expensive loafers.

“Almost there,” he says.

“Did you say South Padre?”

“Yeah, the water’s beautiful there. We can eat and go for a swim if you’re up to it.”

“I might feel better when my feet are on solid ground.” My hands are folded over my belly, and I’m sure my skin is a lovely shade of green.

“I’m sorry. You really don’t like flying, do you?”

“What gave it away? My reaction to seeing the helicopter, or the fact that I can’t look anywhere but directly at you?” I hear him chuckle through the headset, and I swear to get him back for this somehow.

A little while later, when my feet hit the sand outside a hotel that King owns, I couldn’t be more grateful. In fact, I’d rather drive the six hours back home than ride in that thing again.

We stroll hand in hand along the beach, listening to the seagulls and the softly rolling waves of the ocean. I feel better physically. I’m not nearly as nauseous, and emotionally, I’m calm and content just being with King. He’s unusually quiet, and he’s been glancing at me periodically.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

King looks down at his bare feet in the sand, and a thick curl falls against his forehead.

“I’m thinking how fucking lucky I am to have found you, that I can’t believe you’re nineteen and you’re carrying my child. I’m thinking that I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother, and what’s crazier is that I’m going to be a father. I’m thinking it’s insane how badly I want to touch you every time I see you, and that I never knew I could love someone this hard.”              

I stop walking and turn to face him. He cups my cheek with his hand and I lean into it, savoring the warmth of his skin and the deep sincerity of his words. He loves me. This amazing, multifaceted man loves
me.
Out of the billions of women on the planet, it’s
me
he wants to be with.
Me
.

“Now you—what are you thinking?” He tries to push my fluttering hair away from my face, but the breeze is strong here and it won’t stay put.

“I’m thinking that I can’t believe you love me.” I turn and look away from him, down the long stretch of beach. He places one finger against my chin and moves my head until we’re eye to eye again.

“Holland, believe it. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t, but just know that no matter what ever happens between us,”—His hand slides down to my belly—“all three of us, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear,” I say, and for the second time today, we shake on it and I jump into his arms. Tears fill my eyes, and I choke back a sob. He folds me into his strong, protective arms, cradling me against his chest.

“Now that we’ve expressed our undying love, can we go eat?” I sniffle and smile against his previously crisp blue shirt.

“Yeah. I can’t believe it, but I’m actually hungry.”

“Hallelujah. Let’s hurry before that passes and you throw up on my new shoes.”

“Very funny.” I gently swat at him, and we continue down the edge of the water to a beachfront café, where we sit outside and talk and eat. Being with King is as natural as playing the violin for me. I’m at ease and relaxed. Our conversations flow effortlessly, and the sound of his voice permeates my soul the same way music does.

Now that our secrets are out in the open, we can really get to know each other, and despite the age gap, we have a lot in common.

“Do you believe in God?” he asks.

“Well yeah, of course.”

“I mean, like, do you believe there is a God or a higher power.”

“I believe in God. I’m Catholic,” I say.

“Me too.”

“Really? You’re Catholic? Do you go to church?” I ask.

“Does the Pope wear white?”

“Well yeah, I just didn’t think, ya know, because you’re . . .”

“A drug dealer?”

“Yeah, sorry.” It doesn’t seem possible that this open, loving, kind man is a criminal. I mean, yeah, at times he’s bossy, but he’s never abrasive or cruel like the characters I’ve seen on TV or in the books I’ve read.

“Don’t apologize. I know it’s hard for you to imagine the life I lead. I never want you to. I’m getting closer to making an uneventful exit. I want us to live comfortably, but more importantly, I want us to be safe. You’re my top priority now, you and the jelly bean.”

King moved his chair next to mine as soon as we sat down. He has been touching me all day, and now his hand is resting on my tummy. The café is quiet. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard another customer come in or out.

“Jelly bean, huh?”

“Yep, he’s probably a little bigger than a jelly bean though. I’ve been reading up on fetal development.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh when he pulls me into his lap.

“He? Do you know something I don’t?”

“No I just hate calling my baby an ‘it’.”

“This is a public place, you know. I shouldn’t be sitting on your lap.”

“I had them close down for lunch so we could be alone. It’s easier to concentrate on you when I don’t have to be paranoid about the crowd.”

That explains the quiet.

“Don’t they lose a lot of money closing down on a beautiful day like this?” I ask.

