Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  “Let me show you,” he says, his eyes tracking over me, his hands following, nudging the hem of my slip up, exposing my legs.

  I’m still covered. He can’t even see my pussy, but this is the most naked I’ve felt all night. I watch his face closely. I know the signs when a guy changes his mind—realizes this, I’m not for him. The shrinking cock. The awkward half-smile. The shifting eyes. The hesitant hands.

  With Ean, there’s none of that.

  His mouth falls into a sober line, lending weight to this moment. He caresses my thighs, both my thighs, with steady, kneading hands. And his eyes, when they lift to meet mine, they burn hot with passion and tenderness and something else. Something I can’t name.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  Gratitude.

  I couldn’t name that look because I’ve never seen it in a man’s eyes before we made love. Grateful that I’m sharing my body with him, sharing my secrets. Trusting him with my vulnerable truths and inevitable realities. He pushes the slip up a few more inches, glancing between my legs and swallowing deeply.

  “In the car,” he says. “I could taste you, smell you, but it was dark and I couldn’t really see you. You are so fucking gorgeous, Quinn.”

  He slides his hands down, touching my knee and my stump with the same reverence, the same gentleness, and then he touches the aching valley between my legs. His fingers slipping, sliding through my wetness and my panting breaths are the only sounds in the room. His breathing grows harsh, his eyes fixed between my legs. He thrusts four fingers inside me.

  “Ahhh.” My back bows off the bed and my legs lift, widen, as I spread myself for him to go deeper. His fingers leave me only long enough to spread the juices up and down my pussy and asshole, and then all four fingers are back, aggressive. He withdraws, and slaps my clit.

  “Jag.” His name is ejected from my mouth and my hands dig into the sheets.

  His fingers barrel back inside me, twisting, and I feel him in both holes, four fingers in my pussy, his thumb in my ass. With his other hand, he shoves the slip all the way up, bathing my stomach and breasts in cool air. He squeezes and twists one nipple, squeezes my breast so hard I cry out with pleasure on a knife’s edge. I pump my hips, chasing my orgasm, chasing him, his touch, his fingers.

  Invade. Retreat. Invade. Retreat.

  The torturous rhythm makes war on my senses, battering my defenses until I’m howling. I’m weeping. I’m growling, reduced to a mass of helpless whimpers, clawing fingers, and a throbbing clit. I’m a staggering pulse, racing and under his command.

  “Jag, I can’t . . .” I hiccup, tears coursing down my face. “You have to fuck me.”

  “Not yet.” He twists his fingers deeper in, his thumb deeper in. Pulls out, spreads the juices. Slaps my clit with the back of his hand.

  And then I come.

  So suddenly, so abruptly, my breath stalls. It’s the shock of launching off a building, the free fall with no landing. The force of gravity presses into my chest. Pleasure uncoils from the base of my spine and spreads across my back, over my shoulders like oil. I dissolve, my bones and blood melting into the mattress, leaving me soaking in this glorious lethargy.

  He rains kisses over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs where he stops to lick, groaning as he takes my juices on his tongue. And then he kisses my legs, saving special, gentle kisses for my left one.

  “Now,” he whispers, tugging at the slip until it’s over my head and gone. “Now we fuck.”

  A broken chuckle stumbles past my lips, and I watch his big body with dazed eyes. I absorb his affection with an overflowing heart. He is the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. A monument of a man, but not stone. He’s muscle, flesh, and bone. He’s goodness, tenderness, and kindness.

  “How do you like it?” he asks softly. “Are there positions that are better? Or—”

  “Let’s just start with you on top,” I reply with a lazy smile.

  Missionary is easiest from a leverage perspective, but I also want to feel the weight of him pressing into me.

  He reaches down to his pants on the floor and pulls a condom out, then slips it on with quick efficiency. He crawls onto the bed, hovering over me. Bracing himself with one hand on the bed, he pushes my hair back with the other, his fingers straying over my cheekbones and across my lips.

  “Hi,” he says with a smile.

