Mountain Man's Bride

by Lauren Wood

  Heris thrust into her slowly to get comfortable, managing to squeeze the entirety of himself into her. Trish growled and moaned aloud, writhing beneath Heris as he leaned down and pressed his lips to Trish’s sharing a kiss with her as he started to thrust faster and faster. The waves gradually became just as strong as when his head was between her legs—stronger even. Trish closed her eyes, trying to keep up with Heris’s kiss and movements, but it was all too much for her to handle.

  By the time Heris had gotten into a fast rhythm, thrusting his entirety in and out of her, they were both lost in the passion, sharing a heated mating session that only tribal were-bears could. “Fuck, baby…! Fuck…! I think… I’m going…! I’m gonna!”

  Trish pressed her head against the pillow one last time as all over her muscles tensed up and her breaths got short, her walls clamping down around Heris’s thick shaft as Heris started to shoot inside of her. Heris threw his head back and then fell atop of Trish, panting hard and still thrusting as he filled her sex with his hot seed.

  “F-finaly…” huffed Heris as his spurts slowly came to a drip inside of Trish. Her walls milked him of all of his cum, still throbbing wildly alongside his manhood. “I finally got to breed my wife…”

  “So, does this mean you don’t need to take revenge anymore?”

  “I think this means that I’m going to be glad to greet my son.

  --

  THE END

  HAVING THE QUARTERBACK’S BABY

  Prologue

  Chase Richards had it all: money, fame, a big house, fast cars, and women standing in line to have sex with him. But most of all, he had a promising career as an NFL quarterback, that is until his world comes crashing down the night he gets drunk and slams his Porsche into a tree.

  Chase was lucky to be alive. He escaped death, but his right arm – the arm he threw all those touchdowns with – was broken is six places.

  Like Humpty Dumpty, the doctors could put Chase back together again, but his arm – and his life -- would never be the same.

  Mollie Carter had loved Chase Richards from the moment they high school. He was the budding football star and she was the head of the yearbook committee. They couldn’t have been more different. Maybe that’s what made their attraction so strong. No one would have imagined they would ever part; least of all Mollie.

  Then, Chase is drafted into the NFL and everything changed. Mollie never saw Chase again after he went off to training camp. He broke up with her over the phone a few months later.

  Now, two years later, Mollie learns that Chase has been in a horrible wreck and is barely clinging to life. As she looks down at the beautiful little boy sleeping in her arms, she wonders if she will ever see Chase again.

  Then Mollie hears that Chase is coming home, a broken man with no money or prospects.

  What will Chase do when he learns that he has a son by the only girl he’s ever loved?

  And will Mollie be willing to help Chase put the pieces of his broken life back together again after he broke her heart all those months ago?

  Chapter 1

  Chase Richards

  I sat in the chair next to the window in my tiny private room at the Atlanta Memorial Rehabilitation Center watching ESPN on the TV that hung high on the wall facing the bed.

  I had the volume down because loud noises still give me headaches. I wasn’t paying attention anyway. I was just wondering if they’d say anything about me getting released from rehab today.

  Even after all these months of being out of the public eye, the narcissist in me still longs to hear my name and see my picture on TV or in the tabloids or on the web.

  Sadly, the most-view photo of my entire life in the spotlight is the one of the paramedics pulling me from the wreckage of my car. It’s hard for me to look at without crying. The sights and smells and sounds of that night crash into my brain like angry waves against the shore. My eyes fill with tears as phantom pains rip through my body. No, I won’t look at the picture. Not eve again.

  I just had to face the truth: I’m not newsworthy anymore, not since the accident. Actually, it wasn’t an accident. It was me having too much to drink and getting behind the wheel of my Porsche and ramming it into a tree. That was no accident. That was just me fucking up. Again.

  Or course, I didn’t do it on purpose, but to call it an accident would be a gross representation of the facts. It wasn’t an accident. It was just me being me, period.

  I’m just grateful that nobody got in my way and that nobody else got hurt. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d caused harm to someone else because I got drunk and drove ninety miles an hour down a neighborhood street.

  When ESPN went to coverage of a soccer match in Brazil, I clicked the TV off and tossed the remote on the rumpled bed a few feet away.

  I leaned my head back against the chair and rubbed the tears my eyes as I finally reconciled myself with the fact that my old life was over. I’d never play football again. I’d never suit up and run onto the field as the adoring fans yelled my name and screamed for me to lead the team to victory once again. I’d pissed it all away; and now I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself as I waited on the doctor to release me.

  A year I couldn’t take a step outside without reporters and cameras waiting for me. Everybody wanted to take my photograph and hear what I had to say about the Falcons’ upcoming season.

  Now, nobody gives a crap what I have to say. I mean, why should they? I’m yesterday’s news. I’m a has-been who never was. I’m out of the game for life. I’m a nobody now; and nobody gives a shit about me or my life. My career is over before it barely got started. And I have no one to blame but myself. I’m a fucking egotistical idiot, plain and simple. Too bad it took nearly losing my life to make me understand that.

