Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  I cast my mind back to topics I scribbled in notebooks months ago and then abandoned. There is one that springs to mind immediately. Ironically enough, I decided against writing it a few months ago because it crosses over a lot with college sports. I guess that’s now my area of expertise.

  “I’m writing about ingrained sexism in college.”

  Professor Fenwick laughs. “You’re going to ruffle a few feathers with that one. What’s the angle?”

  “Football. That’s the new college obsession after all. Football is a great symbol of everything wrong with college at the moment. You literally have women standing on the sidelines cheering on the men who do all the work. It’s kind of cringey when you think about it.”

  “Completely agree. I look forward to reading it.”

  And I’m looking forward to writing it.

  It’s amazing what’s a good idea can do for one’s enthusiasm. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm doesn’t last for long. The second I step back into the office, I see Peter hanging up the phone with a huge grin on his face. Someone got good news.

  “Another interview,” he says casually, as if the interviews are becoming an inconvenience on his schedule. “Do you have any interviews lined up yet?”

  “No, not yet.” I try to sound like I don’t care, but I end up practically spitting the words out and making it obvious how infuriated I am. I’m usually good at hiding my emotions, but something about Peter brings out the worst in me.

  “You need to up your game. I’m amazed you didn’t scoop me on that team chemistry story. What with all the time you’ve been spending with Charles.”

  “You know I don’t care about football. They could be openly fighting in the streets and I wouldn’t write about it.”

  “Your loss,” he replies, with a shrug. “I suppose it’s possible you’ll get a job by writing about serious, important stuff, but if you want a bit of friendly advice, I recommend you write what’s popular.”

  Peter doesn’t know how to give friendly advice. He knows full well that my best chance of beating him to the top jobs involves serious writing that impresses an interviewer.

  “I’ll continue to write what interests me, although I appreciate your concern.” The words weren’t completely dripping in sarcasm, but they weren’t exactly sincere either.

  “You’ve got a real stick up your ass, you know that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. You need to loosen up a bit. No one wants to hire some boring, pretentious bitch who will likely file a sexual harassment suit the second a man looks at her in the office.”

  “Get stuffed, Peter. I’m too busy for your shit right now.”

  “I’m sure you are. Why don’t you run on back to Charles and continue to not write front page stories?”

  I want to stick around in the office just to prove him wrong, but I know I won’t get any work done while he’s around. I’m stubborn, but I’m not that stubborn.

  As I walk home, I realize Peter is right. I do need to loosen up. I also need to stop letting Charles be a distraction. Unfortunately, if I try to ignore Charles, I’ll end up more uptight and distracted than ever. Besides, ignoring him won’t help. Charles will just take it as a challenge, and I’ll probably see more of him than ever.

  Perhaps there is one way to relax and have Charles be less distracting. It’s a little counterintuitive, but I think it might just work.

  “Becky? I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course you can.” Charles steps aside and I walk into his huge mansion, the entryway more spacious than my entire apartment.

  I only made the decision to come here ten minutes ago, but I’m already having doubts. I convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. If I go home, all I’ll do is sit in front of my laptop and not write anything while thinking about Charles. By coming here first, I get my dose of Charles and then maybe I can concentrate. That makes sense. I think. If not, I’m making a huge mistake.

  I kick my shoes off by the door, and look up at Charles. It’s only now I realize he’s wearing an apron. It’s new—creases still visible from where it was recently folded in a square shape—and Charles looks slightly awkward in it, like he’s never worn one before.

  “Are you cooking?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “And do you always wear an apron when you cook?” I try to suppress a smile, but it’s hard. He looks so damn cute in the apron. It’s too small for him, but with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he still looks damn appealing. I don’t often want to stop men from cooking, but now is definitely one of those times.

  “I’ve never worn an apron in my life,” Charles says.

  “So why start now?”

  “Because I ruined three shirts due to burning fat flying everywhere while trying to fry fish. Turns out cooking is quite hard.”

  “I thought you just looked up a recipe on the internet and followed the instructions? You made it sound so easy.”

  “The instructions leave so much out. Like, what does ‘bring it to a low boil’ even mean? Surely it’s either boiling or it’s not?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. Most of my cooking happens in a microwave.”

  We walk through to the kitchen and I immediately realize why Charles needs the apron. There’s more food on the floor than there is in any of the pans. He has a laptop on the counter, but it is covered in grease and looks like it was left too close to a food explosion.

  “This is your attempt at making fish and chips?” I ask.

  “I want you to sample a proper British meal, but now I know why people don’t actually cook this at home. This is take-out food and is supposed to be prepared in industrial kitchens.”

  “Is that your official excuse?”

  “I think it’s a good one.”

  I shrug. “I’ve heard worse. Are you still cooking?”

  “No, I’m just finishing up for the day.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes, good. Charles?”

  “Yes?”

  “Take off the apron.”

  I’ve never initiated sex. Not once with Brian did I ever make the first move. I can’t believe that after all this time of Charles chasing me for sex, it’s me who is initiating it. I just want to touch him. I need to reach out and feel those muscles that I always see flexing under his tight t-shirts. I want to trace his abs with my fingers. I want to look at his cock without feeling the need to instantly look away in embarrassment and shame.

