Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (9 page)

* * *

B
ack at my condo
, I slump down onto my couch.

I’m drunk, but I know that’s no excuse for why I’m
still
thinking about London Goddamn Jacobs. I stuff my hand in my pocket and pull my phone out, flipping through contacts until I land on her number.

Jesus, what the fuck am I doing.

No, I don’t
call
girls like this. I wait for
them
to call me, or just show up ready to suck my cock. Because
that’s
the guy I am.

Crude? Misogynistic? Filthy?

You fucking bet, and I’ve got
zero
complaints about it so far.

And yet…

I groan.

And yet here I am hemming and hawing about calling London, like a total pussy.

Fuck it. I’m not calling her.

I’ll text her instead.

S
even hours
after I’m
supposed
to take off, I’m finally settled into my seat on the plane, finally at cruising altitude back home.

Opening my laptop, I click onto the in-flight wifi before bringing up my email.

Because I travel so much on planes without cell service, I have my phone set up so that text messages come through to my email, so I can actually communicate with people for work on flights.

But I frown at the browser, because there, at the top of my inbox, is new text message from someone I do
not
need to be communicating with.

Holden.

I click “Reply” and fire off a message back.

And then as an afterthought, I follow it with another one.

A minute goes by, during which I turn and look out the window, thinking about the night before. That particular train of thought quickly brings a flush to my cheeks, and so I quickly think of something else -
anything
else - as I squirm in my seat.

I turn back to my screen just as another message pops up.

I bristle as I furiously hammer out a succinct reply.

A reply comes a few seconds later.

My jaw
drops
at the sheer fucking
nerve
of this man. And I want to message him back and give him a serious piece of my mind, when cool, business rational takes control instead.

I breathe before I smile a thin smile and type a response.

Followed by a winky face.

Jesus I just sent a fucking winky face.

A minute goes by with me just staring at my inbox waiting for a reply.

Nothing.

Of course nothing, because I sent a stupid emoji like some sort of giggling
girlfriend.

Another minute, followed by three more tick past before I finally roll my eyes at myself for hanging
on his response like this. The stewardess comes by with a small bag of chips, which I open and slowly munch on as I turn to look back out the window.

I can’t
believe
I slept with him.

The fucking of your life.

My cheeks burn bright red as I swallow the tightness in my throat, feeling my pulse race a little quicker in my ears. The memory of Holden Cade
taking
me like that the night before - his hands so strong and powerful as he held me like that and
drove
into me again and again. His tongue, so perfectly wicked and teasing over my clit.

His
cock
- his jaw-droppingly perfect cock that filled me like no-one ever had before and made me
come
like no-

I scowl and shake my head.

No, Holden Cade did
not
give me the “fucking of my life.”

Please.

A new message appears in my inbox, and I click on it on instinct, still frowning.

I
gasp
as I quickly slam the laptop shut; my eyes wide and my face
bright
red at what I just saw splashed in high definition across my fucking laptop screen.

A picture of a dick.

And not just any dick,
his
dick. His huge, thick, fully erect cock filling my entire laptop screen.

I mean
honestly
, I’m on a fucking
plane
and he knows it.

Of course he knows it
, I think to myself. It’s exactly why the smug, cocky prick sent it.

I take a shaky breath before I slowly crack open my laptop and turn it towards the window I’m sitting next to. I open it just enough to close the attachment before I gingerly open it the rest of the way, only breathing easy when I can see it’s been closed out of.

That fucker.

My face goes flush again, and I’m debating closing the laptop for the rest of the flight when another message comes through.

My heart is still hammering after his previous comments, not to mention that fucking
picture
. I take a centering breath, focusing before I frown and re-read his last message twice more.

Whoa, he’s really in?

I blink, shaking my head as I reply.

Shit. This is
not
in the budget. The number I “straight talked” with him last night from the preliminary stuff I’d sent to his manager was the
very
top limit of our spending.

Maybe more than it.

This contract is going to strain our team and organization to its absolute breaking point. But we need him, that’s a given.

…It also means I’ll be seeing him again.

The thought of what “seeing him again” might entail comes teasing into my head, and this time, I
do
shut the laptop for the rest of the flight.

* * *

I
slump
against the back of the front door of my apartment after finally stumbling in well past when I was supposed to.

Home sweet home.

I go through my usual post-travel routine - watering my plants, checking my house-line voicemail, and pawing through any mail that my neighbor slipped under my door. I meticulously unpack my suitcase, stowing it the back of my closet where it lives before I slowly strip the clothes from my body and pad into the bathroom to shower.

Steam and water cascades over my travel-weary body, and I do everything in my power not to think about the gorgeous sex-god of a man that made my toes curl the night before. Because I can’t, because that chapter is
done
, especially now that he’s going to be coming to the Bulls.

Later, after a late delivery dinner, I’m on the couch in my pajamas watching a movie.

But whatever I’m watching, I’m sure as hell not concentrating on it. In fact, I’m not even sure what the heck I’m watching, because my mind is
very much
elsewhere.

Elsewhere like Holden Cade.

Because just like before on the plane, my mind is betraying me, and taking control of me. I’m thinking of the way he moved my body, and how the fact that all of him is so big that he made me feel like his plaything.

His toy.

And my body tingles as I realize just how much I
liked
that.

I shift on the couch, squeezing my thighs together and biting my lip as I feel my nipple brush tantalizingly against the cotton of my sleep shirt.

I frown, determined to let this pass and concentrate on the movie, but a deeper, darker, dirtier part of me has taken over at this point, and there’s no going back.

I take a shaky breath as I sink back into the couch, one hand sliding under my shirt to slide up my torso. I let a lazy finger trail over my sensitive nipple, gasping at the contact as I let my head drop back.

