Sliding Home

by Carly Keene

  “Beautiful,” he says, leaning forward to kiss the upper slopes of them again. “You’re so beautiful, Olivia.” His hands are gentle on my breasts, circling my areolas, brushing over my nipples. I sigh, and then he’s licking my nipples, teasing with his tongue, and I have a hand on his stiff shaft through his boxers, and all the while my own arousal is soaking my granny panties. “Can I kiss you everywhere?” he whispers, and switches nipples.

  “Yes,” I whisper back. I work his boxers down, letting his cock spring out. “Oh, fuck. You’re huge. That’s a fucking baseball bat in your pants, dude.”

  I feel him laugh even while he’s sucking my nipples. “All yours,” he says with amusement, and then goes back to work, and my panties are probably dripping by now. I take his hand and guide it there, hearing his tiny gasp as his fingers find the wet crotch. “Oh, you’re so wet,” he says in a tone of wonder, and tugs my underwear down.

  One more misgiving, because I don’t shave. I trim the foliage down when I remember, and luckily that was a couple of weeks ago, but it’s not shaped or anything. I’m mostly natural.

  “This is so fucking sexy,” he says, looking me in the eyes. “You are so fucking sexy, Olivia.”

  “What, my ‘70s bush?”

  He laughs a little, and then gives himself a little stroke. The tip of his penis is leaking drips of fluid. “I’d better glove up before I lose my fucking mind. It’s all of you, Liv. Your crazy hair and your beautiful smile. Your amazing tits. Your bravery. And yeah, you are rockin’ that ‘70s bush, baby.”

  “Make love to me, Justin.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Justin

  Just the look of her is driving me crazy—the look of her and the smell of her warm female body. So womanly. I’ve never much cared about whether a woman shaves her pubes or not, but Olivia’s pussy has got me rock-hard and dying to be inside it.

  And when she asks me to make love to her, I don’t hesitate. I put on a condom and I start touching that incredible pussy. Dark pink, framed by brown hair that just draws my attention to the center . . . I stroke through her folds, feeling how wet she is, and how responsive. I circle her clit with my finger, then rub it back and forth. At her moan, her breasts lift, and I lean forward to give each nipple a little suck. I can’t hold back much longer. I grip my cock with one hand and slide just the tip of it across her clit.

  “More,” she whispers.

  I do more. I stroke her pussy folds and her clit with my cockhead, dipping it just a little inside her vagina now and then, making her catch her breath. “You tell me when,” I whisper. “When you’re ready for all of my cock. Just say.”

  “More,” she says insistently, and I slip it in a little farther. She’s so wet. And so hot. I pull it back out and keep stroking over her clit—a little cunt, a little clit, until she’s writhing under me and starting to beg. “More, Justin. More. I need you. Don’t stop.”

  “Tell me when.”

  “Now!” Olivia grabs my hips and pulls my cock into her, and we both groan, my forehead resting on hers.

  “If I move,” I pant, “I’ll fucking lose it. Gimme a sec.”

  She gives me two. “Now,” she pleads, and rocks her hips under mine. I catch my second wind and start to thrust, loving the feel of her bouncy tits under me, loving the taste of her mouth. Loving her welcoming hips and her hot, tight, juicy pussy, and her breath hot in my ear and her little cries. I feel her come, the stutter of her hip motion, and then her cunt squeezing me in rhythm and her pleasure noises.

  Somebody bangs on the apartment wall, and she laughs, and the vibration after her orgasm kicks me into my own climax.

  I pull out, practicing condom safety, and collapse on the bed next to her. “Fuck, woman. You’re amazing.”

  She rolls a little toward me. “No, you are.”

  “Okay, we are,” I say, and then because it’s been a fucking big day, what with the falling in love and the baseball game and the confrontation with Cronk and the getting fired, followed by the best sex of my entire life, I fall asleep.

  I wake up a little while later, and she’s gone. I sit up, fast, and get rid of the condom, and then I hear the shower. She’s singing in there, Aretha’s “Natural Woman,” and I get hard again in ten seconds, thinking about Olivia and her beautiful tits and her sweet natural pussy, all naked and slippery in the shower, and I go knock on the door.

