False Start: A Football Romance

by Saylor Bliss

  Not like this.

  Not at the risk of hurting my baby girl.

  Leaning back on my heels, I take my cock in my hand, and after spitting on the tip, I begin to stroke myself. Up and down. Up and down. Gripping the base tight, I pump my hips back and forth, rubbing against her sensitive clit with each pump.

  It drives her wild to watch me touch myself. I’m so close to coming right this second, but I want to wait.

  I want to last for her.

  I want to make her come over and over again, screaming my name until her voice is raw and tender like her pussy. Taking my cock, I lightly rub it across her sensitive clit. She’s still drenched in wetness. She grins, feeling the warmth of my hard cock press against her. She thinks I’m going to give it to her, and I am, but I’m going to give it to her how I want.

  Rubbing up and down her slit, spreading the warm juices, I get her ready to accept me, and then, when I can’t physically stand it any longer, I slap my dick against her swollen clit.

  She cries out, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve hurt her, but then she grinds her pelvis against mine in the age-old dance of acceptance.

  “Do you like that?” I ask, taking her hand and bringing it to my lips. I suck her fingers into my mouth and then bite down gently as I stroke up and down, my cock sliding against her over and over.

  “Don’t stop,” she commands, on the edge once again. Her hand grips a breast in each, twisting the nipples and pulling on them.

  Hard.

  “Oh God . . . Cal.”

  “Yeah, baby. That feels good, don’t it, baby?”

  Pulling back, I slap the head of my dick against her clit.

  Once.

  Twice.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.” She moans, twisting wildly in the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

  I refuse.

  There is no place I’d rather be in this moment or any other . . . ever. Her body is my temple, and I plan to spend every available second worshiping every square inch of it time and time again.

  Stop?

  Ha. By the time I’m done, she will be begging me to stop.

  Her breath catches just before panting out in a short gust. Rubbing along her slit, I let her natural moisture lubricate my shaft as I jerk my cock for her.

  Slap.

  I pop against her once and then again. Her body clenches, her nails digging into the mattress at the same time the first wave of pleasure washes through me. My balls tighten as I slap against her again, refusing to bring her to the edge and not push her over.

  “Oh fuck . . . fuck . . . yes. Callum. Cal. I’m about to—” She doesn’t get a chance to finish. Her body convulses, shivers of pleasure traveling down her spine, and then the heavens open. Salty liquid sprays from between her thighs. It catches us both off guard, but I refuse to let her think that anything about what just happened is anything but perfect. Reaching between her thighs, I pump two fingers into her, curling along the inside of her wall, drawing out her orgasm. I feel her tighten around me as wave after wave courses through her body. I milk every single ounce of cum from her, letting it drip down my fingers, my arm.

  “That’s right, baby. Let me love that pussy,” I grind out, bringing her back down from the edge of oblivion and loving every minute of it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amelia

  Waking in the arms of the man I love is bittersweet. For over six months, I have accepted that I would never feel this sensation again, this sense of security and home.

  At some point in the night, Carson crawled from his bed across the hall and wiggled his way in my arms. He has become my sleeping buddy in the months after Callum left, and I know it is hard for him to adjust to being in bed alone, so I didn’t say anything, and I pray Cal won’t either.

  I should have known better than to doubt him.

  Wrapping Cal’s robe tightly around my waist, I hurry to the joining bathroom, but not before kissing the forehead of both of my favorite boys. After finishing in the restroom, I grab my cellphone from the nightstand and head down the hall to the room Cal originally said was mine to grab my computer bag.

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  “Oh my hell. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “Now, now, you can hardly call it sneaking. You were just rambling and didn’t hear me coming.”

  “I was not rambling.”

  “Oh, really? Then how do I know that you plan on calling the office and making sure your appointments are all lined up and that you need to do a virtual tour of Mrs. Pruitt’s home?”

  “Humph.”

  “What was that? Yeah, I thought so. Come on, sister, let’s get some pancakes,” Griffin says, leading me down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Sit your fine little hiney down there while I put my momma’s cooking class to the test,” he says while whipping a lime green and teal polka-dot apron in the air and then tying it with a large, graceful bow at the back of his waist. I sit, not nearly as graceful in my movements as he, but I’m blaming the watermelon in my stomach for that.

  “Do you know how to cook pancakes?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously while he pulls ingredients from the refrigerator and sets them on the counter.

  “Well . . . I am well and truly offended. Do I know how to make pancakes? Does a chicken know how to dance? Does a cat know how to bark? Does a bear use Charmin? I mean, really!”

  “Oh my God. Maybe I should read the directions and you mix?” I offer.

  “I don’t know . . . do you know how to read?” he asks, and if I were sitting closer, I’d reach out and slap him. As it is, I throw the closest thing to me, which happens to be a box of Kleenex.

  “Give me that damn box and shut up before I waddle my fat ass over there and eat YOU for breakfast.”

  “Oh hell. Here. Take it,” he says, thrusting the box into my hands. I flip it over and skim the directions before throwing my hands up in the air.

  “Seriously, Griff. It only calls for one cup of water. Just one cup. What the hell is all that?” I ask, pointing to the pile of ingredients he has sitting along the granite countertops.

