His Pretend Baby

by Theodora Taylor

  “More what?”

  “More of your hand. More of… I don’t know! I don’t know.” Her breath was coming out in short spurts now.

  “I think you do know,” he whispered in her ear. “I think you know exactly what you want. I can feel your clit getting bigger, darlin’. It knows what it wants, even if you don’t.”

  “I—oh, God…!”

  He felt her pussy clench and then there was a rush of liquid over his fingers.

  “Now you’re ready.” He waited until she was done before pulling his fingers out. He put them into his mouth and tasted her cum. “I’ll need you to hand me a condom, then I want you to get on top, darlin’.”

  She let out a few ragged breaths before answering, “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.”

  He heard his nightstand drawer open and close, then he felt her climb on top of him, settling her butt right above his pelvis. He could feel her soaking wet pussy on his abdomen and his dick spasmed, threatening to go off right then and there if he didn’t get inside of her.

  He barely managed to get the condom on his pulsing dick, yet he couldn’t resist continuing to toy with her. “Final test. Put me inside of you.”

  “You want me to…? Um…”

  She sounded a little stymied, and that surprised him. Had her husband never let her get on top? If Beau could see, he’d take every opportunity to watch Josie Witherspoon coming on top of his dick. If he’d been married to Josie—

  He stopped himself right there. Josie hadn’t liked him enough to agree to so much as a date in high school. And now that he was blind, the only reason she was in his bed was because he’d agreed to pay her an exorbitant amount to be there. He doubted there was any amount of money that could convince her to marry him.

  But he could imagine it, he told himself. “That’s exactly what I want, darlin’,” he said out loud, picturing her with a big diamond ring on her finger that announced to the world that Josie Witherspoon belonged to him.

  There was a pause, then he felt her tentatively take hold of his dick.

  “I don’t hear you talking.”

  “I’ve got your thing in my hand… again.”

  His cock spasmed when her fingers slid over it. “Fuck, Josie, I wanna hear you call it a dick. Or a cock. Or anything but those candy-ass words you keep subbing in for it.”

  “I’ve got your dick in my hands,” she said. I’m…”

  He felt her lift up, and the next thing he knew the head of his cock was enfolded within her sweet pussy. “I’m pushing it in.” Her voice strained, and it was easy to picture her sitting on his cock, sucking in her breath as she pushed him into her slick tunnel until he was all the way in.

  She wiggled on top of him, and there was wonderment in her voice when she said, “I didn’t think it would fit all the way in from this position.”

  He was surprised, too. She fit so tight around him; it was like she’d been custom made to sit on his dick. Custom made for him.

  He groaned. It had been fun letting Josie take the lead for a little while, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed her delicious ass with both hands, and pulled her hips forward.

  She moaned above him, but he wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.

  “You had better not have your eyes closed,” he said.

  “Your hands are on my butt and your dick is going in and out of my kit kat.”

  “Tell me how it feels,” he said.

  “Good.” Her hands splayed on his chest and she leaned forward. But she must not have realized that action would not only make him go in deeper but also bring his cock in direct contact with her clit, because she cried out in surprise. “Oh, my God! So good…”

  The tips of her breasts grazed his chest as he moved her up and down on his cock. He was glad when her breaths quickened above him, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on.

  She came with a broken cry only a few seconds before he exploded inside the condom. “Fuck, Josie, fuck…” he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down, holding on to her with fierce tightness until he was empty.

  “I can’t believe…” Josie said. Then, “…I can’t even form a sentence.”

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door, causing Josie to let out a squeak of surprise.

  “Mr. Prescott, it’s me, Mac.”

  Josie began to squirm above him. “Oh, no!” she whispered.

  Why were older black people always trying to interrupt whenever he was in the sack with Josie?

  “Go away, Mac,” he snarled.

  “I can hear you’re… busy, Mr. Prescott, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t need my services today. I could run out and get us some breakfast, since from what I heard, Miss Josie is, er…also busy.”

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God. I can’t believe this is happening.” On top of him Josie tried to wiggle free but Beau kept her right where she was, on top of his cock, even though he was now fully spent.

  “Go away, Mac,” he said again, even surlier this time. “And don’t come back.”

  “Don’t come back?” Mac said. “Are you firing me, sir?”

  “You can’t fire him!” Josie whispered. “This job is how he puts food on the table for him and his wife. It’s not his fault he caught you banging the help.”

  Irritation prickled inside of him. Apparently, Josie was still in the habit of defending other people against him. And she obviously thought he was in the habit of firing people. Beau harrumphed. Fire someone once before you make her your mistress, and you’re labeled a mean boss for life.

  “No, Mac, I’m not firing you,” he called back. “I’m giving you most of the week off with pay. Now get and don’t come back until the big appointment on Friday.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure,” he answered. “Now get out of here.”

  “All right, see you Friday morning.” Apparently Mac knew better than to look free vacation days in the mouth, because the next thing they heard was the sound of his receding footsteps.

  “Happy now?” Beau asked Josie.