  I watch him peel off the apron, and my newfound confidence quickly evaporates. I’m ridiculously wet, and have been since I made the decision to come here. I ache for his touch; I don’t want to mess around anymore. I need to feel him. I need him to feel me.

  He grabs my wrist and pulls me in the direction of the stairs. I’ve not been up there yet. If I cross that threshold then it’s official. A tutor doesn’t go in her student’s bedroom.

  “Wait,” I mutter, “maybe we shouldn’t.”

  “You’re not going to give me that lecture about it being inappropriate are you?” I look at him silently. I should give him that lecture. Hell, I should give myself that lecture, but we both know it wouldn’t do much good at this stage. “You want this. I know you want this, so let me take you upstairs and fuck you like I’ve wanted to do since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  I keep my mouth firmly closed, and let him lead me up to the bedroom. His house suddenly feels impossibly big, with the bedroom seeming to get further and further away with each step. I have plenty of time to change my mind, but it’s not going to happen. I’m helpless.

  This has to happen now. If it doesn’t, I’ll never be able to focus on anything else again. Studying will be impossible, and my future will consist solely of resisting the urge to come here for a booty call.

  I’m hopelessly out of my depth. His bedroom is that of an adult. My experience with Brian was all quic
k fumbles in a dorm room after a few drinks at parties. It had been ‘student sex.’ This is the real deal. No drink, no loud music outside, no making do with a single bed. No compromising.

  Charles guides me to the bed and stands directly in front of me. His eyes meet mine, but his hand begins tracing the neckline of my blouse, parting it gently, as his fingers graze the tops of my breasts.

  “Take it off,” he commands, his voice soft, but smooth.

  He steps back a foot, but keeps his eyes up as I slowly unbutton the blouse. Soon those eyes will be on my breasts. I feel my nipples harden just thinking about it. My breasts feel warm, but prickly with goosebumps at the same time. The heat between my legs increases with each button I open. He’s going to see me down there. He’ll touch me. He’ll feel how wet I am for him.

  Finally, I wriggle out of the blouse and let it drop to the floor. He still hasn’t checked me out. Does he not want to? Why look at my eyes when I’m standing here in my bra? I want him to ogle me. I want him to stare at me like I stare at him.

  “Now the skirt,” he growls. There’s frustration in his voice. He does want to look, but he’s delaying his pleasure. He’s drawing it out, and he’s going to do the same to me.

  “It’s your turn.”

  “No. I’ll undress when you’ve earned it. Take off the skirt.”

  My fingers are sliding down the zipper before I even think to argue. My skirt quickly drops to the floor and I’m left standing there in just a bra and drenched panties. Instinctively, my arms reach out to cover my chest, but Charles grabs my wrists and gently pushes me down onto the bed.

  I lie on my back, propped up on my elbows, while Charles undresses painfully slowly in front of me. His large fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt, until slowly but surely, I can see the firm pecs and hard abs that greeted me that first day in the sauna.

  My eyes move to his traps as he bends over to take off his pants. When he stands back up, he’s completely naked, his huge cock proudly hanging between his legs ready for its orders.

  It’s too much. I close my eyes, and try to focus on thoughts that will quell the passion burning between my legs.

  I’m his tutor.

  But I’m not a real professor.

  I could get fired.

  It doesn’t matter. I need the additional time to focus on my studies and work.

  I could lose my scholarship.

  That one almost does it, but not quite. Who needs a degree when I have a man like Charles?

  Nothing helps. The mattress sinks as he climbs onto the bed. He’s going to be on top of me. Inside me. It’s almost too much to bear.

  Suddenly he’s beside me—an arm stretching under my back as he unclasps my bra and tosses it to one side. His fingers brush lightly against my cheek as he runs them down my neck and towards my chest. My nipples are rock hard in anticipation and practically jolt in shock when he finally touches them.

  I wait for him to squeeze them, but instead his hands keep moving down, brushing my stomach before reaching the waistband of my panties. I freeze under his touch as I wait for him to discover just how much I need him. My panties are more wet than dry now, and soon his fingers graze over the soaking wet crotch.

  “And I thought I was excited,” Charles says with a smile. He leans in to kiss my neck while his fingers grab hold of my panties and yank them down past my knees. I kick them off the rest of the way as he plants kisses on my neck and squeezes my thigh.

  I’m hot all over. Every part of me wants a piece of him. His lips are the subject of an intense battle between my lips, my neck, my breasts, and my dripping pussy.

  His hand keeps wandering between my thighs, covering every inch of my skin until he finally parts my legs and slides his fingers into my warm, wet folds.

  “Oh, God,” I whimper, grabbing his hair with one hand and digging my fingers into the muscles of his back with the other. I’ve been ignoring the voices in my head all this time, but now they’ve shut up completely. Every part of me wants this. Every part of my body, and even my brain, wants Charles to keep his hands on me forever.