In my head, it’s
his
hands that slide down my body, over my soft belly to the waistband of my pajama pants. In my fantasy, it’s
his
fingers that hook inside, teasing down the crease where my inner thigh meets my pelvis. And when my fingers find my pussy slick and hot, I moan quietly into the dark of my living room, imagining that it’s
Holden’s
fingers sliding between my lips.

I push my pajamas to my ankles, kicking them off as I peel the t-shirt from my body. I pull the blanket from the back of the sofa over my nude body, burrowing myself in the soft comfort and heat of it as my fingers move back between my legs.

In the flickering glow from the TV screen, I let a finger push wetly inside, arching my hips and moaning as I feel myself tighten around it. I push my hips up, grinding my clit softly against the palm of my hand as I sink a second finger deep inside of me.

In my head, I’m riding on top of him again, letting that thick cock fill me again and again as my fingers drag across his chest and as his eyes pierce into mine. I’m reliving every visceral, filthy detail of the night before.

And when I come, I come with his name on my lips and my gasping moan buried in the couch cushions.

This is
not
good.

I
toss
the phone down on the couch next to me, groaning and blowing air out through my lips as I drop my head against the back of it. In the darkness of the living room, my head’s still swimming slightly with alcohol and the rush of pushing the boundaries of appropriate behavior with London. The room spins slightly as I grin lazily up at my ceiling, smirking to myself at my own shenanigans and the idea of London opening a big high-def picture of my dick in the middle of business class.

I snicker as I glance down at my still throbbing-hard cock, out and proudly standing tall from my unzipped jeans.

I’ve literally
never
had a problem getting hard before. But
shit
am I hard as fucking stone right now. And all it took in order to get the picture I wanted to send her was a quick flashback to the night before. All it took was picturing that tight little body riding me, the taste of her sweet pussy still on my tongue as I wrapped my lips around a puffy little pink nipple. The feeling of her supple, curvy and tight ass gripped tight in my large hands and her whimpering moans pouring like honey in my ears.

I mean, fuck, that got me so hard in roughly one second that I couldn’t
not
take it out and snap a picture of it for her, however juvenile a move.

And here I am,
still
hard as a fucking iron bar as I relive the night before in flashes. Part of me knows I need to let this shit go. I mean, I just told her I’m going to sign, which means London Jacobs is officially off-limits in a major way. Part of me rolls its eyes at the rest of me, knowing it was just a one-night thing like the hundreds I’ve had before.

Nothing special, nothing groundbreaking. Just a willing girl, a bunch of drinks, and another notch on the bedpost.

Nothing else.

I frown in the darkness of my living room, mulling the thought over in my alcohol-fueled thoughts.

Yeah, I’ve had
plenty
of one-night things with
plenty
of other girls. And it’s the same dance every time: drinks, me flashing that grin that’s dropped panties for me ever since I can remember, some more drinks, a lingering touch, a kiss or two, and
bam
- she’s on her back on my bed with her legs spread,
begging
me to fuck her however I want.

This one played out different, and I think that’s why it’s sticking in my head. This time around, there was no slack-jawed, starry-eyed girl with her mouth practically hanging open for me.

With London, shit was different, and I know it.

She met me head-to-head with that whole back and forth dance. She gave the attitude and sass back as good as I laid it on her, and she didn’t take a
bit
of my bullshit. Sure, it ended the same way, with my cock driving inside her slick pussy, but it’s the lead-up that felt like nothing else.

Hell, who am I kidding, it’s the
everything
that felt like nothing else.

It was the perfect synchronicity, the ease in which we fit together, the knowing I’d had to
work
for it with her.

Hell, it was the cold, all-business shoulder afterwards. It’s the fact that here I am hours later with my fucking
dick out
, texting her like a tool.

And fuck-all if I can help it.

I eye my still-hard cock, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m reaching down in the darkness and wrapping my hand around the base of it.

Fuck yeah.

I growl, hissing as I slowly bring my hand up and down the throbbing shaft, my lower ab muscles clenching as I stroke. And in my head, all I’m doing is replaying the previous night.

And there’s no stopping this.

Whipping my t-shirt off, I groan as I sink back on my couch, reaching down to hook my jeans a little further down and pull my balls from the confines of my boxers as well. I lay back on the couch, grunting as I stroke my cock with one hand and roll my balls in the other.

“I’m not completely safe yet. It's still a long walk to my bed."

I close my eyes, picturing the look on her face as I pulled the clothes from her tight little body. I groan as I stroke my dick, replaying her soft, gasping moans as my tongue found her center and as her hands clawed at my hair.

I’m throbbing in my hands as I remember her perfect tits bouncing slightly as she rode me up and down, clinging and gripping to every inch of me as I fucked her deep.

I can feel the blood roaring like fire in my ears as I remember the way her legs clamped around me, pulling me in, begging me to go harder and deeper and faster before shattering for me. I can feel my whole body tense, every muscle from my arms to my chest to my abs clenching as I remember her face when I emptied inside of her.

Her face as she came, holding me like she might blow away.

I loudly roar in the empty darkness of my living room as my balls jump and my cock
throbs
in my stroking hand. Every muscle clenches as the cum pumps from the tip, coating my hand and dripping hot across my abs.

I gasp, finding my breath as I slow and then stop my stroking hand.

What the fuck.

I shake my head and groan out a chuckle as I let my head drop back to the sofa again.

I just left
three
hot, willing girls to come home and jerk off alone in the darkness to the memory of a one-night-stand. To the memory of a girl I fucked
once
.

…Who might be my new boss’s daughter.

What the fuck is happening to me?