  “Hi,” I whisper back, my grin growing.

  He reaches down to stroke between my legs and then to position himself. Our eyes lock and he pushes in.

  “Ah.” I gasp because he’s so big and it’s been more than a year. My pussy clamps around him like I’m afraid he’ll get away. Our bodies are joined at this tight and wet and hot point of contact.

  “Shit,” he groans, squeezing his eyes closed. “This is . . . you are . . . Quinn.”

  He moves deeper, impossibly deeper, until I’m sure I can’t take even another centimeter of him. Just when I think I’ll combust, he pulls back and then thrusts in, over and over, fast, aggressive, unrelenting. I shift my hips, and he hits that secret spot that unlocks another room inside me, an inner court no one has entered. I’m falling, burning, crashing into a void of dark bliss. And with a roar and a muttered “Thank you. God, Quinn, thank you,” into the curve of my neck, so does he.

  Ean

  “Get back on defense!”

  I love seeing a dunk as much as the next basketball fan, but sometimes I think it’s made players want to show off more and pay less attention to the fundamentals of the game.

  Take Clyde, a first-round draft pick coming to the Waves this upcoming season. When he goes up, his head is above the rim, but when he hits that floor, his fundamentals suck.

  “We got a lot of work to do before the season starts,” I tell him once we’re done. “Back here tomorrow. Same time.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” he says. “I know I got a long way to go.”

  “That you do.” I nod to Jeremy and Reggie sitting on the bench, observing. I worked them over during the first thirty minutes. “Same goes for you. Back here tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I got a thing tomorrow,” Reggie says with a grin. “Party at the Playboy mansion.”

  I stride over to him and lean into his face. “Don’t be here tomorrow, and I will come to the Playboy mansion my damn self and drag your ass out of there like your mama when the streetlights come on. Am I clear?”

  His eyes widen. “I’m a grown man, Coach.”

  “Yeah, a grown man taking up space on my roster and making more money than he’s worth right now. How many invitations you think you’ll get when the front office sends you down to the D-league?”

  He gulps and nods. “Two o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  We’re packing up when Jeremy pulls out an ESPN magazine. It’s the body issue. He whistles low, his eyes wide on the page.

  “This chick is fine as hell.”

  “Yeah,” Clyde agrees. “I don’t care if she ain’t got but one leg.”

  My head snaps up and I walk over to snatch the magazine from them. And there she is. Quinn, lowered into a runner’s crouch, like she’s poised to explode into motion. With her hands pressed to the ground, her extended arms hide the full, pert breasts I’ve tasted for myself. She’s all long lines and sleek muscle, her ass, round and firm. Her ginger hair is mussed and her delicate profile belied by the determined set of her jaw. One sleek leg is stretched, and the prosthetic, one of her designs, is shiny carbon with flowers and vines lightly sketched on the surface. A thing of function and beauty.

  “Ahem.”

  The clearing throat at the edge of the court grabs the attention of all four of us. I break out into a wide grin, but the other three gape, mouths hanging open. Their eyes dart from the beautiful woman on the page to the in-flesh version of her standing in front of them.

  “Uh, sorry to interrupt,” Quinn says, an uncertain smile and frown on her face. “I hope it’s okay I just dropped in. You said you’
d be here, and I was in town so . . .”

  We stare at each other, ignoring the guys from my team.

  “Oh.” I turn to the astonished trio. “Quinn, this is Reggie, Jeremy and Clyde. They’re rookies.”

  “Hi, rookies,” she says, laughing and stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

  They all shake hands. She stands in the midst of us towering over her like a little fairy among trees while we chat about the first year in the league and the upcoming awards season.

  “Well, we better get going,” Clyde says. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Barrow.”

  “Yeah, nice meeting you,” Billy says. “See you at the ESPYs.”

  They drift off, and once they’re gone, I fold my arms under her ass and lift her up until our faces are level. The kiss is hot and wild and desperate. Her arms creep around my neck and her fingers twist in my hair. She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls back enough to see my face.