  “Oh hush. I know. I was just picking at you, trying to lighten you up.”

  “Lighten me up for what? I hate to tell ya, but I don’t think I’m gonna get much lighter until this baby girl makes her entrance in two months.”

  “Well in that case . . . it sounds like you had a good night last night.” He looks straight at me from under his lids, trying and failing to act coy. I blush to high heaven, remembering the events of the night.

  “I’m so sorry, Griffin. I didn’t realize we were that loud.”

  “Oh no . . . he wasn’t loud at all. That was alllll you, baby girl.”

  I bury my head in the crook of my arm and groan. “Oh my God.”

  “Oh stop. It wasn’t all that bad. I mean, after I convinced Carson that you weren’t in labor and that no one was hurting you, we went down to the theater and watched ninja turtles on the big screen.”

  My head shoots up, eyes wide with both fear and mortification. “No. Please, no,” I beg, but the cocky grin on his face lets me know really quickly that yes…oh, yes, this is true. I wish the floor could open up and swallow me whole right this second. I can’t think of a time in my life I have ever been so embarrassed. Not even the time Callum tried to teach me to drive a stick shift and I ran straight through Mr. Rubbard’s front lawn, taking out the clothesline in the process. We drove, jumping back and forth while I tried to learn how to press the clutch and shift gears at the same time with Mrs. Rubbard’s white panties flying freely like a solemn surrender flag from the antenna.

  “So . . .” he prods, and I glance at him, waiting.

  “So . . . what?” I ask after it becomes obvious he isn’t going to offer anything else.

  “Tell me everything. How was it? What was it? I mean, like missionary or doggie? Girl, give me the icky icky. I want details. All the details.”

  “Oh God. You have got to be kidding me.�
�

  “Hey, don’t judge me. Single. White. And free to mingle. Now dish.”

  The ringing of the doorbell sounds throughout the house, making me jump and making Griffin laugh. “Saved by the bell. Lucky bitch,” Griffin comments on his way to the front door. While he is gone, I take the free time to check my emails and answer the few marked High Priority. When I finish that, I send out an email to my boss, Eve, and ask her to forward my upcoming appointments to my cell so that I can start working on a general design study for each client.

  I take the decision of choosing me very seriously when interacting with new clients. There are many, many, interior designers in the St. Louis area, some with more experience, some with a better education, but none of them will beat me when it comes to the time and detail I put into each case.

  Studying the clients’ taste in their natural lives helps me more than anything else when it comes to building a general study for a first time meeting. You’d be surprised what you can learn about someone just from their social media accounts. My phone dings with an incoming email right as Griffin walks back into the kitchen, only this time, he isn’t alone.

  “Hello, Amelia. What a lovely surprise finding you here this morning.”

  I can’t believe it. What the hell is she doing here? Today started out so well and held so much promise, even if I was being blackmailed into supplying details of my sex life in exchange for pancakes. Now, I’m forced to look into the eyes of the one person I was truly hoping I’d never see again.

  Like ever.

  Ever.

  “Hello, mother. What brings you to town? Lose your husband?” There is no sense in wasting time with false pretenses here. She knows exactly how I feel about her, and I know that she doesn’t care.

  About anything.

  Or anyone.

  Unless it can benefit her in some way. Which means she wants something, and it’s only a matter of time before I find out what.

  “I can see some things never change. You’re still as brash as ever, but to answer your question, no, I didn’t lose my husband. He lost me. Now, I’d like to see my son. Where is he?” She questions me, and for a second, I’m struck speechless by the balls on this woman.

  “Your son? I wasn’t aware you had one of those.”

  “Stop playing coy. We both know you’re no good at it. Where is Carson? I want to see my baby boy.”

  “And? You think I should what . . . jump up, run and gather him for you? What on earth makes you think he even wants to see you? It’s been five years. Five. Not one time have you called to check on him, to see how he felt during chemotherapy. Not one card or birthday gift. Nothing. You disappeared on the arm of the month’s lucky catch, and I didn’t hear from you again. How the hell did you find us anyway?”

  “Find you? I didn’t know you were hiding, but to answer your question, your office gave me the address when I stopped by there. Now, I realize things didn’t play out the way you would have liked for them to, and for that, I apologize, but I am here now, and I want to see Carson. Are you going to deny me that? After all, like you said, it has been five years.”

  “Amie? You okay, babe?” Callum asks, walking into the kitchen, followed closely behind by Carson, who eyes my mother with unbridled curiosity. Cal crosses the room, coming to stand directly behind me. He rubs his fingers into my shoulders, massaging the tension out of them. Or at least trying to.

  Carson hasn’t left Cal’s side. I can tell he is curious about the woman in the room, and part of him probably recognizes her since she is in several pictures around our apartment. I’ve never tried to hide who and what she is from him, but I will go to the ends of the earth to keep her from hurting him ever again.

  “Carson. Come see your momma,” she calls from across the room, and everyone else goes still, waiting. The air is so thick with tension, it’s hard to breathe. I swallow and glance down at him. I refuse to push him into her arms. If he feels comfortable enough to go to her right now, then great. Whoopee doo dah, but under no circumstances whatsoever will I make him feel like I’m pushing him from the safety he feels at my side to hers.