  “Well, you didn’t have to be so rude about it. I mean, cussing? That man’s old enough to be your father.”

  He grinned. “Who do you think taught me how to cuss? If you’ve got a problem with how I handle business, you need to take that up with Dad’s ghost.”

  She went still above him. “I was sorry to hear about your daddy’s passing.”

  Beau finally released her from his hold, the mood effectively killed. “Don’t be. He was a bastard. You knew that, everybody did. And at least we were finally able to take the company public, and fill dad’s vacant CEO position with someone who, unlike me, actually gives two shits about the company.”

  “Maybe so, but I should have made it back for his funeral. I mean, you came back to Birmingham for my mother’s funeral. I should have done the same.”

  Her voice sounded far away now, like she was talking to him but giving her full attention to something else.

  “Why don’t you run down and whip us up some breakfast?” he said, trying to get her back. “Something good like pancakes.”

  That did it. He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Mac wouldn’t approve.”

  “Well, Mac isn’t here, is he?”

  She chuckled and said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.”

  12

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott” was a phrase Josie became very familiar with over the course of the week, during which they fell into a comfortable but intense routine of amazing sex, followed by meals that definitely weren’t on Beau’s diet plan.

  She whipped up as many of his old favorites as she could, given the challenge of having to use whatever ingredients were in the house. But eventually she told Beau that she had to go to the grocery store.

  “Does that involve you leaving the house?” he asked when she introduced the subject over a breakfast of grits smothered in butter, cream, and cheese on Wednesday
morning.

  “You know it does,” she answered, fingering the lace trim on the black satin nightie she was wearing. She’d overnighted it to herself a couple of days ago, thinking he’d like the feel of it, even if he couldn’t see it. She’d been right. It was eleven in the morning, but they were just now eating breakfast because he’d kept her up well into the night “breaking in the nightie,” as he called it.

  Now he shook his head, in denial of her grocery store request. “What if I need you while you’re out?”

  A shadow crossed her heart. By “need,” she knew he didn’t mean need her help. He still refused to accept that from her. In fact, she’d yet to see him walk any meaningful distance by himself, because he found a reason to send her out of the room whenever he wanted to go to the bathroom or take a shower.

  However, when she came back from whatever errand he’d sent her on, she’d see the evidence of his struggle in the messes he left behind: overturned furniture, drawers of clothing in complete disarray, a shower littered with cleaning products he’d accidently knocked over.

  And despite her attempts to stay cynical and detached from his situation, his helplessness worked at her heart. She wished he would let her help him, and hated that she had to stop herself from offering after he’d snapped, “No, Josie, I don’t want your help. That’s not what I’m paying you for, so stop fucking offering. ”

  Reminding her of their arrangement was his way of shutting down the conversation any time she tried to broach the topic of his blindness. Otherwise, he treated her more kindly than she ever would have expected. He complimented her food, kept her laughing with his NFL stories, and kept her coming more times than she would ever have imagined could be physically possible.

  Thinking about how he had thanked her for the nightie by dipping his head between her legs and licking and kissing her down there until she begged him to stop because the back-to-back orgasms were becoming too much, she crossed her legs and tried to focus on the grocery store issue.

  “Imagine these grits with shrimp and some green onions. Maybe bacon, too.”

  “God, you fight dirty, Josie Witherspoon.” He threw down his cloth napkin. “Go on then. I got to take a shower anyways and now I got a hankering for shrimp and grits I know won’t be going away until you break out Miss Loretta’s old recipe.”

  Josie took advantage of his blindness to pump her fist in triumph. At least she thought it was a triumph.

  But when she went to clear the dishes, Beau caught her by the arm. And one arm was all he needed to pull her into his lap. Soon his other hand was under her nightie and inside her womanhood, exploring her wet folds with rough curiosity. And her pussy, despite being a little sore still from last nights’ sexual Olympics, nonetheless rallied, the bud between her legs standing at attention.

  “Well, look at this,” he drawled in her ear. “Josie Witherspoon, were you sitting over there with no panties on, getting wet, thinking about what all we did last night?”

  Since that had been exactly what she’d been doing, her only answer to that was to blush.

  He was massaging her clit now. “You know, I was going to leave you alone this morning, but it seems to me you might have one more orgasm in you.”

  He still had on the sweatpants he wore as pajama bottoms, but she could feel his rod, so hard and heavy against the back of her pussy, he might as well have had it pulled out.

  Now his fingers were relentlessly plunging into her tunnel while the ball of his palm made circles over her clit with a steady rhythm.

  She bit her lip and cried out, the satin material of her nightie gliding over her body while his hand brought her to rough climax.

  Bubbles of pleasure rose through her kit kat and then exploded inside of her, turning Josie into a sack of liquid bones as she slumped forward on the table.

  “Now you can go to the grocery store,” he said from behind her. “And pick up some condoms so I can welcome you home good and proper.”

  Despite his promise to welcome her home, when she came in with the groceries, she found him in the kitchen fuming in front of the open refrigerator.

