The Trade

by Quinn, Meghan

  “God,” I whisper against his mouth before driving my tongue deep inside, moving my fingers across each divot of his abs, wishing I could rip his shirt off and press my tongue against his warm skin.

  The grip on my jaw grows tighter and I can feel it in the air, the pressure building, the yearning, as we both grapple at each other, needing more, wanting more.

  I move my hand farther down to his belt, and he groans into my mouth, his hips moving. He drops one hand to my backside, yanking me closer. I lift my chin as he moves his lips down my neck again, sucking, biting, claiming me as his.

  He could not feel any better, his hot mouth trailing fresh kisses along my skin and then back up to my lips where he pushes his tongue inside, swiping it against mine. I match every stroke. Our self-control has slipped in the matter of seconds, and what was probably supposed to be an innocent kiss, turned into a frenzy of groping and touching.

  I want more, so much more. I move my hand farther down until it connects with his rock-hard erection.

  “Fuck,” he groans into my mouth, spurring me on even further as nerves and excitement both light up my body. I’ve only grazed him at this point, I haven’t actually felt him, and even though the fabric of his dress pants is blocking me from having him in my hand, what I’m feeling right now is telling me one thing . . . I am one lucky girl.

  Really lucky.

  I mean . . . really fucking lucky.

  He’s so big. So long and wide. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to have him inside me. I can’t wait to know how it feels to have him thrust so hard into me, that he shakes the bed, slaps our skin, rattles the very floor of my apartment.

  “God, I want you. I fucking need you,” he says, up into my ear. I know he does, I can feel it, but I also know he wants to take this slow and both of us are out of control. If I squeeze his cock right now, I’m not sure he’d be able to stop.

  I know how important this dating thing is to him so instead of pushing him any further, I tear my mouth away from his and quickly open the door behind me, leaving us both breathless and winded. I pick up the to-go bag and lean into the car. I’m sure my lipstick is smeared and my hair is a mess from his hands, but it’s all worth it.

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  “Fuck.” He leans against the headrest of his seat, his chest rising and falling. From where I stand, I can see his massive erection and it takes everything in me not to climb back in the car. Dragging his hand down his face, he says, “Have a good night, beautiful. I’ll call you later.”

  “Promise?” I ask.

  Now he looks me square in the eyes and says, “You know I do.”

  On a happy sigh, I shut the door to his sleek car and climb the steps to my apartment. Hot. Wobbly. Wet. Happy.

  * * *

  “Are you kidding me with these flowers?” Monica asks, leaning over and smelling them. “It’s not ostentatious at all, like you would expect from someone who is super loaded, but they’re elegant. Gorgeous.” Monica peeks over the modest bouquet that’s full of some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. “Can I read the card?”

  “Have at it,” I say on a smile.

  She reads it out loud. “Hey beautiful, thinking about you today. Sorry I had to cancel our date. I’ll call you later. Your man, Cory.” Monica holds the card to her chest and sighs. “God, he’s amazing.”

  I smile to myself, thinking about the last week we’ve had together. “He really is.”

  We went out two other times, both ending in passionate make-out sessions, leaving us more than frustrated, to the point that we sexted each other the other night. There were no pictures, just undiluted, dirty, naughty words. And I’ll tell you this, baseball isn’t the only thing Cory Potter is really good at. Want to read some really dirty but sexy stuff? Try sexting him. He’ll have you getting off in no time.

  “Why did he have to cancel your date?”

  “Last-minute interview with ESPN in New York about the upcoming season and what Chicago should expect from the team.”

  “Yikes, were any other players involved in that conversation?”

  “I think Maddox Paige was and some other guy, but yeah, Cory was telling me the fans weren’t happy with him being picked to be interviewed.”

  “What do you mean? How did they even know?”

  “Maddox tweeted about the interview. Fans were going off about how Cory doesn’t deserve to be a Rebel, how he doesn’t represent the right team, all that crap. The fans created a hashtag ‘not my rebel’ and it’s starting to trend.”