  I pull his head away from my neck and we kiss. His tongue parts my lips and pushes through into my mouth, as I try to fight back, determined not to let him have everything his own way.

  Who am I kidding?

  His erection is already pressing into my leg, inching slowly closer to my entrance and leaving a trail of precum on my thigh.

  I want to urge him on, to beg him to hurry up and fuck me, but his thick cock on my thigh has left me lost for words. All I can do is lie on the bed and let him have his way with me.

  He slides a thick finger inside me, palm pressing against my clit as he rubs against the sensitive part of my core that sends a shockwave of pleasure coursing through my body.

  “You’ll be thinking of this moment next time you’re trying to teach me,” he growls in my ear. “You’ll never be able to look at me the same way again. Every time you pull out those highlighters, you’ll think about the moment my cock slipped inside you and changed your life.”

  He’s right. Sort of. I’ve already thought about moments like this during our study sessions. He thinks I’m working when I’m staring at his strong arms, his forceps flexing as he grips his pen. I never thought I could be so turned on watching someone study.

  “Stop teasing,” I purr.

  I reach down and claw at his hard ass, trying to pull him on top of me. He’s practically immovable and doesn’t budge. Instead he pulls away, his finger leaving my core, as he grabs a condom from the drawer by the bed and quickly rolls it down over his long cock.

  The condom barely fits and I have a strong suspicion I know how Dana ended up pregnant. Thank God I’m on the pill.

  He crawls back between my legs, the tip of his shaft quickly parting my folds before he thrusts deep inside me. My eyes open wide in shock as I get an instant reminder that Charles is a lot longer and thicker than Brian had been. There’s the tiniest bit of discomfort as he fills me, but it passes in an instant, my wetness welcoming him inside me.

  He watches my reaction pass from pain to pleasure, and then leans down to kiss me on the lips while a hand reaches up to grab my breast. He pinches the nipple between thumb and forefinger, and squeezes hard in time with the deep thrusts of his cock.

  I try to wrap my arms around his wide shoulders, but he grabs both my wrists and pins them down by the side of my head.

  “You’re mine,” he says softly, but intently. “Remember that.”

  I nod, unable to speak, and lost for words even if I could. Gasps of breath are forced from my body as each hard pounding of his hips against mine sends more spasms through my body. I’ve never done this before. This isn’t sex. Not normal sex. This is something else entirely. Sex is something pleasurable and a little awkward. This is animalistic. I have no control over my body. I’m getting fucked harder than I thought possible, and my body can’t get enough.

  He’s not letting up. Each thrust is slightly harder, slightly deeper than the one before. Just when I think there isn’t another nerve he can’t light on fire, he finds one.

  Then he tips me over the edge. Actually, he pushes me over without a parachute. There’s nothing I can do as my core sends a pulse through my body that escapes through my mouth in a loud scream. It’s not a moan. It’s a chilling scream. It’s the sort of scream that makes me thankful Charles doesn’t have neighbors sharing a wall, because they’d call the police.

  I don’t even notice Charles finish. It happens while I’m shaking on the bed, unable to open my eyes, or move a muscle. He practically has to extricate my fingers from his back.

  He pulls out of me, but doesn’t roll off. He stares at me, kisses me on the lips, and then stares at me again. His smile is one of smug satisfaction, but I can’t blame him. He deserves to be pleased with himself after that performance.

  “This afternoon, I’m the tutor and you’re the student.”

  He leans in to kiss me, but I plac
e a finger on his lips and gently push him away. “Just to be clear, I’m not paying you $15 an hour.”

  “I’m worth it,” he insists. I raise my eyebrows, which is about the most I can do to argue that point. “Okay, I guess I can work for free. This is a passion project after all.”

  He leans in to kiss me, and this time I don’t stop him. Not for a long time.

  Chapter 8

  Charles

  She’s gone. The other side of the bed is warm, but empty.

  She fucked and ran. I’ve done the same thing myself a few times, but I’ve never been on the receiving end. I have to admit, it stings a little.

  I know I’m going to see her again, so it’s not exactly the same as when I do it. I’m mainly annoyed because I woke up with a raging boner and have nowhere to stick it. Does Becky not realize morning sex is just as good as afternoon sex and evening sex? Sometimes it’s better. There’s something about fucking when you’re both still a little sleepy, covered in sticky sweat from the night before, and in desperate need of a toothbrush. Okay, so perhaps it’s not as glamorous, but it ends the same way.

  My boner isn’t going anywhere, so I sling on a dressing gown and head downstairs. It’s not a pretty sight. The kitchen is the same as I left it before Becky ordered me to undress completely out of the blue. Neither of us wanted to cook after we’d worked up an appetite, so we ordered take-out. The empty containers are still strewn across the living room.

  Can’t you at least have tidied up before you left, Becky? Mental note—never say anything like that to her face.

  I’m under strict instructions not to eat sugary cereal for breakfast, but no one ever said anything about leftover Chinese food. I reheat some sesame chicken and noodles while half-heartedly tidying the kitchen. When I say ‘tidying the kitchen,’ what I really mean is moving dirty pans to the sink and leaving them there. This is why I have a cleaner.