Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Oh, right. Carter told me about that.”

  Ah, there is my mistake. I prefer the unfamiliar fucks, the lack of danger when sleeping with strangers, since I never have to see them again. Sophie is a satellite friend, in that she’s a friend of my friend, and she doesn’t even live in this state. I want to keep that kind distance between us.

  Sophie sniffs again, and the same delight I noticed in her expression when I stroked her clit shines in her eyes again. “Do you have leftovers?”

  I take her hand, stroking her fingers lightly, bringing her back to the promise. “Sample the first of my talents, then I’ll let you sample the next.”

  Damn. She does it again. Licks those naturally cherry-colored lips.

  I pull her to me, and she inhales sharply. I cup her cheek and tilt her face up to mine. Tracing her lines, her curves, with my eyes, I murmur, “You still want this?”

  Her mouth parts. The shine of her tongue shows through. “Y-Yes.”

  I stroke down until I find her ass and squeeze it close, so she feels every inch of my cock through our clothing. There’s no further need for words. We’re not here for that.

  Lifting her, Sophie’s legs curl around my hips, and I turn, striding through the open kitchen to the cavernous living room, until I reach my bed in the far corner, exposed brick as my headboard, and a large iron-paneled window. The Hudson River and Hoboken is our view.

  I have no walls. See no need for them. Sophie’s orgasms will echo.

  Sophie clings to my neck as I set her down on the bed, remaining on top, grinding. She stares at my lips as I settle between her legs, as if unsure.

  That isn’t the Sophie I’ve heard of and definitely not the one in the car. I lick her lower lip, eyes open and on hers as I do it, and let her make the second move.

  She doesn’t disappoint. With the sexiest purr I’ve ever heard, she parts her lips and dines on my taste.

  Fuck, this girl will end me. Still fully clothed, and I’m about to spill over.

  On a growl, her tongue still with mine, I tear at her shirt and pull up her skirt, until her breasts are free and only her panties are in my way.

  I lift my mouth from hers but curl my upper lip with promise to let her know I’m coming back for more. After a deft snap, I toss her green thong aside.

  Despite the lack of lighting in this apartment, and only the vague white hue of the river’s skyline as a spotlight, I notice the light sparkle of dew on her bare pussy and think maybe there are other lips I want to try.

  Sophie notices where my attention’s focused and wriggles, spreading her thighs wider, unabashed at my view.

  There. That’s the Sophie I’ve heard of.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I glide my tongue from front to back, collecting her taste, more delicious fresh than on my fingers. Using my voice as a vibrator, I groan into her, swirl my tongue around her clit, and wait as her cries drown out all the city noise outside.

  Her hands dig into my scalp, pulling it closer, grinding enough to limit my air supply so I only get enough to keep pleasuring her, and no more.

  I don’t mind. I love how she’s curling her legs around me, how her breasts look coated in the night light, the sharp angle of her chin as she throws back her head and lets loose the way she couldn’t in the car.

  The brink isn’t far off, and I take her on the ride, digging in, reveling in her—Sophie’s scent, her voice, her soft, smooth skin. She’s inside me, she’s all around me, and I can’t take the wait anymore.

  I spear up, pulling off my shirt in one swipe, unbuttoning my jeans. Rising, I take only the amount of time I need to throw off my pants before I can be back on top of her, feeling her heat, smelling the flowery fragrance of her perfume mixed in with her earthy, natural scent. But she stops me with a look.

  Sophie’s panting, taking in my manscape. It’s too dark to make out my tattoos, but it’s light enough to know they’re everywhere. I barely have any boyhood skin left on my chest, arms, neck. Only my thighs are bare, as I’ve already started work on my calves.

  She glances down at my cock, and I know what she’s thinking.

  “No, bombshell,” I say with a grin. “I ain’t ever going there.”

  “Oh—I—” Sophie comes out of her ecstasy enough to say, “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “No?”

