by Megyn Ward
“I think you forgot the rules.” He’s behind me now, the pulsating length of his cock pressed between my thighs. Feeling him there, so close to where I need him makes me whimper. “You don’t come until I say so, remember?.” He reaches down to pull my fingers free.
The legs begins to shake. “Patrick, please…”
Lifting my arm over my head, he covers my hand with his own, pressing it into the wall beside the mirror. “I’m a nice guy—is that what she said?” He leans over and whispers it in my ear. “I want to know.”
I open my eyes and the image that greets me takes my breath away. My sweat-slicked breasts bared, nipples hard and swollen. My arms above my head, Hands trapped, pressed flat against the wall by his wide, callused palm. Patrick’s chest is bare, a pair of basketball shorts yanked down around his hips. I can see the huge, swollen length of him pushed between my legs.
His hips grind slowly, sliding the shaft of his cock along the seam of my wet pussy, pushing between its folds, the head of it hitting my clit, over and over until I’m shaking uncontrollably.
“Please...”
He lifts his free hand and captures one of my breasts. “As soon as you tell me what I want to know…” He pinches my nipple hard, rolling it between his thumb and finger, tugging and caressing. “I’ll let you come…” His heavy-lidded gaze locked on the hand on my breast. “I’ll even help you.” He rolls his hips against me and I moan, my knees buckling slightly. “Is that what she told you? That I’m a nice guy in bed.”
I nod my head, swallowing hard.
Patrick slides his hand down my torso and it disappears behind the veil of my skirt a moment before I feel him. Slipping his fingers inside, he pumps them in and out of my quivering center to coat them with my arousal before finding my clit. “Words, please,” he growls, rolling the swollen nub under his juice-slicked fingers.
“Yes.” The words tumble out on a shuttering groan.
He pulls my hand off the wall and presses it between my legs, replacing his with mine, guiding my fingers, pressing them inside me. “You want hear something funny?” he says, his fingers still circling my clit, the pleasure of it, his hand and mine, heavy between my legs before his finger leave me completely. “I never fucked Sara.” In the mirror, I watch him coat his cock with my arousal, his glossy fingers sliding up and down the straining length of his shaft. “Not without thinking about you.”
The hand on my breast slides around my shoulder, closing around the back of my neck. “Because that’s the only way I can get hard.” The hand on my neck trails down my spine while his other hand pumps his cock. “Do you know how bad that fucks with someone’s head? Knowing the only person he can get hard for thinks he’s a fucking joke?”
The hand on my spine brushes across my lower back, fingertips dipping into the cleft of my ass, feathering and teasing against its hole and I moan. Oh, my god…
“I tried being with someone else and it didn’t work. I tried to be the nice guy and you wouldn’t let me.” He presses his thumb against my puckered hole. “I don’t understand what you want from me.” He slips the tip of it inside, the sudden pressure of it turning me inside out while the head of his cock jerks against my juncture of my thighs with the forces of his strokes.
“Patrick…” The orgasm rips me apart, screaming through me, so hard and violent I feel myself sliding down, a puddle of me gushing to the floor like water. Anchoring an arm around my waist, Patrick hold me upright, the head of his cock hot between my ass cheeks.
“I’m gonna come all over your ass,” he tells me, his chest heaving with the effort to keep his own orgasm at bay.
“Yes...” That’s all I can say as my pussy grips and pulls at my fingers as a second orgasm pulls me under. “Come on me.”
“Fuck.” He lets out a roar, the fast, rhythmic pump of his hand up and down his cock becomes frantic, seconds before I feel the hot spurts of his release against my ass cheeks. The back of my thighs. Between them.
His hand comes up to brace against the wall over my head and he leans into me, the length of his cock pressed between my slippery ass cheeks, jerking and twitching the last of his release. So much, I can feel it start to creep down the inside of my thigh.
Suddenly, his fingers close over my chin, twisting my face around, his mouth and tongue devouring mine. I want to turn around. Wrap my arms around him so he can carry me to bed but he won’t let me. He keeps me where I am, breaking the kiss, turning my face again to run his tongue along my jawline.
“This is what I see every time I watch you in this mirror,” he whispers in my ear before trailing his tongue up the length of my neck, gaze fused to mine. “I want you to see it too.” He moves his hand between my legs, grips me by the wrist, stoking me with my fingers before pulling them free. “I want you to feel it, every time you look in this goddamned mirror.” I watch as he lifts my fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean of my juices, the feel of his tongue against my skin almost enough to make me come again.
You broke it, you bought it.
What Conner said to me earlier replays in my brain.
“Make me feel bad,” I say, feeling a perverse kind of satisfaction when his shoulders stiffen against the sharp jab of my words.
He looks away from our reflection and lets go of my hand.
“Earlier today when I was getting ready for my date. You came up here to…” make me come. Remembering it, heat rushed over my body. It didn’t matter than I’ve had more orgasms in the past 24-hours than I’ve had in that last six months. My body wants more. “You interrupted me while I was talking. I was going to say all you want to do is make me feel bad.”