  “Shit, are you serious?”

  “Yeah.” I bite my bottom lip, remembering the deflated tone in Cory’s voice when he was talking to me about it. “They report to spring training soon and I’m hoping that once they see Cory start practicing again, they’ll give him a break.”

  “I don’t get it,” Monica says, taking a seat at my kitchen bar. “If you’re a fan of the team, why are you going to boo your own player?”

  “Yeah, I don’t get that either but then again, I’ve been a Bobbies fan my whole life; it’s a different atmosphere over there. The only time they boo a player is if they’re caught doing something illegal like steroids or something. They’re so clean-cut.”

  “Poor Cory. Hopefully the interview helps though.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.” I take a sip of my water and set my cup back on the counter. “From what Cory was saying, the front office is trying to help him out with the fans since they’re who acquired him. That’s why they picked him to do the interview, but they didn’t think it was going to backlash this bad.”

  “Giant organizations like the Rebels have big publicity teams, they’ll figure something out for the guy. I mean, he’s stuck there, so the fans better get used to him.”

  “Exactly.” Growing frustrated with the situation, I say, “Plus, he’s really fucking good. Fans need to relax and let him show them what he’s got, you know?”

  “He will. Don’t worry.” Monica grows a giant smile and says, “Tell me about the sex.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Oh please, you don’t date a monster like Cory Potter and have nothing to say when it comes to getting nasty.”

  “Can you not say getting nasty, please? Seriously, Monica.” I drag my finger over the smooth countertop. “We haven’t had sex yet.”

  “What?” Monica says through clenched teeth, as if she’s the one who’s mad that her man is holding out, which I know he’s not because the two of them are rabid beasts, always have been. “What do you mean you haven’t had sex yet, what is wrong with you?”

  “It’s not me, it’s him. He wants to take things slow and develop a strong foundation with me.”

  “You can do that while banging. Ugh, what a stupid rule.” Monica folds her arms across her chest. “Please tell me you at least have fooled around.”

  “Only when we were in St. Croix. Ever since we’ve been back, not so much. Just some heavy make-out sessions in his car when he drops me back home from a date.” I bite my bottom lip and say, “After our first date, he started kissing me and God, Monica, it was . . . it felt like I finally found where I was supposed to be, in this man’s arms.”

  “Ahhh.” She clutches her chest. “That’s so sweet . . . but did he touch your nipple?”

  Of course that’s what she’s concerned about.

  I nod.

  “Really?” she asks, sitting taller in her chair. “Under or over bra.”

  “Over.”

  She clutches her breasts. “God, why is that hotter sometimes? It’s like the guy can make them that hard that it almost feels like there’s no clothes between persistent thumbs and nipples.” That’s exactly how it feels with Cory. “Did you touch him?”

  “I mean . . . at first I was really nervous and just kept things north of town, if you know what I mean but the more he played with my nipple, the more I wanted to feel him.” My eyes widen in a frantic mess when I lean over and whisper,
“Monica . . . he’s huge.”

  She slaps the kitchen counter and says, “I knew he would be. Damn it, I knew he would be. Tell me everything.”

  “Not much to say. I haven’t touched it without a barrier of clothing, but from what I could tell, it’s really freaking long and wide. Like . . . I’m kind of nervous.”

  “God, it will hurt for a second and then be the best thing you ever stuck in your vagina. Trust me, sex will never be the same. When Freddie and I broke up that one time, and I went out and decided to prove him wrong, that I didn’t need him—so mature, I know—I had sex with that Darryl Connor from the corner store. Remember him?”

  “Oh Monica, that’s . . . that’s not what I want to hear.”