“I paid them three times what they bring in during lunch on their best day. Don’t worry about the restaurant. They’ll be fine.”

Three times their best day? This is a popular place. That must be a ridiculous amount of money.

“You have that kind of money? Like throw it out the window of a tall building kind of money?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Yeah, throw it out the window kind of money.”

“That reminds me. I need to talk to you about something,” he says as he moves me off of his lap and back into my own chair.

“Throwing money out of a window reminds you of something that has to do with me?” I ask.

“Well not exactly. It is about money, though, and your mother.” King leans forward with his elbows on his knees and takes both of my hands in his.

“Okay . . . I’m not so sure I want to hear this, but go ahead.”

He looks out at the ocean and sighs.

“When your mother found out you were pregnant, she went a little . . . over the edge. She called Sebastián, threatening to turn me into the police if I didn’t agree to her demands.”

“My mama blackmailed you?”

“She tried, and I may have given her the impression that she was getting what she wanted.”

I’m afraid to ask, but I know I have to.

“What did she want?”

He leans forward with his elbows still on his knees to take my hands. I don’t like this.

“The reason your mom is acting so chipper is because she thinks I’m going to persuade you to have an abortion and pay your tuition to Juilliard.”

“What? No, no, no, she did not ask you to do that! She wouldn’t.” I snatch my hands from his and push my chair back hard. It crashes into the table behind ours, and King is on his feet.

“I know she’s disappointed in me and she’s angry that I have to wait to go to Juilliard, but she wouldn’t . . .”

Maybe she would.

The seagulls circling overhead are so damn loud. I’m watching King’s lips move, but I can’t hear what the hell he’s saying, and I’m having some serious tunnel vision . . . shit, I think I’m gonna pass out . . .

Chapter Twenty

King

“Holland! Holland, open your eyes. Please, baby, open your eyes.” I pat her cheek and try to get some kind of response. I should have fucking kept this shit about her mother to myself. I shouldn’t have forced her on that helicopter. I shouldn’t have her out, walking around on the beach in the middle of a hot afternoon. What the hell was I thinking?

I keep jostling her until her eyes flutter open and she looks around confused.

“Hey, sweet girl. Shit, you had me worried there for a minute.”

And it was probably actually no longer than a minute, but it felt like fucking forever. The waiter is standing next to us with a glass of water, and the hostess grabbed a tablecloth, wadded it up, and tucked it under her head.

“Did I faint?”

“Yes, you did. Are you hurt?” I saw her fall. She didn’t hit her head, so I’m ninety percent sure she’s fine, but I want to hear her say it.

“My hip hurts a little,” she says, straining to sit up. I straddle her, so she couldn’t move if she tried.

“Just stay down for a minute,” I press two fingers against her mouth when she tries to argue.

“Shush. Relax. I’m sorry. I should have left the thing with your mother alone. I knew you’d be upset, but I didn’t think . . . well, I didn’t think you’d pass out.”

“I’ve never fainted before,” she says, looking from the waiter to the hostess.

“The seagulls . . .”

“Seagulls?”

“Yeah, they were mad . . . and so loud.”

“Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?” I run my fingers through her hair, checking for bumps.

“Never mind, I’m fine. Can I get up now?”

“Yes, let me help you though.” I stand and pull her slowly to her feet. She wobbles, and I scoop her into my arms and carry her through the restaurant. I’ve had enough. Our waiter and the hostess are hot on my heels, asking if I want an ambulance. I ignore them and carry Holland through the lobby, outside, and straight into the limo waiting out front.

I open the door and help her in. She looks around the car wide eyed. It’s fun to see her experience the things that I’ve always taken for granted. I rode to a private school in a limo every day, dressed head to toe in designer clothes.

Holland is looking much better. Her coloring is back to its normal bronze tone, and the glimmer is back in her stormy grey eyes.

“Come here.” I pat the seat, and when she scoots closer, I pull her down and lay her head in my lap, facing the partition window. “We’re going to drive home; it will take longer, but I think it’s best. You’ve had enough stress for one day.”

“King, please tell me my mother didn’t say those things,” she says with so much desperation in her eyes that it stops my heart. I’m not used to feeling helpless, but Gloria is a piece of work, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about her blatant disregard for Holland’s wellbeing. She’s a pit bull when it comes to her daughter becoming a professional violinist. She’s had her eye on the prize for so long that she can’t imagine Holland having a different future, and I’m not so sure I disagree. Her talent is unreal. I’ve never heard anyone more gifted. It would be an epic waste if she didn’t follow her dreams all the way to the top.

