Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Christina Clark

  “And who are you?” Farrah asked Carrie snottily.

  “Carrie Toussaint, a journalist from The Daily Dirt. I'm working with the team.”

  “Oh. So you're just a reporter, then.” Farrah's face brightened. She paused, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You didn't spend the night here, did you?”

  “No...?” Carrie's upward inflection was telling, but it seemed to go over Farrah's head.

  “Okay.” Farrah flicked her head to the side. “Come on. My car's parked downstairs.”

  Farrah, Carrie, and I sped down all 6 flights of steps in the emergency exit. We burst through the heavy doors of the building entrance. As Carrie and I rushed past a sleek Aston Martin painted in gleaming silver, Farrah called out to us from behind.

  “Hey, guys. Where are you going?”

  Farrah pushed down on the car remote in her fist. The bad boy beeped twice, unlocking its doors. Carrie and I exchanged high-brow looks of skepticism before retreating.

  “Ride up front with me, won't you, my King?”

  I obliged, ducking into the passenger's seat. Carrie slid into the backseat, whistling as she closed the door behind her. The car was pimped out with a full wine-red interior, from the leather seats to the tinted windows. Farrah dumped the breakfast and Powerade in my lap before strapping in. She gripped the gold covers of her steering wheel, revving up the engine.

  “Sweet ride,” was all I could say. “How'd you even –”

  “Oh. I get that a lot,” said Farrah, looking behind her to pull out of her spot. “My parents are loaded.”

  “This car is amazing – or as kids these days say, goals.” Carrie's smile faded as she pointed out the clock on the dashboard. “Oh my god. It's 12:39, and the stadium's all the way across town.”

  “Thanks. And don't you worry.” Farrah reached up to adjust the rearview mirrors. “We'll be there by 12:58.”

  “Are you –”

  I was thrown back in my seat as the car jetted forward, peeling out from the parking spot.

  XXX

  “Thanks,” I leaned into the doorway of the passenger's seat. “I owe you for this, Farrah. Big time.”

  “I'd do anything for you, my King.” Farrah winked and blew a kiss at me. “Now go get 'em.”

  I was feeling like shit on a stick with my pounding hangover, coupled with the reckless way Farrah burned rubber, but none of that mattered. Farrah had kept up her end of the deal. I had 3 minutes to spare. Carrie and I went our separate ways. As she made her way to the VIP suites, I cut through the South Tower towards the locker room.

  I rammed my side into the door and stumbled into the room. The guys were in full gear, a sea of helmets only recognizable by their names and numbers on their uniforms. Coach whirled around to look at me, his teeth clenched and fury ablaze in his bulging eyes. Odell lifted the face mask of his helmet, shaking his head, but looking relieved. On the opposite end of the room, the vibes were just that. Val was visibly seething, crossing his arms over his chest as he glowered at me.

  “Coach, I know I fucked up, and I'm real sorry –”

  The vein bulging out of Coach's temple looked like it was ready to explode. I stood in place, bracing myself. Coach glanced at the clock and looked back at me with a face screwed up in disgust.

  “Goddammit, Kelly. That thin ice you're on is melting fast. This is your last chance. Now go get geared up before I change my fucking mind.”

  Chapter Eleven: Carrie

  Kingsley's warm, wet tongue dragged across my collarbone. A soft zipping sound filled our ears as my fingernails scratched against the crocodile leather sofa. I shut my eyes, allowing the sensual tickle of his tongue to roam down my chest. Up until this point, I'd been rectifying my half-year long dry spell with my g-spot vibrator and hula beads that I skillfully hid from Jamie and Jackson. I'd been completely fine without it, but finally feeling a warm body next to mine and the dizzying tongue exploring my flesh seemed to unlock a thirst I'd been neglecting for so long.

  Kingsley scooped up my breasts and pushed them together, burying his face in the supple cushion of my cleavage. I chewed on the tip of my tongue, fighting to keep still as he latched onto my right nipple. Despite his heavily inebriated state, Kingsley was sucking on and lapping at my nipple with more potent tenderness than the last 4 schmucks I went home with – and they were all sober.