  “I know, I feel shame too. He had tattoos I thought were hot, but that was pretty much it. His dick was average and yeah, sure he knew how to work it, but after being with Freddie, my vagina was ruined for all other penises.” She pokes my shoulder. “That’s how it will be with Cory, but what have I said from the very beginning of this divorce? You deserve a bigger dick. And man, oh man, did you go for the Mack Daddy of all dicks. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Uhh . . . thank you?”

  She smiles broadly. “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  “Hey beautiful.” Cory’s hand runs up my arm and then he quickly turns me around to face him. I can’t help the excitement that spreads over my face the minute I see him, and when he leans in, holding my chin still for a kiss. How he makes the sweetest sound in the back of his throat when his lips meet mine. “Sorry I couldn’t pick you up.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I say, reaching up and linking my hand around his neck where I pull him back down to my lips and press another kiss across his mouth. I haven’t seen him in a few days and it almost seems impossible that he’s here, holding me. When I pull away, I rub my finger over his smile and say, “Welcome back.”

  He kisses my fingers. “Glad to be back. Let me see you.” He steps away and then frowns playfully when he takes me in. “Natalie, you know I think you’re beautiful but what is that shirt?”

  I glance down and then gasp in embarrassment. “Oh shit, Cory, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Like a moron, I put on Bobbie for life shirt. When Cory told me to meet him at the indoor golf facility for some fun and to dress casually, I didn’t even think about it. “I was running late with some foundation work, and I didn’t have time to change.”

  He chuckles and pulls me into another hug. “I’m just teasing you. I don’t care.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, feeling incredibly guilty. “I can go change. They have shirts here at the gift shop.”

  “Nah, you’re good, plus your tits look amazing in that shirt. I plan on staring at your cleavage the entire night.”

  “Of course you will, but you won’t do anything about it.”

  “Nope. But just think when we do finally have sex, it’s going to be fucking phenomenal.”

  “When we finally have sex, you’re going to blink at me, I’ll orgasm, and the night will be over. That’s how frustrated I feel.”

  “Now that’s a party trick I wouldn’t mind performing.”

  “Oh my God.” I start to walk away, but he pulls me back by the hand and wraps his thick arm over my shoulder, keeping me tucked into his side. “There are times where I think, you’re nothing like the immature men I’ve met or have to deal with, and then you say something like that.”

  “Just keeping your opinion of me real.” He kisses the side of my head and we walk over to the counter where they set us up with a private driving suite.

  I’ve always seen these driving ranges that are stacked on top of each other. Food and drinks offered, drive as many balls as you want, they always look fun, so when Cory asked what kind of activity I wanted to do, I suggested this, even though I have never golfed in my life.

  After we picked out some clubs and chose our buckets of balls, we took a private elevator to our suite and were set up with food and drinks. The staff said they wouldn’t be checking on us unless we pressed the button next to the door looking for help.

  We’re alone.

  Cory is taking in the suite when I say, “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” he asks, looking positively panty-melting worthy in his dark jeans and light blue T-shirt. It’s funny how we match today and didn’t plan it. But what’s not funny is the way his pecs press against the shirt, providing a clear outline of them, or how tight the sleeves are, capturing his sculpted shoulders and arms, or how his long legs look in his jeans. I’ve never seen a man fill out a pair of jeans like Cory, well-proportioned all over. It’s clear he works out for a living, and he’s earned the power that rests underneath his jeans.

  Laughing, he says, “Natalie, you’re staring.” He’s gripping the back of the chair, his muscles rippling . . .

  Blushing, I say, “Sorry, I uh . . . that shirt . . . it looks nice on you.”

  His eyes turn soft and he walks over to the couch and takes a seat, he then beckons me with his finger. I make no hesitation in running up to him where he situates me on his lap. Hands on my thighs, he leans against the back of the couch and sighs.

  “What are we doing?” I ask, hoping he says dry-humping rather than hitting balls.

  “Just reconnecting for a second.” His hands slowly move up and down the tops of my thighs. “I didn’t think our relationship was going to be a whirlwind like this, but I’m leaving soon and I hate that I’m not going to be able to see you when I want to.”