He won’t look at me. All I can see is his profile in the mirror, his clean-shaven jaw flexing. His teeth grinding and clenching. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something but he doesn’t. He just steps back and reaches down to catch a hold of my panties, still around my knees. “Well, you know what they say about misery, Cari,” he tells me, pulling them up, the crotch of them instantly soaked with my arousal and his release when they meet the juncture of my thighs. He smooths the seam of them across my hips before leaning into me to whisper in my ear again. “It loves company.”
Thirty-seven
Patrick
I don’t sleep. Instead, I lay in bed and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. If the past hour did anything, it proved to me that whatever it is, it’s not going to get better anytime soon.
After Benny’s I ordered Sara an Uber and waited with her for it arrive while Conner walked Tess home. I could hear them arguing one of their classics—Superman vs. Batman—their voices growing fainter and fainter the farther away they got. Sara and I made awkward small talk until her car showed up and then I walked home alone.
Despite what I said to her before she left, I’d resolved to keep my hands to myself and my dick in my pants tonight. It was somewhere between two and three o’clock in the morning. I had to be up in four hours. Regardless of my ridiculous posturing to the contrary, I had absolutely no claim on Cari. I couldn’t fuck her just because I wanted to.
And holy shit, I wanted to.
But, I wasn’t going to. I was going to take a hot shower and try to steam the stench of beer and coconut rum out of my pores and then I was going to go to bed. I was not going to go to her. I wasn’t going to touch her. I wasn’t going to peel her panties off and taste her. Make her scream my name.
I wasn’t.
When I got home she was still gone. Still on her date and it did something to me. Twisted my guts into knots. Blurred my vision. Made it hard to breathe. Made me want to wait for her in the dark and pounce on her the second she walked through the front door.
But I stayed on track. I took a shower. I even shaved. Pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and climbed into bed.
I lasted a whole five minutes before I was up again, in the living room, waiting for her to come home.
Cari does not belong to me just because I want her to.
&n
bsp; Cari is a grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions.
After the way I’ve treated her, Cari is smart to stay away from me.
These are things I told myself, over and over, while I waited for her to walk through the door. When she came home, I was going to apologize. I was going to let her apologize to me. We were going to move on. Try to be friends again. Put this all behind us.
Then she walked through the door and all my good intentions went out the window. What I did is the exact, polar opposite of moving on. I ordered her to finger fuck herself while I jerked off and came all over her ass. Not exactly something a friend would do. Not something a sane, rational person would do either.
The worst of it is, when I left her standing there, her perfect ass covered in my cum, I wasn’t finished with by her half. I’d wanted more. So much more. I felt myself teetering on the brink and it took every ounce of decency I had left to force myself to walk away.
Decency.
The word flopped over in my brain and I laughed out loud, the harsh sound of it ricocheting off the walls of my room like a bullet because I’m pretty sure now I’ve never actually been decent. I’ve never really been the nice guy. I’ve just been pretending this whole time. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, going through the motions to please the people around me. I’d gotten so good at it I even fooled myself.
It’s different with Cari. I’m different with Cari. I can’t pretend. Not anymore. I’m harder. Sharper. Relentless. I’m someone I don’t even recognize half the time. Someone I’m not sure I like.
The only thing I’m sure of is I can’t stop. I can’t go back to who I was. Now that I’ve had her, I can’t let her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
Thirty-eight
Cari
I lay in bed, listening to Patrick move around the kitchen, alternating between working up the courage to get up and talk to him and willing him to come in here and make me come again. The thought makes my pussy clench in response, reminding me that he’d walked away from me before either one of us got what we really wanted.
Huffing out a frustrated breath I force myself out of bed. Pulling a pair of pink cotton boy shorts from the top drawer of my dresser, I pull them on before gathering my hair into a messy bun. It’s Sunday. I don’t even have to leave my room to know what he’s doing. He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, eating a quick bowl of cereal while he waits for the coffee to finish brewing so he can slam a cup before heading to his game. When I go out there, he’ll say good morning and act like nothing is happening between us. Like I still can’t feel his hand pressed against mine. On my breasts. Between my legs.
I’m gonna come all over your ass…
The flash of warm heat that rushes through me to settle between my legs is enough to make me have second thoughts about going out there.
I pull my door open and step into the hall, reminding myself that I live here too. I have just as much right as he does to be here. He can be as polite and proper as he wants.
In the kitchen, I find him doing exactly what I expected. He’s dressed in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt with the DG Contracting logo splashed across the front. He’s got a bowl of Raisin Bran in his hand and he’s making quick work of it, like here is the last place he wants to be. Next to him, on the counter, is his ball cap. He won’t put it on until he’s outside. If you ask him why, he’ll laugh at you and say, because I’m not an animal.
But I know that’s not true. Patrick Gilroy is a wolf, walking around in people clothes.
“Morning,” I say, forcing as much cheerfulness into my tone as I can but he doesn’t answer. It’s like I’m not even here. Turning away from him, I open the cabinet over the coffee maker. Pulling a cup free, I reach for the coffee pot to pour a cup. Leaning over I open the refrigerator, bending to pull the carton of half and half out to add a generous dollop. Moving around the kitchen, I can feel the weighted heat of his gaze on my ass. The sensation of it stiffens my nipples instantly.