  “Hi,” she whispers, leaning forward for one last quick peck.

  “Hi,” I answer, catching her mouth and kissing her deeply again. “I missed you this week.”

  “I missed you, too. I was half-hoping you’d pop up at my event here in San Diego,” she says with a teasing smile.

  I grimace. “If the owners hadn’t scheduled a meeting today at the same time, believe me, I would have been.”

  “It’s all good,” she says, stroking my neck. “It’s about time I came to you.”

  “Got that right.” I laugh.

  She slides down my body until she lands on the court. “What were your guys snickering over like middle-schoolers when I came in?”

  “That’s a perfect description.” I push back the fringe of hair falling into her eyes. “It was actually a photo of you in ESPN magazine. The body issue.”

  Her eyes go round. “Oh, my gosh. And I walked in while they were looking at that? Glad I didn’t know.”

  “So you’re home for a week?” I ask, bending to trail kisses down her neck. “I cannot keep my hands off you.”

  “You will not hear me complaining.” She giggles. “And, yes. I’m home for a week before I go back out on the road.” Her smile fades and she shuffles her feet a little. “I, um, was thinking about going up to Malibu for a few days. I have a place up there.”

  “Oh?” I brush a thumb over her cheekbone and lift her chin so our eyes meet. “Want some company?”

  Her smile is a rising sun, glorious and blinding. “I was going to ask. Are you sure you can get away? I know the season—”

  “Hasn’t started yet. Once it does, it’ll be hard for me to do much else, so we should take advantage of my free time now.”

  “We’re both so in demand.”

  “Yeah, but I’m in.” I dip to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Relationships take work, and work is something we’re both really good at.”

  She shakes her head, a small smile sketched on her lips. “Are we in a relationship?”

  My smile drops. “We better be. I hope we are. I told my mom we were getting married.”

  Her mouth drops open, but before she can express the panic in her eyes, she realizes I’m fucking with her. She punches me in the chest, her laugh echoing through the gym.

  “You sneaky bastard. I should have known you were joking. Everybody thinks ‘The Machine’ is all stoic. I know what a cut-up you are.”

  “That’s because you get to see what no one else does.”

  She tips up on her toes, wraps her arms around my neck again, and whispers in my ear. “Your huge cock?”

  “That, too.” I chuckle. “I show you everything.” I sober, and look down at her in all seriousness. “I trust you with everything.”

  “I feel the same,” she says, and she lifts her lashes to look at me. “Are we crazy? Saying these things, feeling these things so quickly?”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell her softly. “You’re right. It feels fast, but it feels right.”

  Epilogue

  Epilogue – Quinn – Two years later

  “Who are you wearing, Quinn?”

  The question, yelled from the line of reporters and flashing cameras on the red carpet, makes me smile.

  “Lotus Ross.” I pull back the flap of the silky wrap dress to display the length of my Bionic Beauty leg, also shiny and sequined to match my dress.

  “Does Lotus’ GloUp brand have a maternity line in the works?” another asks.

  I rub my huge belly and grin. “Maybe soon. Lo designed this one just for me.”

  “Enough questions,” Ean barks, his perma-scowl firmly in place. “We need to get inside.”

  I wave as he half-drags, half-carries me down the rest of the red carpet.

  “Jag, you’re being ridiculous.”

  “No, I’m being considerate, understanding that just maybe a woman eight months pregnant might not want to stand around in the hot sun answering a series of inane questions about her dress.”

  He’s not wrong. A small fire burns low in my spine. This baby.

  “Are the ESPYs giving out an award for Husband of the Year tonight?”

  “No.” He opens the door for us to enter the building. “But I hear this cute redhead is getting the Jimmy V Perseverance Award.”

  “It’s the only reason I’m here,” I tell him with a smile and a quick press of my lower back.

  His perma-scowl comes back with a vengeance. “I knew it.”

  He reaches around and digs knowing fingers into the muscles of my back. I slump forward and rest my head on his chest.