“Your mother didn’t say those things.” I lie, because sometimes a lie is more comforting than the truth.

“Thank you,” she says, playing along. She pulls her knees up, snuggling in against me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

“Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep for a while. You’ve had a big day.”

“We didn’t get to go swimming,” she says.

“I know, next time,” I say, rubbing my hand up and down her arm.

“And we can drive next time?” she asks.

“Yes, baby, we can drive.” I kiss the side of her head and turn the television on to some mindless comedy show while I check my email for the day on my phone. It isn’t long before her breathing slows and every muscle in her body relaxes. I take advantage of our time alone and smooth her hair away from her face, memorizing every one of her beautiful, delicate features.

We’ve yet to spend an entire night together, so I’ve never an opportunity to watch her sleep. She looks so young when she’s sleeping, and it tears me up that I may be ruining her life. Could Gloria be right? Am I destroying her career? Am I taking away what she’s spent her whole life preparing for? Am I a fucking cradle robber?

Holland misrepresented herself that night in the club, but there were alarms going off in my head even then. The world may see her as an innocent young woman being taken advantage of by a bad boy player, but Holland knows what she wants. She is more mellow and responsible than any other woman I’ve ever ‘dated’. She’s the complete package—brains, epic talent, and beauty . . . God, she’s beautiful. She slays me with her high cheekbones, full lips, and her curves that go on for days

And to make things even more perfect, we enjoy the same kind of music and the same books, we’re both Roman Catholics, she has old-fashioned morals, and we’re both driven and successful in our own rights. The age difference won’t matter when we’re older. It’s not like there are twenty years separating us, just six, soon to be five as her birthday is next month. I was planning a spectacular party, but after today, I think it’s best to keep things low key until she’s past this nausea.

I reach over to place my hand on her tummy, where a tiny life is growing. I haven’t been able to keep my hands off of her all day. The way she smiles up at me through her long lashes is crippling. She turns me back into the caveman that I was the night I met her at the club. I want to toss her over my shoulder drag her to my bedroom, strip her down, and lick her from head to toe.

I’m hard as fuck sitting here with her warm body plastered against my side, but I know she’s having a difficult time with morning sickness, so I’ve been keeping my distance.

Why the fuck do they call it morning sickness? Holland is a barfing machine from sunup to sunset. She’s losing weight, and she’s tired and stressed. Being pregnant is hard for the average woman, let alone doing it when you’re nineteen and on the verge of professional musical greatness. She keeps a brave face on, but she can only take so much, and today I gave her too much.

Her mother’s going to have a meltdown when she finds out we’re keeping this baby. She thinks I’m talking to Holland today about terminating, but in reality, I’m going to ask her to stay with me for the rest of the pregnancy—or permanently, if she will. She needs some space, and I’m selfish when it comes to Holland. I want her all to myself. I’m not worried about her mother, but I want Holland to feel like she has her support. Her father is a different story. He wants whatever Holland wants, but he seems nervous about disagreeing with his wife. It’s obvious who wears the pants in that family, but Gloria’s no match for me. Not even close.

An hour before we’re home, she starts to stir in my arms. My back is stiff from sitting still for hours, and my cock is even stiffer from rubbing against the heat between her legs. She ended up crawling in my lap and straddling me half asleep two hours ago, and every bump in the road is another reminder of how much I need to be inside of her.

“King?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m here.”

“What time is it?” she says, straightening up on my lap and rubbing her eyes like a little girl waking from a nap.

“Seven. We’ve only got an hour until we’re home.”

The car hits a rather large bump in the road, and she grabs my shoulders while I grab her waist at the same time for support. I groan when she nudges the straining bulge in my pants.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to . . .”

“You’re fine.”

“You’re not, though.” A slow, sly smile spreads across her lips as her hand slides between my legs to stroke my aching cock.

“Holland, no.” I’m not one for restraint or discipline when it comes to sex, and especially when it comes to sex with Holland, but her condition fluctuates by the hour, and I’m on foreign ground here.

“Sorry.” she says.

Fuck, she thinks I’m rejecting her, but I’d love nothing more than to strip her down right here, right now, and bury my face between her legs until she screams my name. But I can’t, I won’t.

I take her face in my hands and look into her eyes.

“Don’t apologize, baby. I just don’t think you’re up to it. Believe me, I want to. I really want to.”