  Girl licks her lower lip again, and I’m about to bite it. “You’re, uh.” She clears her throat, and I angle my head, intrigued at what she could possibly be thinking. “You’re … really big.”

  My grin splits wide. “Why, thank you.”

  “It’s, well. It’s…”

  My brows come down in gentle consternation. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “I’ve never—I’ve never—” She finally takes in enough air to blurt, “I’ve never had anyone. I mean. That big. I’ve never had a dick that big. Inside me.”

  I get onto the bed and straddle her. “I promise to be gentle.”

  She nods, her focus never straying from my cock. My, she’s engaged.

  “Okay.” She nods again but makes no move to pull me down to her. She’s buying time, and I wonder for what. “But I want it in my mouth first.”

  Well. No problems there.

  I remain frozen, waiting. She comes up from her elbows, pushing me lightly off the bed until I’m standing at its foot. Sophie slides off the bed and gets down on her knees.

  “Mm,” I say approvingly as she shuffles closer, closes her hand around my dick, and works her tongue and fingers in ways I picture someone masterfully working a flute.

  “Jesus,” I hiss as she pulls me in deep—all the way in deep—and releases me with a gentle glide of her teeth against the sensitive skin.

  “You like that?” she purrs, before taking me all the way in again.

  I’m floored. Physically, fucking floored, and I can’t take a whole lot more of this waiting game. Fuck it.

  With a snarl, I lift her and wrap her around me before tossing us both on the bed, with her underneath me.

  “I want you. Now,” I say.

  Sophie’s breathing like she just sprinted from the bar to my place, but she’s not exhausted. She’s thrilled. “Yes. Do it.”

  I pull open the nightstand drawer. Sift through. “Say you want me.”

  “I want you.”

  “Scream it.” I find what I need. Rip open the condom, slide it on.

  “I want you!”

  “Louder.”

  “I want you!”

  Just as she cries it out a third time, I plunge into her. Sophie’s fingers dig into my arms, so hard that her nails leave crescents, teardrops of blood spilling over my ink. She stiffens so suddenly and tightly that my cock is clamped inside her, and her breaths are trembling against my ear.

  “Bombshell? Soph? You okay?”

  After a few more exhales, she whispers. “Yes. Yes, keep going.”

  “You … sure?” I try to lift my head to study her better, since usually a woman doesn’t turn into a marble statue when my dick is inside them, but she keeps me steady. Her hips do a little, hesitant sway, and I feel her relax.

  “I want you,” she whispers this time. “I want you, Ash.”

  To add further proof, she licks at my earlobe.

  Fuck. Message received.

  I pull out, and plunge back in. And do it again. Sophie starts to meet me, her hips rising, moving, finding their rhythm with mine.

  “Fuck, you’re tight. You’re so goddamned perfect. This is…Sophie, you’re so wet. You’re mine. You’re all fucking mine.”

  “Yes,” she pants. Her hands span my arms, then glide down and clutch my hips, asking me deeper. “God, yes, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  “Never,” I say with mostly breath, and we ride each other, bodies pounding and crackling with energy, until both our releases become one fucking helluva ride.

  3

  Sophie

  Present Day

  The second line
is faint.

  Totally pale.

  There’s no way that could mean I’m pregnant. Why would a test be so fickle? Why can’t that second line be stark and bold and hot pink? Do these companies enjoy enforcing freak outs? Is it normal for a female to be peering at their white sticks of fortune like she’s losing both her eyesight and her mind?

  Is it pink … or not-pink? Tell me the fucking truth, pee stick!

  I’m not pregnant.

  No, I’m fucking not.

  “Well, you’re pregnant.”

  The doctor says it as she steps into the examination room I’ve been sitting in, my sneakers pounding holes against the metal of the gurney where I’ve been anxiously fidgeting.

  She says it so fast that my brain barely has time to register my sinking gut before I say, “Are you sure?”