  “That feels so good, baby. Keep doing that.” I laugh and look up at him through my lashes. “Remember the first day we met, when you groped my back?”

  His boom of laughter draws the eyes of a few people standing nearby. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s so loud, or because The Machine was heard actually laughing, a phenomenon I’m privileged to witness daily.

  “That wasn’t groping.” His hands slide down from my back to cup and squeeze my ass. “This is groping.”

  “Ean,” I squeak, looking around to see if anyone’s noticing. “If there’s a picture of me looking like the Good Year balloon and you groping my ass online tomorrow—”

  “You’ll what?” He bends to whisper in my ear. “Not give me a blow job? That’s a lie. We both know how much you love my cock in your mouth.”

  My pussy amens that, clenching and flooding my panties at his dirty words in such a public place. My nipples go hard. He loves my third-trimester horniness, and provokes it every chance he gets. He knows I’m insatiable.

  “If you don’t want to find yourself getting screwed in a broom closet somewhere,” I mutter, reaching between us to inconspicuously squeeze his dick, “you’ll keep comments like that to a minimum.”

  “That’s exactly what I want,” he says, his voice low and husky. “To say I fucked America’s Titanium Sweetheart in a broom closet.”

  “Soon as we get home, I want you naked and ready to service your very pregnant wife,” I tell him with a naughty smile. “Expect to put some time in down there.”

  “My mouth is watering just thinking about it.” He tightens his grip on my ass.

  “Welp, these panties are done.”

  “Good. Slip them off so I can put them in my pocket.”

  “Ean, you are supposed to be the reasonable, conservative, staid one in this marriage.”

  “I think we tossed that out the window in the parking lot of the Slutty Vegan.”

  I tip my head back and laugh, warmth filling my chest at the memory. “We haven’t been back since.”

  “I’m scared we’ll run into that poor traumatized driver who probably heard you screaming and moaning in the back seat.”

  Ean chased me down then—he wanted this thing that was only a possibility badly enough to run after it. To run after me.

  “That was a great night,” I say, blinking back sudden tears.

  “Hey.” He touches my cheek, frowning when his fingers come away wet. “A
re you sure you’re okay? Does your leg hurt? Are you wearing the thinner liner? The prosthetist said you should—”

  “Jag, I’m okay.” I reach up to caress the rigid line of his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “It’s my job to worry about you.” He palms my big belly and frowns, his full lips tightening.

  Apparently I don’t do anything typical. Just shy of forty, I’m managing the slight risks getting pregnant when I’m older entails, but also the adjustments to my prosthesis. Because of weight gain there’s a larger amount of soft tissue in my residual limb. Tissue breakdown and swelling can lead to alignment issues, which increases the chance of falls. All information I would prefer Ean had not been present for. I think that’s when the perma-scowl made its first appearance.

  “Maybe you could just stay back here and not sit out there,” Ean says, watching me closely. “How are your hips? Those seats aren’t the most comfortable.”

  “My hips are fine. I promise.”

  He bends and takes my bottom lip into his mouth, sucking hard, and steadily kneading the aching muscles in my lower back.

  “I wish you hadn’t worn those heels,” he mutters into our kiss. “If I see you teeter once, I’m carrying you on that stage to accept the award.”

  I’m more concerned that if we don’t sit down soon, he’ll find a way for me not to accept the award at all, and will whisk me back home.

  “This shoe is just a little tight,” I say, faking a grimace. “Could we sit now?”

  “Of course, baby.” He guides me toward the theater entrance and we find our seats.

  Once the ceremony begins, I release a long sigh of relief. I’m sitting. My feet are not aching. My back isn’t hurting. My husband is not scowling. All’s well with the world. I reach for Ean’s hand.

  “I love you,” I whisper. “Coach of the Year.”

  He was his typical modest, self-effacing self when he won the distinction from the NBA a few weeks ago. “You’re lucky I don’t make you address me that way all the time.”

  “I’ll try it tonight. Let’s see how it sounds with your big dick in my mouth.”