“You like New York?”
“Oh, yes. So much happening here. It has a pulse.”
“So, you wouldn’t want to be too far away?”
He figured she was probing his future plans to see if they’d even want to live in the same state. He scratched the slight stubble on his chin. Good question. “I guess with the right girl, I could be happy just about anywhere.”
His response made her smile.
After their snack, they headed back to the hotel. Dinner was scheduled to be in his suite, overlooking Central Park. He stopped and pulled her to him for a light kiss before they reached the hotel. “Are you going to spend the night with me?” His brow furrowed.
She nodded, though he couldn’t read the expression on her face.
Is she happy? Scared? Nervous? Hell, I’m nervous, and I’ve slept with plenty of women. He cracked a big smile. “Good. I’m glad. We need to spend some time alone together.”
“Don’t assume I’m going to sleep with you. I haven’t made up my mind about that yet.”
“That’s okay. A permanent relationship isn’t all about sex,” he said. Maybe not, but if the sex isn’t off the charts, the lady won’t become Mrs. Harley Brennan.
They went to their separate rooms to shower and change. Harley dressed in khakis and a blue, button down shirt. He shaved, because some women didn’t like stubbly chins rubbing on their more sensitive places. Not that he assumed anything. But he hoped she’d say “yes.” That was his ultimate test.
A knock on the door called his attention as he stood at the picture window, marveling at the view. Cathy looked pretty, finally wearing a dress. It was a glittering, gold, halter dress showing off her bare shoulders. Harley made a mental note that it would be easier to take off, and there was no bra to fuss with.
“You look beautiful,” he said, as he stepped aside to let her in. The table was all set in shiny, sterling silver flatware and stunning, small flower patterned Villeroy & Boch china.
Cathy stepped in, smiling nervously.
Harley prayed he wouldn’t call her Shyla at the wrong moment, and then he shut the door.
Chapter Eight
The Savage Beast, a bar in Monroe, Connecticut
Tuffer Demson, defensive linebacker for the Connecticut Kings, stepped up to the front door of The Beast. The sign said “closed,” but he knocked anyway. The owner, Carla Ricci, answered.
“Tuff! Am I glad to see you!” She pulled him inside. There were a couple of ladders up, drop cloths were spread over half the floor, and buckets of paint stood open. Carla had a small smear of sky blue on her chin. She wore a man’s shirt a million sizes too big, short shorts that were covered by the top, and no shoes.
“Tuffer, my man! Nice to know who my friends are. Come in, come in,” the deep voice bounded out from the kitchen, right before Al “Trunk” Mahoney appeared. He sported a wide smile, paint in his hair, and an old shirt, streaked with sweat as he extended his hand. Tuffer grinned. Trunk was his mentor and fellow defender on The Kings.
“You’ve got one giant mess here.”
“You can say that again. You’re right on time.”
“What can I do?” Tuff sloughed off his jacket, folded it, and put it on the stairs.
“We want to get the place renovated before the season starts. We need to finish painting before they can refinish the floors,” his friend said.
“We’re getting all new tables and chairs too,” Carla put in.
“Nice,” the young man said, nodding.
One short bark, followed by another, came from the kitchen.
“It’s just Fred and Ethel, our pugs. They gotta stay in there,” Trunk said.
“Tuffer’s tall, Al. Maybe he can do the molding around the windows?” Carla suggested.
“Ever paint before, Tuffer?”
“Sure. Painted my parent’s place, a couple of rooms.”
“You know how to use a brush.”
Tuffer laughed. “It’s not rocket science, Trunk. Show me what you want done and where’s the stuff?”
Carla took him to the various buckets, checking each one until she found the enamel, then she hunted up a fresh brush.
“Got any favorites?” she asked, standing by the jukebox.
Tuffer rattled off four songs, and she punched in the buttons. Tuffer stirred the paint then applied it, using slow, even strokes. He spied Trunk and his wife, Carla, out of the corner of his eye. They stood close, conferring about what needed to be done next. Trunk had his arm around his wife’s shoulders. When they broke, the big man headed for the ladder, carrying a bucket of sky blue paint for the ceiling. Carla scurried after him with a brush, roller, and pan under her arm. After she handed the tools to her husband, they stopped for a long, sensuous kiss. Tuffer blushed and looked away, sort of.
They had what he wanted. About to become twenty-four, Tuffer Demson faced the start of his second season in the NFL, playing for the Kings. He loved almost everything about pro football. He adored his teammates, who had become his family away from home. Trunk was his role model.
Tuffer had been dating the Coach’s daughter. He’d gone real slow, because he felt the glare of Coach’s protective eyes whenever he picked up Alexia Sebastian. He didn’t want to make a mistake, rush her into something serious, though he felt he was ready to settle down.
Even though he was handsome, Tuffer had never been a player with girls. Always shy and self-conscious—being so much bigger than the other kids, and adopted, to boot—he’d been slow to blossom socially. He hadn’t started dating until the end of his junior year, if you could call attending both proms and nothing else dating. Still a virgin when he started college, he’d lost it under the tender guidance of a senior who had taken pity on the sweet young man.