Her big, stormy grey pools gaze up at me and she blinks slowly once . . . twice . . . I have no idea what she’s thinking—none at all—until she begins to loosen the drawstring of her linen pants. I can’t speak. I can’t even move. She is just that exquisite, the perfect balance of sensuality and innocence. Her eyes are full of wonder and curiosity, but her body speaks the language that mine understands. Wanton and shameless, she slips out of her thin pants and the tiny scrap of lace she calls panties. Who bought her those, anyway? Surely not her mother. Note to self: find out where she got those later.

Her eyes never leave mine as she returns to straddling my hips and unbuckles my belt. My hands are planted at my sides on the warm leather seats. She’s running the show, and I can’t make myself interrupt, even though I know I should.

She never kisses my mouth. her hands are still working my zipper down, but her eyes are already fucking me. She still doesn’t touch my aching cock, and I’m about to ask her to—or do it myself—when she shakes her head back and forth.

Her hands slide along the waistband of my pants and dip inside to my hips on both sides to help me push them down. I hold my breath as I watch her lean forward to grip the back of the seat on either side of my head. Her long tresses fall around us like a curtain blocking out the world. My cock is standing at full mast when she lifts up onto her knees and brushes her wet slit against the tip of my cock until she’s in the perfect position to slowly, torturously and deliciously sink down around me.               My lungs burn when I release the breath I’ve been holding, and the thin tendrils of her hair flutter around her heart-shaped face. She stills when she’s entirely consumed me, and I drop my head back, moaning, and grip the seat. I have the almost uncontrollable urge to pump my hips up into her fiercely and work her over hard. But she’s the one setting the pace, so I watch as she glides up until I’m barely touching her wet folds with the tip of my cock. She pauses, looking deep into my eyes, before slowly impaling herself again. The sigh that escapes her lips has me holding on by a thread. God, I want to flip her over and lay her down on the seat and fuck her hard all the way home, but she deserves so much more than being mindlessly pounded. She deserves to be adored and glorified. She deserves so much more than me.

If it’s her plan to torture me slowly, she’s succeeding. She slowly rotates her hips in tiny, sexy little fucking circles, clenching around me as she rises and sighing when she sinks down, impaling herself over and over. How did she learn to do that? Oh my God, her sigh is driving me to the edge of my sanity. I’ve fucked in a limo many times—so many times that it’s practically passé—but not with Holland. Every damn thing with her is so much more erotic and sultry and . . . fucking hot. I want to come right now as badly as I don’t. This is so, so good. I plan on making it last as long as I can possibly hold out.              

At last, she dips her face to kiss my parted lips, and I moan into her mouth. I haven’t touched her yet. I’ve been trying to let her have control, but the moment her mouth meets mine, my hands are on her ass, spreading her wider, lifting and pushing into the hot wetness that begs for more of me with every thrust.

My brain is scrambled at the sight of her parted lips, the sound of her panting against my mouth  and my ear, her breath heating my cheek, her fingers digging into my shoulders when I give her what she wants and take what I need . . . she’s fucking exquisite. I love the way her breath huffs out softly when I push deep into her, and the way it catches in her throat when I hit that spot that brings her teetering to the edge. The sounds this woman makes could make a celibate monk come.

Suddenly, I’m not thinking about her nausea or the baby or the driver—who can’t hear or see us, but can probably feel the limo rocking. I’m not worried about our future, or her mother, or her music, or my drug business. The only thing I care about is making the woman in my arms feel good. I want to help her escape, if only for a little while, from all the pressures closing in on us.

I’m trying to hold off, but my body isn’t listening to my mind when I hook my hands behind her knees. I pull them up to my sides and enter her at an impossibly deep angle and pause . . . it’s the calm before the storm. Her hands are in my hair, her face is buried in my neck, and her heart is beating wildly against my chest—or is that mine? I can’t even tell us apart. I slide my hands up and curl them behind her shoulders, bracing myself for the orgasm of all fucking orgasms when she says,

“Wait.”

Wait? I’m plateauing . . . panting and frantic, on the edge of ecstasy, when I feel her smiling against my cheek and realize I’m being played.
Played by the violinist.
How fitting.

“What’s your plan here, baby?” I murmur in her hair, trying like hell not to blow my wad while she teases me.

“No . . . plan . . . just wanted to see if you could . . . wait,” she says between pants. Little vixen.