  Josie took in the overturned bowl of fruit on the counter and the several jars on the floor at Beau’s feet, and immediately figured out what was going on.

  “You looking for something?” She kept her voice casual and relaxed.

  “A Coke,” he answered, his jaw tight. “I haven’t had one in like a year, because I’m always in training.”

  By Coke, Josie knew he meant any soda. Like many southerners, Beau called all sodas Coke.

  Josie glanced at the two cans of Pepsi, which unlike the poor mayonnaise and pickle jars, sat unmolested in the very back of the fridge. “Here, I can get one for you.”

  “No, I don’t want you to get it for me. What did I say about you offering me help?”

  “Yeah, but seriously, it’s just a Coke. And it’s right there, if you just let me—”

  “Get out.”

  Josie blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. It’s my house, my kitchen, and I’m paying you to do whatever I say. So get the fuck out.”

  Josie opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it again. From the rigid way Beau was holding the refrigerator door open, she could tell he wasn’t going to stop until he’d found his Coke. Without her help.

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.” But this time it didn’t feel like the soft joke it had become between them over the past few days.

  She set the two bags of groceries down in the corner as far away from the refrigerator as she could and left through the large, hinged patio doors at the back of the house.

  * * *

  “Where were you?” Beau asked when Josie came back into his bedroom a couple of hours later. “I tried using the intercom but you didn’t answer.”

  She glanced at the intercom, which he hadn’t used since he got here.

  “Did you need something?” she asked.

  “No, but…” He touched his Ray-Bans, looking a little uncomfortable. “Where were you?”

  “Well, first I was reading in the shed. Then I had to spend some time cleaning up the mess in the kitchen and putting away the groceries that didn’t spoil when you ordered me to get out.”

  She waited then, but true to form, Beau just stood there, clenching and unclenching his fist.

  Prescotts don’t apologize, she reminded herself.

  “What were you reading?” he asked.

  She folded her arms. “Nothing you’d know.”

  “Try me.”

  “It was this novel, the latest in a series by Clara Quinn—she’s a black sci-fi writer. It just came out and they had it at the library.”

  “The new Clara Quinn is out?”

  “You know Clara Quinn?”

  “What, you think you’re the only one around here who appreciates a well-written book? Half of being a quarterback is traveling to the next game on a plane or a bus, so yeah, I read a lot, just like you.”

  He turned away from her. “Or at least I used to.”

  She knew better than to offer to order the book for him on Audible, since that went against his order not to offer to help him. But… “Maybe I could read it out loud, and we could enjoy it together?” she asked. “It’s really good, and I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about a Clara Quinn book in years.”

  His lips thinned into a mean smile. “So Nerd Book Club isn’t happening anymore?”

  And she almost smiled herself, remembering how Beau used to call out, “Hey Josie, Nerd Book Club’s at the back door!” whenever Colin showed up at the service entrance with a stack of comic books under his arm.

  “No.” She told him like she told Mindy. “Colin and I fell out of touch.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “And your ex-husband didn’t read?”

  “Only for work,” she answered, thinking about how often Wayne had derided her for having her nose in a book when she should have been concerning herself with being a better wife and
homemaker.

  “How about some fried chicken for lunch?” she said, deliberately changing the subject.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

  Lunch was a much less sexy affair than breakfast had been. Her back in her jeans and plaid shirt. Beau eating his food like it was part of a grim prison sentence.

  But when she went to clear the dishes, he grabbed her arm again. Only this time, instead of initiating sex, he said, “Save those for later. Let’s crack open that Clara Quinn novel.”

  And just like that, the awkwardness between them lifted. “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott,” she said with a big smile.

  They spent the rest of the day in bed, Josie reading out loud, Beau initiating hot bouts of sex whenever she needed to rest her voice for a bit, and them both eating cold chicken in between.

  It felt very domestic, like they were taking a fun, naughty vacation from their real lives. Like they were a real couple. It was so pleasant that at times Josie almost forgot she’d been hired to do a job. Almost.

  13

  Beau wasn’t in the habit of buying sexual companionship. From what he could tell, just about every woman from A-list actresses to hot housewives loved a quarterback and he’d never needed to convince a woman to share his bed, much less pay her. He’d heard about “the girlfriend experience,” and quite frankly, had never understood the draw. Why pay a woman to pretend to be your girlfriend? He didn’t get it.

  Until now.

  He’d had wilder sex, slept with more experienced women, done kinkier things, but being with Josie was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to him.

  The way she touched him with awe and wonder, even though she’d been married before, made him feel like he was teaching her to take as much pleasure in him as he took in her. The way she said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott,” with a little laugh, like what they were doing was more fun than business.

  And it wasn’t just about the sex. It was about the way she stroked his hair while she read to him, the way she scooted back into him after they’d had sex, a silent reminder to wrap her in his arms just in case he forgot. The way she always turned the radio to his favorite rock station before she left to fix dinner, making sure he had some form of entertainment he could also turn off. It was also the way she seemed to read his mind when he had business to take care of, excusing herself from the bedroom after she went to use the bathroom, so he could use it, too.