Tuffer was smart enough to know he had a ton to learn when it came to women, and he needed to start that education now. Who better to teach him than Trunk Mahoney and his best pal, Bullhorn Brodsky, offensive linemen—two of the biggest ex-movers on the team?
Up until now, he and Lexie had only had some serious make out sessions, but they hadn’t gone all the way. Tuffer was shy. Lexie too. And he didn’t want to look like an animal. But it was getting harder and harder to go home and take care of business himself, when he’d so much rather have had that release with her. He needed help.
Carla flitted around, checking first with Tuffer then Trunk to make sure they had what they needed. Then, she picked up the phone and disappeared into the kitchen.
Trunk had finished outlining the part of the ceiling where Tuffer was working. Al poured paint into the pan and ran the roller through it several times then lifted it and applied sky blue to the patched surface. He stood near Tuffer. The younger man cleared his throat.
Trunk glanced Tuff’s way as he rolled the paint on. “Everything okay?”
“Yep, yep. You and Carla look real happy.”
“She’s the best thing ever happened to me, outside of football.”
“I know what you mean.”
“How are you and Lexie doing? I hope you’re not gonna break her heart. Coach might have to break you in two.”
“We’re good.”
Trunk nodded. Tuffer cleared his throat again, leaned the brush against the wall, and sucked down some water. “What I was wondering…”
Trunk chuckled. “Didn’t think you came today just to slap on some paint. What’s up?”
“No, no. I’m happy to help. I love The Beast. And you guys.”
“Yeah, sure. But there’s something on your mind.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Spit it out,” Trunk said, pouring more paint in the pan.
“It’s not so easy. I’m not used to talking about this stuff.”
“Oh, it’s about sex, then?”
Tuffer felt the color rise to his face. “How’d you know?”
“Plain as the nose on your face, buddy. If you’re not a virgin, you’re the next best thing.”
“I’m no
t a virgin. I’ve slept with girls. A couple of girls. A couple of times.”
Trunk laughed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four. Almost twenty-four.”
The older man laughed again. “You’re a baby. Time you got laid. Regularly. It’ll improve your game too.”
“Then, I can tell Lexie I need to sleep with her to do better for the team.”
Trunk raised his hands. “Wait a minute! Don’t do that. She’s liable to slug you.”
“Really?”
“Really. That’s just between you and me. Is she willing? Never force a girl. “No” means “no,” even if you’re hard as a rock. Got that?”
“Sure, sure. I’d never do that. Never. I’m not like that. I think Lexie wants to take things, uh, to the next level?”
“Oh?” Trunk raised his eyebrows. “Gettin’ her ready for round three?”
“Round three?”
“Going all the way?”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess. I think she wants to. I think.”
“That’s the first step. Do you know what to do? What goes where?”
Tuffer clamped his lips together for a moment before speaking. “Of course I do! I told you. I’m not a virgin.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Trunk rolled the applicator in the pan.
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“That’s the best kind.” Al snickered.
“Well, I want to be good at it.”
“You and every other guy out there. Want to have her screaming your name, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s right. But…” Tuffer stopped and dipped the brush in the paint.
“But what? You got a dick. Use it.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“What?”
“It’s just that I’m kinda new to this and sometimes… Well, in the past, it’s been kinda…kinda…fast?”
“You mean the horse is out of the barn before you even get all the way into the barn?”
Tuffer nodded. “Yeah. Sort of.”
“I get it. You come too quick.”
“That’s it!”
Trunk rubbed his neck. “An age-old problem. The more you want the chick, the harder it is to hold back.”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“Guys are all wired the same.”
“Oh. Yeah. You’re right. I guess. So, what do I do?”
“Pretty hard to hold back. Some guys try bringing up turn-off pictures in their heads, like babies or puppies. One guy I know tried thinking about his mom, but that destroyed his dick completely. He couldn’t get it up for weeks.”
The men laughed.
“I’ve tried thinking about waterfalls and stuff like that. But when I’m with Lexie, nothing slows me down. I haven’t blown it yet, but I’m sure I will. What do you do?”
Trunk straightened up. “That’s pretty personal.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I need help, and you know everything about women.”
“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay,” Trunk said, patting the linebacker on the shoulder. “I don’t know everything, but I do know you gotta get her off first. Control comes with practice and getting older. When I was your age, I’d make sure the girl had her fun before I took mine.”
“What?”
“Make her come first. Do whatever you have to. Your hand, mouth, whatever works. Have you done that yet?”
Trunk’s answer caught Tuffer unaware. He hadn’t expected such honesty and detail. He shook his head.
“Have you even touched her pussy yet?”
Tuffer shook his head.
“Has she touched your dick?”
Again, the young man shook his head.
Trunk shook his head. “Maybe you’d better begin at the beginning. Hand jobs come first. Get to know her, her body. What turns her on.”
“How do I do that?”
“Trial and error, buddy. Have you even touched her tits?”
The linebacker nodded. “Oh, yeah. We’ve done that.”
“Thank God! When you’re doin’ her tits with your mouth, slide your hand up her leg, under her skirt.”
“My mouth?”