  “Did you make me pamcakes too, Gwiff?” Carson asks, and I breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I want to let him make his decision on whether or not he wants anything to do with her, it would still kill me for him to run into her arms.

  “Boy, I’ve been waiting for you to get your lazy butt up and come help me cook. Do you know how many pancakes that little sister of yours wants?” Griff jokes, pulling Carson from the bar side to the kitchen and setting him up on the counter.

  “Little sister? Amelia?” my mother asks, and I’m about to explain when Callum interrupts me.

  “I’ve got this, baby,” he says kissing me on my forehead. “Margaret, can I speak to you alone for a moment?” he asks, taking my mother by her elbow and pulling her toward the living room.

  The curious part of my nature begs me to follow and see what he is saying to her, but the fat, pregnant part of me wants to sit still on the barstool and wait until later to find out. Considering the fat, pregnant part of me is bigger than the curious side of me, I stay glued to my seat, watching Griffin cook with the help of a seven-year-old.

  When Callum and Margaret walk back in the room, she seems much more reserved and dare I say . . . polite? I raise my eyebrows, questioning, but Cal just shakes his head and mouths later. I don’t want to wait until later. I want to know exactly what he said to her and how he inspired such a drastic change in her in such a short period of time.

  “Gwiff, can I have marshmallows on my pamcake?”

  “You sure can, buddy. You want chocolate syrup too?”

  “No. that’s gross, Gwiff. Do you like chocolate on your pamcakes?”

  “No, I guess not. I like it anywhere else though . . . in my milk, on my ice cream, spread across Cal’s . . . um . . . abs.”

  Everyone in the room looks at Callum, waiting to see how he is going to take Griffin’s dig. I can barely hold my pee in any longer. I’m literally about to explode with laughter and urine.

  “Tell ya what, man. You keep my baby stocked up on pancakes, and we will work something out,” Cal says, winking at Griffin over my shoulder, and for a second, I think he might pass out. He wobbles back and forth for a second, fanning himself rapidly before righting himself again.

  “Pancakes? Oh, I can do pancakes. How many you need, butterball? One hundred? Two?” Griffin asks deadpan, and I burst out laughing again.

  “Let’s start with just two.”

  “Two hundred pancakes coming up . . . followed by one knuckle—biting chocolate orgasm.”

  “What’s an orgasm?” Carson asks, and I look from Cal to Griff, wondering which one of them plans to answer this question.

  “Every living thing in the world is an organism. Even you and me. It’s what makes us who and what we are,” Margaret jumps in, saving us all and surprising me.

  “Even puppies?”

  “Even puppies.”

  “What about pamcakes?”

  “No, not pancakes. They are not living or breathing like us. Pancakes are just food,” Margaret says, taking a step closer to Carson and ruffling his hair. I hate to see them bonding, but at the same time, it makes my heart smile. I know Carson has wondered a lot about where his real mom is and what she was like, and truthfully, I am not the best person to ask about redeeming qualities she may or may not have.

  When I look at her, all I see is the woman who walked away from me every chance she got. The woman who doesn’t love her children enough to stay when they need them the most.

  I see a woman I despise.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Callum

  “Why don’t you let me take Carson and spend the day with him?” Margaret says when Carson leaves the table to go wash his hands.

  “Absolutely not.” Amelia doesn’t even give the thought a chance. Her answer is fierce and on point. “He doesn’t even know you. I’m not letting him go spend the day w
ith you doing God only knows what. No.”

  “Well why don’t you come along then?” Margaret offers, and I see the blush rise in Amelia’s cheeks. She is getting angrier by the second.

  “Why do you always have to do this? Why can’t you just be a normal mother? Why can’t you visit with him here and have a good time getting to know him? You have to make some grand ordeal out of everything.”

  “Okay, guys. That’s enough. Let’s clean up dishes and calm down,” Griffin says, trying to diffuse the situation.

  “I’m gonna pass on the clean up today and go get my ass ready to win this game today.”

  “Oh, you cheater. You still owe me chocolate . . . umm . . .” Griffin trails off when Carson comes back into the room, making Amelia laugh.

  “You have a game today, Cal?” Margaret asks.

  “I do.”

  “I wanna go. Can I go, Cal?” Carson asks, and we all turn to Amelia, not knowing what to say.

  She looks just as lost as the rest of us, and it breaks my heart. Pulling her to me, I whisper in her ear. “I can get them seats in the friends and family section and keep an eye on them. Make Griffin tag along.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amelia

  I hate that my mother got to take Carson to his first big game of Cal’s. I wanted so badly to be there cheering him on too, but I’m here once again in front of the television screen. At least I can honestly say I have never missed a game. Even if I’m not able to be there in person, I always make sure to watch him and cheer for him.

  Defense intercepts the ball at midfield. I know Cal is about to make something happen. The crowd in the stands is going wild. Every pan of the camera shows fan after fan dressed in red and black with jerseys, shirts, and even some with what appears to be spray paint across their bodies.