  She makes a noise of surprise. “It’s just me,” I say. “Can I come in?”

  “I guess so?” She doesn’t sound sure.

  I get into the tub, and my already eager prick jumps at the sight of her. Exactly like I imagined, all round and bouncy and slippery, wet naked woman, and my heart starts pounding. “Are you quite all clean?” I ask, my voice gravel-rough with arousal. “Need a little help?”

  For answer, she hands me her soapy bath puff. “Could use a little, yeah.” I lather her all over with the puff, but then I use my hands to rub the lather around, paying careful attention to her lovely breasts and her thighs and her warm pussy. She tilts her head back and lets the water run over us, while I touch her everywhere and my cock keeps trying to get back in the door.

  “Are you quite all clean?” she asks me, flashing me a big grin, but before I can answer she’s on her knees with my dick in her skilled mouth, and I’m having to brace myself against the shower door.

  “Do not make me come with a blow job,” I warn her. “I need to be in you again.”

  “What, no preliminaries?” she teases, before going back down on me.

  “No, you can do it some,” I say, thinking about math and cicadas and cold showers to keep from getting too excited. “But then I will need to fuck you, so don’t jump the gun.”

  She sucks some more, looking up at me with her beautiful gold-brown eyes and her red mouth full of cock, and I have to make her stop. “Bed. No, towel and then bed.”

  “Go get a condom,” she says. She turns the shower off and steps out to the bathroom counter, leaning on it and arching her back so I can see her sweet pink slit. “I’ll be right here.”

  Fuck, that’s hot.

  No man has ever seized a condom more gratefully than I do. I go back into the bathroom to find her grinning at me in the mirror, and somehow my heart just squeezes up. She’s had a rough day too, and she wants me. As stressed as I’ve seen her after the past few weeks, there’s no sign of it now. She’s all pink and dripping, and I play with her pussy until she’s begging. Sliding inside her feels like coming home. Feels like sliding into home plate to score, maybe even to win the game.

  If I just won Olivia’s heart, did I win at life? Feels like it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Olivia

  It was an incredible night.

  We went through four condoms. I wanted to do it again this morning, but Justin said he might have to play again, in case Cronk’s firing us was bullshit, and he’d take a raincheck until after the afternoon game. Then he looked at me very seriously and said he hoped I’d still want him after the game.

  “I want you all the time,” I said, feeling somehow bold and safe at the same time. It was an oddly familiar feeling, and as soon as my brain said familiar, I recognized it as being the same feeling as playing softball when I was a kid. I was totally safe, because my dad was there, and he’d taught me well, and I knew what to do, and he’d never let anything bad happen. And I could be bold, because a ballgame was nothing but opportunity, opportunity and fun. Sky’s the limit, kid. Go see what you can do.

  And that’s when I finally realized that my dad might be dead. Because I couldn’t imagine him not coming back to me. He could be mad at my mom, but not at me. The only reason he wouldn’t have come back is if he couldn’t.

  I sat on my bed, naked and satisfied and sort of stunned, feeling that bold/safe feeling, and Justin took my hand and said, “Talk to me. What’s going on.”

  I told him.

  He picked me up and put me on his lap—all of me, all my boobs and tummy and thighs a
nd ass on his lap—and said, “You are safe. You can be anything you want. You have me.”

  I put my head on his shoulder. “You love me, then.”

  “God, I fucking love you, Liv. I love you.”

  I fell in love with him right then. I’d been inching closer and closer, and right then, I fell so far that I will never get out.

  It’s okay. It’s nice in here.

  It feels like playing softball, being in love with Justin Maddox.

  Justin left for the ballpark early, saying he really needed to get some catching in with his infield buddies. “Broadway’s pitching today,” he said. I gave him a confused look—what with yesterday’s revelation that I really missed baseball, I hadn’t had the chance to catch up on the roster or anything. “Derek Broadway? And Luis Royal catching. That’s a really good battery.”

  I’d even forgotten that you called a pitcher-catcher combo a battery. “Oh yeah,” I said slowly.