Trunk laughed. “I think I’m gonna buy you a book.”
Carla returned, interrupting their session. Trunk put his finger to his lips, and Tuffer nodded.
“You two talking sex or passing gas in here?”
“Nothing, baby.”
“You both look guilty as Hell. Don’t worry, I’m meeting the contractor to pick out a new stove and cabinets. Don’t let me interrupt you.” She stopped to kiss Trunk. “Thank you, Al, for doing all this for me.”
“Baby, it’s a pleasure. Besides, it’s an investment. Once it’s fixed up, this place’ll make more money.”
“True enough. You’re the best.” She kissed him again and headed for the door, where she stopped and blew a kiss to Trunk’s helper. “You too, Tuffer.”
Once she was gone, Trunk turned to his young friend. “Where were we?”
“I had my hand under her skirt.”
“Oh, yeah. Better than me telling you is this video.”
“Video?”
“It’s called ‘O Face Race’. Look it up online. Study it.”
“‘O Face Race’?” Tuffer punched it into his phone.
“Yep. It’s about eight guys racing to see who can get their girl off first.”
“That’ll do it?”
“Hell, if you can’t get her off after watching that a dozen times, nothing will help.”
Tuffer chuckled then heat filled his cheeks. “Thanks, Trunk.”
“No problem, kid.”
“You might want to run that through the paint again.”
“What?”
“There’s not enough paint on the roller. It’s gonna be uneven and look like shit.”
The older man smiled. “Thanks,” he said, returning the roller to the pan.
* * * *
Coach Pete Sebastian’s seaside house on the outskirts of Monroe
Jo Sebastian paced in front of the window.
“You should be sitting down, Jo,” Coach said, munching on popcorn and watching a movie.
“I’m waiting for the doctor to call.”
“Why?” He spoke, but his attention was on the huge television screen.
“Never mind. I’m going for a walk.”
Coach Bass nodded as she struggled into her coat and headed for the beach. It was windy and a bit cool, even for April. Being pregnant, Jo hadn’t been cold for months. She felt huge, ungainly, and unattractive—a new feeling for the beautiful blonde. Pete, her husband, assured her he still thought she was hot, but she knew the coach could produce bullshit easily when the situation called for it. She didn’t believe him for one minute and wondered if he had been ogling the cheerleaders during the playoffs.
She shook her head and laughed at her own paranoia. Coach Pete Sebastian was much too type “A” about winning to be distracted by anything during the playoffs. Geez, Marilyn Monroe could stroll stark naked down the gridiron and he’d scream about time being wasted. She chuckled at the image.
Jo Parker Sebastian, strong, successful woman extraordinaire, was scared out of her wits. Terror gripped her at the thought of childbirth. Well beyond the average childbearing age, Jo had gotten pregnant with no difficulty. That had thrilled Pete, who was anxious to have another child.
The one part of the equation that didn’t scare her was actual parenting. Pete had raised two daughters by himself. Not only was he experienced, he was good at it. Jo admired his techniques. Of course, he’d brought up girls, and they were expecting a son, but children are children, right?
Jo had always wanted a child, though her upbringing had been far from ideal. Two neglectful parents had left her to fend for herself much of the time, even as a young girl. She’d never do that with Trevor. That’s the name she wanted for her boy, though Pete turned up his nose at it.
“Pussy name! Trevor? You�
�re kidding? Every bully for five counties will make the pilgrimage to our door just to beat the shit out of him. Bill, Tom, Dave, Sam—those are names for a kid who won’t get beat up.”
She grinned at the memory of that discussion. Pete had a way of being direct that was endearing and annoying at the same time. At least he wasn’t a liar. In fact, he was the worst liar she’d ever met. He’d never been able to pull anything over on her. Sure, he could shoot the bull, bend the truth a bit, but when questioned directly? Out popped the truth. Even when she guessed right on one of her Christmas presents.
As preoccupied as he was a lot of the time, Pete Sebastian made a wonderful husband. His cheerful good nature took to domestic life like a duck to water. She’d wondered how he’d adjust, since he’d been divorced for so many years. He’d said he’d been waiting for her to come along. Judging by his attentiveness, passion, and chivalry, she believed him.
She stopped at a boulder to rest when her phone rang. It was the doctor.
“This is very unusual, Jo. For a woman of your age, I mean.”
“What?” Her pulse kicked up.
“Well, toxemia is something we usually see in women about ten years younger than you. But your protein level is elevated. We want you to come in right away. We’ll induce you.”
Panic seized Jo. “Of course, of course.” Her voice—hell, her whole body—shook.
“Don’t get upset. We can handle it. The cure is to take the baby. I’m letting people know to expect you momentarily.”
The doctor hung up, and Jo walked as fast as she could across the sand. Her heart rate jumped, and tears stung her eyes. She’d heard about toxemia in her childbirth class, but had been assured she was too old for that. So much for reassurance.
When she arrived home, she was breathing heavy. Leaning against the doorjamb, she struggled to regain her breath. “We…we…have…we have to…”
Pete was staring at the screen, shoveling cookies into his mouth. “What, hon?”
Harley Brennan, Running Back Page 10