  I press my hand against his barrel of a chest and play with the divot between his pecs. “Well, I do work from home.” I chew on the side of my cheek, growing nervous from the suggestion I’m about to throw out there. “I can come visit you during spring training, but that’s only if you—”

  He silences me with two fingers pressed to my lips. “I already planned on flying you out to visit me. I was hoping you’d give me a schedule of when you were free.”

  “Anytime. You name it, I’m there. When you work, I’ll work, when you get home, I’ll be uh, in my hotel waiting for you.”

  He chuckles. “You’ll stay with me, Natalie.”

  “Yeah? But what about the no sex thing?”

  “Doesn’t mean I still don’t want you in my arms at night when you’re visiting me. I’m not going to make you go to a different hotel room. Plus, who knows, maybe we will have sex by then.”

  “Yeah?” I ask. My excitement is far too obvious. “Does that mean things might get frisky tonight?”

  “No.” He laughs and runs his hands to my ass where he squeezes me tight through my leggings. “Fuck, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out though. Especially when you wear shirts like that and leggings like these. Have you seen your ass in them?”

  “It’s big, yeah, I know.” I wink. “But apparently you’re attached to large rears.”

  “Only yours.”

  I grip both his cheeks and bring my mouth down to his where I carefully place my lips on his. It’s a whisper of a kiss, nothing I planned on turning into much more, but when Cory’s hands slip up the back of my shirt, he ignites something within me, and I feel my grip on his face tighten as my mouth starts to part, making our kisses bigger, sloppier.

  He groans.

  I moan.

  His hands float higher up my back and then down where they slip under the waistband of my leggings.

  “Shit, Natalie,” he whispers when I offer him my neck. He kisses and marks me all the way down to my collarbone, rubbing the rough feel of his jaw over my sensitive skin, marring my skin red, something I enjoy seeing in the mirror—oddly—along with his small bite marks. I like knowing I belong to him, that I’m the only woman he’s claiming. I just wish the nibbles he leaves along my skin were in the shape of his initials so everyone truly knew who I belonged to.

  Taking a risk, I start to rock against his lap, and that’s when his hands grip me and his mouth pulls away. The heady look in his eyes slo
wly disappears as realization sets in of where we are and what we should be doing, other than trying to do each other.

  Out of frustration, I say, “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

  “Yeah right.” He laughs. “You’re anything but quiet, Natalie.”

  “I can try.”

  “You’re fucking cute.” He places another kiss on my lips and then helps me off his lap. When he stands, I watch him adjust himself and take a few breaths before taking my hand in his and walking me to the golf clubs. I love that he has to collect himself before we move on to our activity, because it shows that I affect him. It causes me to feel more confident, because this man delights in my body. In me.

  I never imagined myself with someone like Cory, someone who, without trying, claims the room when he walks into it, but doesn’t act he like owns it. Every person I’ve spoken to about him always makes the same conclusion. He’s almost larger than life, but his humility, his . . . genuine kindness . . . is what draws and keeps your attention. I’ve met dozens of driven, powerful athletes, those who are paid ridiculous amounts of money to play a game. And often that vast wealth brings equal arrogance and condescension. Something Cory Potter is not. He’s warm, funny, so, so sweet, and surprisingly humble.

  Even with the Rebels fans eating him alive on the Internet and apparently on the streets occasionally—from what Cory has told me—he still finds the energy and the passion to dig deep and train, work on the sport he loves so dearly.

  I’m in awe. I pause as he tries to hand me a club. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “You’re just a really great guy, Cory.” His eyes soften as he smiles. “You’re going through media hell, and you don’t really complain about it at all. You don’t say anything unless I ask.”

  He shrugs. “Why talk about the negative shit when I can enjoy you?”

  “Ugh, could you be any more loveable?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows and snags my hand, pulling me into his chest. “You think I’m loveable, huh?”