  “Christ, Carrie, your tits feel amazing,” Kingsley mumbled, surfacing to take a breath. He reached between my legs and glazed his fingers with my pussy juices. Coating my nipple with the sticky liquid, he pulled back his finger gingerly. The filmy liquid stretched, connecting his fingertip to my nipple. He peered up at me, his cool gray eyes piercing into mine as he watched me squirm.

  “Don't fight it, Carrie. You like what I'm doing to you, don't you?”

  I moaned throatily in reply, my toes curling as the heels of my feet skidded back and forth against the sofa.

  “It's okay. You can admit it.”

  Another shivering tingle crept up my arms at his cocky smirk. For all that was good and holy, I couldn't understand what he was doing to me. Kingsley eased my legs apart, inspecting the slimy wet lips of my cunt up close. He smacked his lips and stroked my heaving cunt, the soft growl coming from his throat almost animal.

  “Fuck, you've got a beautiful pussy.” He spanked my mound three times, each a little harder than the last.

  I felt my flushed cheeks go even redder, feeling both exposed and aroused by his remarks. He dipped his head between my legs, kissing the trembling inside of my thigh. I pressed my fingers against my clit, moistening myself for him.

  “I gotta confess, I've been beating off in the shower the last couple of days, just fantasizing about what you'd look like underneath all those clothes...”

  Kingsley guided the tip of his middle finger into my yearning slit slowly, calculating the expressive bliss unfolding across my face. I had to admit myself, though not out loud – imagining Kingsley railing me from behind had helped me achieve sexual fruition on more than one occasion, too. And for some mystifying reason, the fact that I couldn't stand his guts made the final release even sweeter.

  Kingsley smiled, bending forward to catch the juices trickling down my thigh before it could leak onto the leather.

  “Man, I've already busted a load twice and I'm still itching to fuck the shit out of you.”

  “Enough talking,” I spoke up hoarsely. “Why don't you put that mouth to better use?”

  I pushed him away gently with one leg and flipped myself over. My knees burrowed in to the sofa as I got on all fours, the leather still warm from my body. I gathered my hair over one side of my neck and looked over my shoulder, lowering my eyes seductively.

  “Mm, that's an even better view...”

  I reached behind me and spread my pussy lips apart, egging him on. He buried his face between my legs and started slurping me up, holding me still by my ankles. I thrust my hips backwards, grinding deeper into his face. Pinning his knees over the back of my legs, he pushed my ass cheeks apart and started toying with the sensitive peephole with his finger. At the same time, he ravaged my pulsing labia, his swirling tongue roaming between my lips.

  Resting my head against the armrest of the sectional sofa, my eyes squeezed shut. I massaged my aching pearl and tugged on my pert nipple in sloppy, desperate rhythm. My jaw was hanging loose and my lips twisting and turning in soundless rhapsody.

  When I felt 2 of Kingsley's fingers tearing through my cunt, my eyes popped right back open. I liberated my nipple and slipped a clump of my hair in my mouth, biting down to muffle my shaking moans. Every one of my orifices manipulated simultaneously was a knee-numbing sensation too much for me to handle.

  I was about to explode any second, threatening to squirt on his face and down his chin –

  “Carrie, there you are!”

  Jamie's voice cracked through my midday daydream like a defective PA system. I pulled the back of the No. 2 pencil out of my mouth. The pink eraser was ridd
led with teeth marks and the aftertaste of rubber lingered on my tongue.

  I set the pencil back down next to the crossword puzzle in front of me. I was usually a beast when it came to crossword puzzles and would have them done in under 15-20 minutes in one sitting. But in my distraction, I'd only filled up one of the answers – an 11-letter word with the description: “the occurrence and development of events by accident in a happy or beneficial way.”

  Serendipity. I took a hearty sip of my homemade peach tea. Feeling the damp spot in the crotch of my paisley yoga pants, I crossed my leg over the other tightly and tucked it under the crotchet tablecloth.

  Jamie thumped down the steps and into the kitchen, carrying a half-eaten bowl of dry cereal.

  “There you are.” Jamie dumped the uneaten cereal into the garbage disposal and turned it on. She raised her voice over the metallic whirring from within the sink. “Didn't you hear me?”