  “We did a urine test last week, and after that didn’t convince you, your blood analysis results came in this morning,” Dr. Roe says gently. “You’re definitely pregnant.”

  The word leaps out in several syllables. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck.”

  Dr. Roe regards me sympathetically. “Would you like to discuss your options? You’re a healthy twenty-four-year-old. You have several.”

  “Um.” How does one process options? “I don’t know.”

  Dr. Roe crosses her arms and leans against the sink. She’s my gynecologist. I’ve seen her yearly for dutiful pap smears, like her as a person quite a bit, but right now I’m envisioning her as the harbinger of doom.

  “You’re about seven weeks along,” she says. “We can do an ultrasound, see if the embryo is healthy. Do you want to start there?” She adds, “Unless you choose not to. It’s completely up to you.”

  Again, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I want a healthy embryo. I’m also terrified the embryo won’t be viable. There are so many conflicting emotions in such a short amount of time, I might pass out.

  “Will we know if it’s a boy or girl?” I blurt out.

  I sound so innocent and ignorant, my question coming out in mostly trembles, but I’m suddenly, irrevocably, so scared that no amount of education will curb my worries. I’ve only had sex once. Once. And now I’m with embryo.

  Dr. Roe shakes her head. “It’s too early for that, but these days, a chromosomal blood test can be done around ten weeks. It shows which chromosomes are present, XX or XY, and that will tell you the gender.”

  “Oh.”

  “If you’d like, you can make an appointment with my receptionist for an ultrasound another time. Give you some time to process this, maybe talk to someone you’re close to.”

  Dr. Roe doesn’t say who that person should be, and she’s too professional to be judgy, but it’s clear who’s she referring to. Perhaps you should talk to the father.

  Oh, God. The father. My stomach lurches.

  “Now. I’ll have the ultrasound now,” I say before fear changes my mind.

  “Are you sure? There’s no requirement that you have to. And if you’re thinking of termination, I really don’t recommend it.”

  “Honestly, Doctor, I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “That’s to be expected, Sophie. You have time to come to a decision. You don’t have to rush today.”

  “I’ve decided. I want the ultrasound.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  Dr. Roe studies my expression for a moment before acquiescing. “All right. If you put on the dressing gown there, everything you’re currently wearing off, including bra and undies, I’ll be right back in to do an examination.”

  Doctors. Always getting right to it.

  I nod as she departs, and it’s with shaking fingers that I slide out of my sneakers and clothes, spending an undue amount of time folding them onto a chair and standing in the cold, sterile room, naked and afraid.

  Most new moms would be crying with joy right now. Those who’ve spent years trying and failing before finally succeeding would be hugging their partners through their happy-tears. Then there are the women who get pregnant accidentally, or have unwanted pregnancies, and that comes with a boatload of guilt and confusion.

  I have no idea where I fall, but I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t involve being alone in a doctor’s office, freezing cold and holding my tummy, thinking, Who are you?

  I haven’t been the true me in a very long time.

  A light knock on the door tells me Dr. Roe is back, and I slide the gown on, resume my position on the gurney, and use a white sheet to cover my legs before telling her to come in.

  She directs me to put my bare feet in the foot-straps and slide forward while she positions a computer-like machine nearby and perches on a stool in front of it. She picks up an attached white probe that looks remarkably like a bulbous sex toy.

  After a few gentle murmurs, Dr. Roe inserts it inside me, then squints at the monitor as she types with her free hand.

  I think, sadly, this is only the second time I’ve been penetrated.

  Dr. Roe glances at me. “Would you like to see?”

  “You have a picture of it?”

  She spins the monitor so it’s in my eyesight. The display is black and white and grainy, but at her direction, I see a little blip of light, in-and-out, fast and furious as a hummingbird.

  “There’s the heartbeat,” she says.

  I draw in a breath but have no words.