  This was going to be my year, dammit. When the Falcons drafted me nearly two years ago, I knew I’d have to second string it for a while because their current quarterback was still performing well. But he tore and ACL in the off-season, so this was to be my year! MY YEAR!!

  I was less than a month away from quarterbacking my first NFL game against the Raiders when I drove my Porsche into that tree.

  I was Chase Richards, goddammit.

  I had it all: money, fame, a fat NFL contract, and women coming at me left and right. I could have my pick of them: cheerleaders, groupies, models, actresses, and little hometown girls looking to fuck an NFL quarterback so they could brag to their friends.

  All I had to do was snap my fingers and the girls would jump into my bed and give it up. But every time I’d wake up from an all-nighter with some girl that I hardly knew lying next to me, I would think about Mollie, the only girl I’ve ever really loved.

  And the only girl who ever truly loved me.

  Chapter 2

  Mollie Carter

  I will never forget the first time Chase Richards actually spoke to me.

  We were in the tenth grade at Centerville High. I was the brainy girl who headed up the yearbook committee and Chase was the star quarterback that every boy wanted to be like and every girl wanted to be with. You could say we were a mismatched pair from the start.

  The boy who normally took the pictures of the sports teams for the yearbook was out with mono that week, so it fell on me to take the camera and go out on the football field to snap individual and group pictures of the football team and coaches.

  I guess I was a pretty girl out on the outside, but a total nerd on the inside (I haven’t changed much). I wouldn’t settle for anything less than straight A’s and perfect test scores.

  I was also a skinny redhead with more boobs than I needed and freckled skin that wouldn’t tan no matter what. I was Irish on my mom’s side and she always said the pasty Irish DNA runs deep.

  I remember setting the camera up on the tripod and waiting impatiently as the coaches wrangled the players into two lines, with the tallest and broadest players in the back, the smaller ones in the front.

  And there
was Chase Richards, front row center, even though he was tall enough to be in the back row. I understood the logic: Chase was the star quarterback of the Centerville Trojans. He belonged front row center and that’s where he stood, grinning at the camera like the Cheshire Cat.

  Chase’s star was on the rise. College recruiters from Alabama, Auburn, and Tennessee were already sniffing around, trying to lure him to their top 10 universities with winning football teams and fat alumni wallets.

  Chase could stand anywhere he wanted and go to school anywhere he wanted. Even though he was barely sixteen, Chase had the world by the tail and everybody, including Chase, knew it.

  Which made it really shocking when he came over to me after the photo shoot with his helmet in his hand and a big smile on his face.

  Of course, I had been aware of Chase Richards for years, but had never even spoken to him. You couldn’t miss him because he stood out from the crowd because he didn’t look like a tenth grader. He looked older, more mature.

  Chase was six feet tall and had broad shoulders, even without the football pads. I’d seen him at the pool once without his shirt. Talk about muscles. And unlike me, he seemed to always have a tan, even in the winter time. Oh, be still my heart!

  His hair was long and dirty blonde. He had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen and a smile that made me weak in the knees. He kind of reminded me of Brad Pitt, only better, if you can imagine that. Or maybe I was just partial.

  Chase was always surrounded by cheerleaders, all of which would give him what every horny boy wanted any time he wanted it.

  I was not like them. I wasn’t a prude, but I was no slut, either. Yes, I was a virgin and I totally intended to save myself for marriage.

  I stuck to my intentions… right up to the point that Chase took my virginity in a sleeping bag in the back of his daddy’s old pickup truck just a few months later.

  Oh well, I tried…

  “Hey, nice job,” he said, coming to stand next to me with his helmet cupped under his right arm. I was packing the camera gear into a bag that was sitting on the sideline bleachers and not really paying attention. When I turned at the sound of his voice I saw the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen smiling back at me.

  “Uh, thanks,” I managed to say. I tried to return the smile, but honestly, I was so shocked that he was talking to me that I could barely remember my name. I just swallowed hard and went back to packing up the gear.

  “Hey, so, are you coming to the game tonight?” he asked. There was an air of hope in his voice. He clutched the helmet to his chest and drummed his fingers against it. He kicked at the grass with the toe of his muddy cleat. “I mean, of course you are, you’re always there, taking pictures.”

  I frowned at him for a second, then the smile I’d been too nervous to offer came to my lips. I was the one who took pictures during the home games because the aforementioned staff photographer with mono, a chubby boy named Arnold, was too out of shape to run up and down the sidelines.

  I gave him a look of disbelief and said, “You’ve seen me taking pictures from the sidelines?”

  He held up a dirty finger, then set the helmet on the ground. With his hands at his face, he mocked taking pictures and stumbling around, doing a pretty accurate impression of me running along the sidelines trying to get good action shots for the yearbook.

  He stopped after a minute and bent over with his hands on his knees, pretending to be out of breath. We smiled at each other and I could almost feel the electricity dancing on my skin, like being outside before a thunderstorm.

  He poked my arm with a stiff finger and said, “Of course I’ve seen you. You run almost as fast as some of our running backs. I keep telling the coach he should put you on the team.”

  I heard myself laugh. God, I sounded like a little kid. I put my hands behind me and bounced on the balls of my feet. I tried to think of something clever to say. I tried to remember how to flirt. Heck, who was I kidding. I’d never flirted a day in my life. I was doing good not to wet myself!