  “Sorry, I must have spaced out.” I tapped my pencil against the crossword puzzle. “Trying to do the crossword puzzle and all.”

  “Looks like you're having a tough time there,” Jamie remarked as she peeked at the empty puzzle. “Want a popsicle?”

  “No, thanks.” I eyed the inside of the freezer as Jamie fished out the tray of popsicles. “Leave the rainbow long-neck for Jackson when he's feeling better. It's his favorite.”

  “Bleugh. Watermelon.” Jamie wrinkled her nose as she pulled out the red pterodactyl. She popped it into her mouth and pulled up the chair next to me.

  “So, how's Jackson doing?”

  “Poor thing isn't eating much today.” Jamie frowned behind her popsicle licks. “But everything he's eaten over the last couple of days have come right back out, so that's understandable. I can't even begin to imagine what my poor baby is going through.”

  “I know.” I took a deep breath, wrapping my fingers around my neck to ease the rising sting in my throat. “But Jackson's such a little fighter, he's going to get through –”

  “Aww, would you look at what one of the fellow mommies linked me on Instagram!” Jamie shoved her phone under my nose. I stared at a picture of Jackson's home IV set-up and his packets of medication with a godawful filter and frame slapped on it. Below the picture was a caption that read, “Another trip to the hospital...Please pray for my sweet little boy's swift recovery. #GrievingMama, #StayStrongJackson, #SingleMamaLife, #PrayforJackson, #MyLittleAngel.”

  Jamie clicked on the link, which directed her to a YouTube video of Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey's “When You Believe.”

  “Oh my goodness. I can't believe ProudMama22 liked and commented on my page. She's only one of the most followed Instagram mommies in New York City,” Jamie gushed. As soon as the video started playing, she started to belt along. “Many nights we prayed, with no proof anyone could hear. In our hearts a hopeful song we barely understood. Now we are not afraid –”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” I barked at Jamie's startled face. “Cut it out!”

  “What are you –”

  I slammed my fist on the table. My peach tea sloshed back and forth in the glass. Jamie looked at me blankly, retracting her phone.

  “I'm sick and tired of you rambling on and on about your bullshit Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter followers. Doesn't matter if you get 50 or 50,000 likes or re-tweets – none of that's going to fix your son.”

  “What's with you, Carrie?” Jamie lowered her popsicle, her voice wobbling. “Why are you –”

  “If you exerted this much effort in real life as you do with this obnoxious 'proud, single mama' persona you're pushing so hard on social media, we'd all be better off, wouldn't we? Why aren't you taking advantage of the times I am home and get yourself some extra shifts? You've got a beautiful voice, why don't you start looking for singing jobs at a local lounge club?! Do something! Anything!”

  By the time I was finished with my rant, my face was a flushed and sweaty mess. And almost immediately, I was struck by a wave of remorse, but it felt so good to get everything off my chest. Jamie was stunned, just staring at me with pinched lips.

  “You don't know how hard it is for me –”

  “It's hard on all of us, Jamie,” I spoke over her, which in hindsight, was pretty unfair of me. “Kingsley Kelly is not going to pay off all of Jackson's bills – things aren't always going to be this easy, Jamie. Wake the fuck up and get it together.”

  “You think you've got it all figured out, don't you.” Jamie rose to her feet. Her popsicle fell out of her hands, landing with a loud splat across the kitchen floors, floors that I'd just mopped this morning. “I'm so sorry if you think Jackson and I are holding you back –”

  “I never said that –”

  “You wanna know why I'm always on social media? Maybe it's not real to you, but it is to me. It's the only place I feel like I matter. Yeah, I may not know any of those people, but I get more support from them than anyone else in this damn house.”

  “Oh, really? They're 'supporting' you?” I challenged her. I'd started it, and now I couldn't back down. “How much money are they sending you every month? Free day care, maybe? Anyone? No?”

  “Whatever. I don't know what your problem is, but you're being an especially miserable bitch today.” Jamie grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter and stomped out the door. “I need to get out of here for a minute.”

  “So I guess you're not gonna clean that up, huh?” I called out to the slam of the front door.

  Right as I'd stooped down to start cleaning up the popsicle puddle, the door to Jackson's room creaked open.