  “You need coffee,” he said, and kissed my head. “Sleepyhead.”

  “You kept me up,” I teased.

  He snorted through his nose. “You kept me up.” And we laughed together until he had to leave.

  I keep checking my emails. Nothing there that says I’m fired. I call the stadium manager’s office to see whether he’s been given instructions, but Barry Trent says he’s not heard a word about me being fired, and will I please come in because it’s such short notice that he can’t get anyone else, and he’s sure it’s all a misunderstanding anyway. “Mr. Cronk is a little, um, touchy some days,” he says.

  I decide to be blunt. “On bourbon days?”

  “Hmm. I don’t have any proof, you understand. But something like that, I think.” Barry pauses. “Listen, Olivia . . . Mr. Cronk hasn’t—well, he hasn’t done or said anything that might make you uncomfortable, has he?”

  “Yes, he has,” I say. “Last night. One of the players was helping me and caught it on video, and when Mr. Cronk realized he’d been recorded, he was, shall we say, very upset. And fired both of us.”

  “Hmm,” Barry says again. “I don’t have control over the player contracts or anything, that’s the ball club manager. I just manage the stadium and the facilities. But I think Jose would tell me if there was some kind of upheaval, and he didn’t say a word about it when I saw him half an hour ago.”

  “So I’ll just come in as usual, then?”

  “Please do. And Olivia, if something happens, come find me immediately, okay?”

  I thank Barry, and work like a maniac to get the sandwiches done. I’m behind, so I pull some pre-cooked baked chicken out of the freezer and make a caprese salad for the exec suite while it thaws, and then I get in my catering van and bomb over to the stadium to get set up. Nothing seems weird. Players say hi, security guards say hi, Jose the team manager throws up a casual wave while he’s talking with a tall guy with a 22 on the back of his shirt. I get a daily roster to check: 22 is Broadway, the starting pitcher.

  Justin comes out of the locker room while I’m setting up ham-n-cheese on wheat sandwiches, and oatmeal choc-chip cookies as well as bananas. Basic, but it’s okay for a rush day.

  “I’m not fired,” he says.

  “I’m not either.”

  He smiles. “But I told Jose I was ready for him to bring a kid up from the Rookie League. Ready to step down and start something new.”

  “No!” I exclaim. “I just got baseball back. You can’t quit.”

  “I’m not quitting baseball, baseball is forever,” he says, and he sounds so calm. “I’m just quitting minor league. I just don’t have the fire for it anymore. It’s a young man’s game at this level.” He smiles at me and it’s like the sun coming up. “I’ll coach rec league or high school or something. I like Rivertown.”

  “You like Rivertown?”

  “And I love you. If you’re gonna be here, I’m gonna be here.”

  He doesn’t kiss me, not in front of a team full of guys on game day. But his smile feels like a kiss.

  Epilogue

  Olivia, 18 months later

  I pull a batch of shortbread cookies out of the industrial oven of my new premises and set them to cool. The outside door bangs, and in comes my husband, the grocery bags making his biceps bulge.

  “Ooh, yummy,” I say.

  He sets the bags down with a thud on the stainless steel counter. “Five pounds of unsalted butter and three pounds of the 70% cocoa solids chocolate.”

  “Well, the chocolate, too.”

  He gives me an up-and-down stare and a little smirk. “We have a little time before you have to drizzle shortbread with chocolate. Oven’s not the only thing that’s hot in this kitchen.”

  I give him the smirk right back. “Is that a rolling pin in your pants, or are you just happy to—”

  Justin steps up to me and pins me against the stainless steel counters, pressing his groin against mine. He’s definitely happy to see me.

  “So fucking sexy,” he whispers in my ear, and then delicately licks the lobe, “to see a woman in charge in her kitchen.”

  It is, in fact, a great kitchen. Instead of renting space by the hour in a communal kitchen and doing the rest in my apartment, I finally bit the bullet and rented my own kitchen space. It was created for industrial cooking, and all the equipment is up-to-date and exactly what I wanted.