Turning around, I lean against the short length of counter across from Patrick and take a sip of coffee. “I’m not going to make the game today,” I tell him, working to keep my tone light and friendly. “Chase is coming over.” It’s true. Chase is coming over but not for the reason I’m letting him believe. We spent the night at the gallery, watching people fawn over his work until the showing was over. Afterward, we walked and talked until nearly three in the morning and somewhere along the way it went from a first date to two friends, just hanging out, to a quazi-job interview.
He asked me about my painting, and after nearly an hour of poking and prodding, got me to agree to show him some of my work. “Chase is coming over,” I say it again because from his reaction, you would’ve thought I told him we were out of toilet paper.
“I heard you the first time,” he tells me, calmly. He doesn’t say anything else. He knows I’m pushing him. Trying to get some sort of reaction out of him. That for all my apologies and claims to the contrary, I can’t seem to stop playing games with him. He just stands there, eating his fucking Raisin Bran. Refusing to take the bait I’m dangling. It’s pissing me off.
Despite the fact that he treating me like I’m invisible, he’s hard, the impressive length of it pressing against the unforgiving fabric of his jeans and he doesn’t do anything to hide it. Doesn’t seem embarrassed or apologize. He wants me to see it. To remember.
And it works. Seeing it reminds me of last night, the feel of his shaft against my ass, pressed between my cheeks. The frantic jerking of his hand up and down his hard length. The head of his cock bumping against my puckered hole—half promise, half threat.
Heat erupts across my chest and I catch my lower lip between my teeth to keep myself from licking my lips. When I force my gaze upward, I find him staring right at me.
Finished with his cereal, he turns and rinses his bowl before placing it in the sink. Picking up his cap, he moves again and my breath catches in my throat when he stops right in front of me. Reaching for me, I suck in a sharp breath when his knuckles graze my nipple. He pulls my coffee cup out of my hand and takes a drink, his eyes never leaving mine. When he’s finished, he doesn’t give it back, instead he leans into me. So close I can feel the hard length of him press against my belly. Close enough to bring his mouth to my ear.
“Enjoy your day,” he says softly, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. Behind me, I hear the quiet click of my cup as he sets it on the counter I’m leaning against.
And then he’s gone. Out the kitchen, across the living room and through the front door before I can find the strength to take a breath.
Patrick’s getting really good at leaving me breathless.
Thirty-nine
Patrick
The situation with Cari is beyond fucked but this I can count on. The crack of the bat and the whip of the ball. The way the brim of my hat shades my eyes from the bright morning sun. The sting that thwacks into the center of my palm and radiates up my arm when I catch a fast ball. Being out here, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in days.
“You look like shit,” the kid I’m catching for tells me, his tone matter-of-fact. His name is Chris and he’s about fifteen. A neighborhood kid—they all are, ranging in ages from thirteen to seventeen. Behind him, Declan lobs balls deep into the outfield while kids hustle to keep up.
Chris is our starting pitcher and I’m crouched about twenty yards away, hat turned backward, so he can get warmed up. “Yeah?” I say, standing to toss the ball back to him. “I’d rather look like shit than look like you.”
“Ohhh,” Chris shoots back with a laugh, his arm rocketing out to throw me a more than decent curve ball. “Old man’s got jokes.”
“I’m twenty-five.” I catch the ball before popping up from my crouch. “I won’t be old for another five years.” I throw the ball back, putting a little more zip on it that usual to make my point.
Chris keeps laughing and gives me a fast ba
ll. “Whatever you say… old man.”
The kid’s curve is better than decent but his fastball is a thing of wonder. Fifteen-year-old me is more than a little jealous. The ball hits my hand so hard it goes numb. “Just keep throwing the ball, asshat,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know if I need a Geritol break.”
Chris stops for a second and cocks his head, grinning. “A what?”
I walked right into that one. “You talk too much,” I say, lowering myself into a crouch, planting my feet shoulder-width apart. “Just throw the ball. We don’t have all day.”
The game is at ten but Dec and I try to get here at least an hour early. He picks up kids who need rides in a company van while I stop at Benny’s and pick up a fuck-ton of breakfast burritos to feed the team. We tell them it’s because they need the protein but the real reason is because I know a lot of these kids don’t eat breakfast. To be honest, I don’t think a whole lot of them eat on a regular basis at all.
My senior year in college I had a business professor who assigned my class with drafting a business plan for a non-profit—that’s how Boston Batters was born. I knew from spending summers here as a kid that club ball cost a small fortune and city leagues didn’t offer the kind of instruction or involvement needed to help kids develop their talent or their character. So, instead of entrance fees and expensive equipment to buy, we offer the league for free. In return, the kids are required to participate in community service projects—some we set up and some they do on their own. So far, we have ten teams in the league, each sponsored and coached by different local businesses as well as a few larger firms and corporations. We practice a few evenings a week and have games on Sunday, going on two years now. As soon as I went into business with Declan, I talked him into sponsoring our first team. Tess and I are still working on Conner. It’s not the sponsoring he objects to. It’s the waking up before noon on a Sunday he isn’t sold on.