  “So far, the embryo looks good,” she says as she pulls out the probe. “There’s the growing yolk sac around it, and the beginnings of a placenta. Everything is moving along nicely. But that being said, whatever you want to do, this office supports. We have an on-site counselor…”

  Dr. Roe’s words swirl into a vacuum around my ears, the noise funneling into a black tunnel with no end, and I have trouble catching the meaning. I’m blinking and nodding as if I do, my fingers tangled together as my hands rest on my stomach.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “What?”

  Dr. Roe rests a kind hand on my leg. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “I’m a phone call away. And please, take our counselor’s card at the reception desk. She’s wonderful and can help you through any confusion.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “It was good seeing you, Sophie.” Dr. Roe rises from her stool. “You need anything at all, you call me.”

  I nod, but I’m staring blankly at the opposite wall that’s too white for my eyes.

  When she leaves, I allow myself time to breathe before moving.

  I clutch the thin sheet on my legs, furrow my brows, close my eyes, and cry.

  The smart thing to do is call Carter.

  She’s close to my age, and while Carter didn’t give birth to Lily, she’s raising that baby as if it were her own. And she helped her late friend through a pregnancy—all the way through.

  Carter would know. She would help.

  But I keep more secrets than I confess, and it’s not easy for me to admit to someone—anyone, even her—that I’m not who I’ve carefully crafted myself to be.

  In the end, I do reach out to Carter, but not for the reasons I should.

  “Hey,” I say once she picks up and I drop my purse on the floor of my apartment, the place Carter, me, and Lily once shared.

  “Soph! I was wondering if I’d lost you to the palm trees and coconuts.”

  “My piña colada days are on Fridays, not Mondays,” I say, and plop onto the single couch in the small main room. I dig a hand into my hair, the only sign I’m anxious, and one Carter can’t see. “Today was just dreary office work and boring appointments.”

  “Does that mean you’re calling to tell me when you’re coming up to NYC again?”

  My attention travels to the far wall, where one of Carter’s paintings is on display. A woman’s face constructed from a forest. She wears a benign expression and resembles no one. Carter doesn’t usually paint people she knows. She likes to craft new
faces from the Earth’s objects. Though, I’m pretty sure this is the face she pictures on Lily when she’s older, which is why I like it so much.

  “I’m thinking about it,” I say at last.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Leave it to Carter to sense distress through a few syllables.

  “Nothing,” I say, and peel my focus from her artwork. I hate that I miss her so much. “Long day. I thought I’d end it on the positive and call my bestie.”

  “You made the right choice.” I pictured Carter getting comfortable on Locke’s tattered, plaid couch—the spot I usually slept in, except for that last time—folding her legs under her and tucking her phone closer to her ear. “Though I can’t promise to uplift you. Lily’s sick with Hand-foot-and-mouth disease.”

  “Hand-foot-what?”

  “And Locke also contracted it.”

  “Jesus. Do you have a plague mask over there? It sounds like you’re suffering from something from the sixteen-hundreds.”

  “Looks like it, too. They have giant blisters all over their bums.”

  “Thanks for the visual.”

  “I need rescuing. Please, please come. They’re not contagious anymore, I swear.”

  “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “No! You’ve got two Patient Zeros over there. I don’t believe your lies that I can’t catch that thing.”

  Plus, there’s the whole issue of being pregnant around them…

  I cringe but keep listening to Carter. “Sophie, I’m desperate. I’m chewing on the walls to get out of here. You can stay at Astor’s.”

  “Locke’s sister? Does she even like me?”

  “As much as she likes anyone,” Carter says. “And I’ll stay there, too. Please? Please?”

  Her plaintive tone hurts my ears, and it’s with a super amount of annoyance that I feel myself wavering. I really need my best friend, too. I want some normalcy back.

  And … Ash is in New York.

  A man I should really be talking to instead of Carter. Except, damn it, I don’t want to.

  He took my virginity without knowing. I’m pregnant with his baby, and he doesn’t know. If there’s a recipe for hating a girl, that about does it.