  I couldn’t have done it without Justin. He went to culinary school himself, and together we’ve built Tastewise into a well-regarded, profitable catering company. He got a job coaching a middle school baseball team, which he loves, but we work the catering schedule around it, and I hired a part-time assistant. After he quit the Rowdies, he came right back to the stadium—to help me cater.

  Mr. Cronk decided to sell his interest in the team the week after our episode. His wife filed for divorce, citing a mistress and funds gone missing, and he wound up giving her a chunk of money and moving somewhere north.

  I hope he freezes.

  I shiver against Justin, and unbutton his black chef jacket. Underneath it, there’s only a thin t-shirt, and I revel in the feel of his chest muscles under my hands.

  “What’s next on the menu, Chef?” he asks, kissing down my neck with his hands on my ass.

  I want to say, “You,” but I have to finish baking the shortbread rounds. “More shortbread,” I say.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Chef,” he says, and starts kissing up the other side of my neck. “You’re the next menu item.” Then he unzips my black pants, slides them down my hips, picks me up and sets my butt right on the counter.

  I shriek. It’s cold. And besides, this is unsanitary.

  “We’ll clean it before we cook on it,” he says, as if he can read my mind. We kiss, slow and gentle, then rougher and harder. I think I’m melting. “Come on. Panties off. I need some juicy fresh pussy.”

  The sound of his masculine growl in my ear sends a wave of desire through me, and I clutch at his arms.

  He strips my panties down, and then bends to lick me. I moan. “Fresh and sweet with just a hint of salt,” he says, with a gleam of his dark eyes, and then his tongue is busy on my clit. I let my head dangle back while need builds in my body. I unbutton the top button of my chef coat.

  “No,” he says, “leave the jacket on.” I spread my legs wider. He looks up at me over the plane of my stomach, eyes wicked and sweet. “Ready for the meat, Chef? Is there enough heat?”

  “Fuck, yes,” I say, and pull him to me. He unzips his own pants, tugs that big baseball bat of his out of his boxers, and slides it through my wet folds, slicking himself in my moisture. “Now,” I plead.

  He lines up at my entrance and pushes in, with long slow strokes, a little farther each time. “Fuck, Liv, you feel so good,” he says, and kisses me. I can taste myself on his tongue.

  “You feel good,” I echo, and wrap my legs around his back, slipping a hand down between us to touch my clit and give his cock a stroke every now and then. I can feel my orgasm bearing down on me. “Fa
ster, baby.”

  “If I go faster, I’ll finish before you do,” he says, but he ups the pace a little.

  “No, you won’t,” I say. “Slide home, Maddox. You’re safe.” And as I say it, I hit that peak, my body clenching up around his, riding the wave of pleasure. “Fuck, yeah.”

  He groans, pouring himself into me in a gush of hot juice, and kisses me deeply.

  A few moments later, the oven clicks in its off-on cycle, reminding me I still have cookies to bake.

  “Whoa, that was amazing,” Justin says. He pulls out of me, then reaches to the rack to grab a tea towel. “Let me clean you up, babe.”

  I let him. I sit up, then stand on wobbly legs. “Wow. We gotta quit doing this.”

  “Quit?”

  “Just during the day.” I pull my pants up and smack his arm. “While we’re, you know, cooking. I could’ve had something expensive in the oven.”

  “You didn’t,” he says, buttoning his own pants. “I checked.”

  “Still,” I say.

  “Nope. Wouldn’t do that to you,” he says earnestly, then ruins it by giving me a big toothy grin. “I still think we’re gonna have to have sex on a catering job sometime.” I frown, washing my hands. “Like,” he says, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket, “maybe in the locker room at Rowdies Field? Now that Cronk’s sold his interest in the team.”

  “We got the contract for next year?” I ask, unreasonably excited.

  I know, I know, I said I was never bidding on that contract again. I was wrong. It was the best deal of my life.

  “Maybe we’ll get past third base on third base,” he says, wagging his eyebrows at me like Groucho Marx. “Or maybe we’ll, um, slide home together.”

  I smile at him. “Oh, I bet we will.”

  Also by Carly Keene

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