  Finally, after a moment of awkward silence, I said, “Well, I need to get this camera gear back to the yearbook office. Mrs. Wiggins will kill me if it gets broken.”

  “So you’ll be at the game tonight?” he asked again.

  “I will be there,” I said, hefting the heavy camera bag over my shoulder. I found myself grinning at him now. “I assume you’ll be at the game, too?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said. When he smiled his entire face lit up. I suddenly felt dizzy, like his eyes had shot their arrows into my heart. He stuck out a hand and wiggled his fingers at me. “By the way, I’m Chase.”

  I put my hand in his and felt his fingers close around it. A tingle went up my arm and spread throughout my body. It was the first time the word “horny” had ever entered my mind.

  “I’m Mollie,” I said after clearing my throat.

  “I know.” He gave my hand a squeeze and leaned in toward me until the scent of him filled my nostrils. He smelled of grass and sweat and dirt. It was a wonderful scent.

  He said, “Hey, maybe we can hook up after the game. A bunch of us are going to a party at Mandy Smith’s house to celebrate our win.”

  I looked at him sideways. “How do you know you’re going to win?”

  He leaned in closer until our noses were an inch apart. His breath was hot on my cheek. His breath smelled of Gatorade and wintergreen.

  With a wry smile he said, “Because I want us to win. And I always get what I want.” He gave me a wink. “So, see you tonight?”

  I don’t remember answering, but I surely must have said yes or nodded my head because he said “Cool!” and gave me the smile again.

  He scooped up his helmet and waved back at me as he jogged away.

  Watching him go it never occurred to me that those few minutes standing on the practice field in the warm sunshine would determine the path of my life for many years to come.

  Chase would steal my heart, then break it. But he would leave me with the greatest gift I’ll ever know.

  Chapter 3

  Chase

  “You’re going to have to take it easy with this arm for a while, Chase,” Dr. Morgan, my orthopedist, said as he put one hand on my right shoulder and the other on my right elbow. “Ready?”

  I heard him take a deep breath, like he was the one about to be in such incredible pain that he may pass out from it.

  I took a deep breath of my own and held it. I gave him a nod and he held the hand firm on my shoulder and started moving my arm up and down, up and down, like he was pumping water from an old well. I gritted my teeth and fought back the urge to scream. Mother f….

  Just moving my arm up and down still hurt like hell, even after all this time, after three surgeries and nine screws and I don’t know how much wire or how many staples, and a month of intense rehab at this facility with the best therapists the rest of my money could buy, it still hurt like a mother fucker.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked each time he moved my arm up or down a few inches.

  I winced at him. Surely the pain on my face and the sweat popping out of my forehead like a cartoon answered his question. I gritted my teeth and said, “If I say no will you stop doing it?”

  He gently lowered my arm to my side. The pain didn’t stop when his hands went away. If felt like my arm was literally on fire and the rest of my body was quickly catching. The sweat now covered my body. I felt nauseous, thought I was going to puke. I squeezed my eyes shut to push back the tears and swore at him under my breath.

  “I’m going to let you go home today,” he said, lowering himself in the chair next to the exam table and picking up my chart from the counter to his left.

  He blew out a long breath as he flipped back through the pages he’d seen a hundred times. Dr. Morgan looked old and tired. I had tested his abilities to the fullest and there was nothing more he could do for me. I knew he would be glad to finally see me go.

  When the helicopter brought me into
the trauma ER at Atlanta Memorial from the wreck site (I refuse to call it an accident), I barely had a pulse.

  My pupils were dilated and my breathing was labored. My right lung had been punctured by one of three fractured ribs and was filling with fluid.

  My collarbone was broken in two and I had a lump the size of a softball where by forehead came in contact with the airbag. I had a concussion they were afraid might lead to brain bleed, then that would be assuming that I had a brain.

  Worst of all was my right arm – or what was left of it. Somehow my right hand had slid through the steering wheel and wrenched in three directions as the Porsche’s dashboard crushed against the front seat.

  My humerus, the bone in my upper arm, was broken in three different places. My radius, the larger bone in my forearm, was broken in two places, and the ulna, the small bone at the back of the forearm, was in several pieces.

  Bones were sticking out of my arm in three different places. I found out much later that the ER doctor suggested they just cut off the arm, but the orthopedic specialist on call said that he could fix it; or at least keep it attached to my body until the surgeon arrived.

  I know, I should be glad that they saved the arm, but sitting there on the edge of that exam table with big tears in my eyes and pain shooting through me so badly that it made my hair hurt, I almost wished they’d just taken the arm.

  Sometimes I think they should have just let me die. My career was over; and I defined myself by my career. I was an NFL quarterback, goddammit.

  Do you know how many NFL quarterbacks there are in the world? Do you know what a small percentage of human beings can throw or run or catch a football good enough to be in the NFL? Not goddamn many, that’s how many.

  I rubbed my eyes and listened to the doctor tell me again not to lift anything heavy or try to throw a football or play too much violin. Yeah, he’s a funny guy…