  “Aunt Carrie? Mommy? Is anyone there?”

  I sighed, ripping off a dozen sheets from the paper towel roll and laying it over the puddle to soak.

  “Coming!”

  Chapter Twelve: Kingsley

  I held onto Ivanka's long braid, jerking her head towards me. My cock pumped in and out of her, the slippery condom drenched in her juices and traces of her milky ejaculate. I screwed my fingers into her hips, drilling harder into her from behind.

  As always, the bird's eye view of fucking this work of art was unbelievable. Ivanka's expressions and her light, feminine groans of pleasure were so perfect, it almost seemed rehearsed. I glanced over to the full-length mirror covering the wall next to the bed. Her tits were swinging back and forth, the skin around her nipples pink from all the twisting and pulling. Her ass cheeks were glowing from a mixture of massage oil and sweat, and it was damn near hypnotizing.

  That said, I'd been fucking her for over 20 minutes now, and it didn't look like I was close to nutting. It had nothing to do with Ivanka, but I just couldn't get into it. With every new position we'd take on, Carrie's goddamned face would wander into my mind's eye.

  I released Ivanka's braid and pulled myself out of her. Wiping away the sweat dripping down my forehead with the back of my arm, I laid back on the bed and propped my head up with a couple of pillows. Ivanka took the hint and climbed on top of me with her back facing me. She spread her legs wide and squatted, slowly squeezing the warmth of her cunt over my tip and down my shaft. I placed my fingers on the small of her back, watching her cute little ass cheeks bounce as she rode on my dick.

  I licked my lips and closed my eyes.

  The mischievous grin on Carrie's face as she disrobed in my living room was all I could see. She shed her clothes one piece at a time, teasing me, fully aware of what she was doing to me. Her heavy tits weighed down naturally from their size, and her large suckable nipples were swollen stiff from the cold air blasting out the air vent above. I've always been impartial to stretch marks, but something about the way Carrie strutted towards me, proud and unashamed of her body, just took me to a different place. And when she did a 360 to show off that impeccable hourglass figure just for me, she flaunted her magnificent ass, each round, meaty cheek jiggling as she moved.

  With the wet noises of Ivanka's bouncing cunt as my soundtrack, I pictured Carrie hoisting herself up to the coffee table in front of me.
She cranked her legs apart as far as they would go, hooking the heels of her feet onto the edge of the table. As she fixed her eyes on mine, she stuck her fingers into her mouth and lubricated herself. She wanted to make sure I was watching her.

  Carrie squeezed her left titty with one hand before slowly carrying it to her face. I watched, mesmerized as she bowed forward to meet her tit halfway. While she stuck out her tongue and circled it around her own nipple, she reached between her legs with her free hand and wiggled her finger into her cunt.

  Carrie's low, erotic grunt felt raw and unforced. She wasn't worrying about looking pretty and was just letting loose, pleasuring herself like I wasn't even in the room. Eventually, she let her tit fall back into place.

  Her glistening nipple was dented with teeth marks. She focused on her cunt instead, forcing a second finger into the slit with her. Her bare ass cheeks were squeaking against the glass of the coffee table from all her squirming. With every thrust of her finger, her generous tits shook along with her panting chest. She snuck a third finger in there, the corners of her mouth curling in a raunchy smile...

  “Ah, fuck...”

  My eyes opened for a split second. I grabbed onto the side of the headboard, feeling every muscle in my body tighten. All the pent up cum squirted out my cock in one go, ballooning the tip of the condom while still balls deep in Ivanka. Ivanka clutched her chest, supporting herself on the flat of my stomach as she pulled herself off my dick.

  “What was that about?” Ivanka asked accusingly as she swung her legs off the bed. She reached for a towel and started patting the sides of her face. “I can't believe how sore I am now... Were you jerking off too many times in the shower this morning?”

  “No.” I hopped off the bed and headed into the filthy shower of the backwater motel room.

  “Skitstövel. It smells like rat piss in here.” Ivanka's complaints followed me into the bathroom. She scowled as she pulled off her hair tie and the pins in her hair. Her golden locks fell over shoulders, still wavy from her braid. “You couldn't have picked a worse place for our rendezvous, or however you want to call this.”