Money. Tickets for their friends. A car. New tits.
Somewhere out there, four women had eight, brand new tits courtesy of Jack Carson. It was almost like a public service.
And the league said I needed to devote more time to charity. I was doing the world enough favors.
Only a few of my teammates joined us for the night out. Half of them took off before the party got rowdy. The rest grabbed more beer and a girl of their choice.
I ordered the waitresses to bring us another round of everything—alcohol, wings, phone numbers. The music pounded, and two of my teammates shook the jukebox until their change poured out. The R&B blared, and some of the girls started to dance.
And those lovely ladies knew just what to shake.
After a song—and three discarded thongs—another handful of coeds slipped into our private room. They giggled as they recognized the stars of the Ironfield Rivets and paraded to my table. I let one through, a pretty little brunette I stacked next to the blonde.
Now this brunette I liked.
She wore a sexy black dress, something deserving of the Vegas strip, not the city of Ironfield. When she curled into my lap, the hem rose. I covered that exposed thigh with a hand.
Soft. Warm. She’d do for a night.
The brunette coo’ed, fake and practiced. She didn’t need to patronize me. I preferred a real moan. My fingers tucked inside her panties.
Shaved.
I liked that.
I tickled until I earned her genuine, sexy sigh, except my flirting pissed the blonde off. That wouldn’t do. I gave her a wink, and she settled down, leaning close enough to let me glance at her tits. She had a better rack than the brunette. The heart-shaped tattoo was familiar though…
Now I remembered. Last week, I saw her blowing Orlando, one of my linemen. It wasn’t unusual for the same girls to pass through the team. I had to admire her dedication. She worked her sweet-ass up from a lineman to the star of the offense. She wouldn’t stop until she fucked me—the team MVP.
She couldn’t get any better than me.
And she wouldn’t have a night better than what I’d offer.
The blonde licked her lips at me. The brunette wanted me to finger her. I studied both of their bodies.
“You girls might want to exchange names.” I tugged on the blonde’s dress strap. “Tonight, you’re gonna get to know each other real well.”
The brunette was into it, but I was pinching her clit. She’d do anything I said. I hoped the blonde liked brunettes or they wouldn’t have as much fun when I took both of them home. Then again, some resentment was sexy. It was entertaining when the girls got territorial. A little cat-scratching, back-biting, and hissing to stake their claim made the sex damn exciting.
Besides, everyone loved competition—especially me, especially when two big-titted women fought over my dick. A man didn’t get to the top of both his game and his women without encouraging healthy rivalry. And it was a good night to shoot for my personal best.
A threesome was fun, but it didn’t impress anyone anymore. A foursome though—entertaining three lovely ladies?—that sounded just right. I was in the business of making plays and memories.
Fortunately, another blonde roamed the room, searching for a lap to grind in or a cock to suck. I hauled her into the seat next to me.
“You.” I didn’t even ask her name. “Sit.”
Her voice was breathy. “Yes, sir.”
I’d never get tired of that. The new girl earned the scorn of both the brunette straddling my lap and the blonde at my side. I expected one of them to bolt, but even a third of my attention was enough of a thrill. They all stayed, staking their particular claim. The new blonde tested the limits of her halter-top and rubbed my bicep. The first blonde entwined her hand on my other arm. The brunette shimmied against my thighs.
“Girls…” I grinned as their fingers roamed over my chest. “It’s gonna be a damn good night.”
Bryon Washington sloshed his beer at me. The half-hearted toast was as much a congratulations as I’d get from my best friend and teammate. He smacked the waitress’s ass as she delivered another round of desserts. We hadn’t ordered them. She shifted from Bryon’s roaming touch.
“Compliments of the owner,” she said. “He’s a diehard Rivets fan.”
“Thanks, babe.” I remembered my manners even with three girls hanging over me. Wouldn’t my PR team be proud? “I’ll send him an autograph.”
She glanced over the table—covered in empty glasses, spilled beer, chicken bones, and a general mess. I doubt she wanted an autograph, probably just needed a night off after we trashed the place. At least she was cute. She could have gotten a ride all the way home if she played her cards right.
Bryon mourned her departure as she collected a tray of empty plates and escaped from the shouting and riotous laughter. He got over her rejection quick enough.
“You should share the wealth, Jack,” Bryon said, surveying my blondes. “A pretty boy like you don’t need three girls. It’ll look better if the team captain bangs only one lucky lady at a time.”
I didn’t care how it’d look, only how it’d feel. So far, the brunette stroking my hard-on through the denim promised a night to remember.
“Hoping I shuffle one off to you?” I asked.
Bryon winked at the brunette in her skin-tight, black dress and patted his lap. “You gotta maintain that gentlemanly image, Jack. Coach’s orders.”
“What gentlemanly image?” Like anyone had ever called me a gentleman. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I plan to show these lovely ladies a night on the town. They should be lucky to have Jack Carson as their tour-guide.”
“They won’t see much of the city from their knees.” He grinned at the brunette. “Come here, honey. He won’t miss ya.”
That wasn’t how this worked.
I was the leader. I was in charge.
And, like any alpha in a pride, I ate first. The others could have their scraps after I took my fill.
I didn’t let Brunette slip from my lap.
The last time the guys and I went out for a night, Bryon came to dinner with rainbow stripes around his dick—three different colors of lipstick ringing his cock. He bragged about it for a week, thinking he was hot shit.
I wasn’t a man who got out-classed or out-done, especially with women.
The blonde giggled and teased her fingers around my shoulders. Her nails poked when they should have stroked, but she’d have a good grip on my cock later.
“Yeah, go on, Honey,” Blondie said. “I’ll take good care of Mr. Carson.”
The brunette arched an eyebrow that might have screamed a dozen obscenities if it weren’t plucked to death, drawn in, and botox’ed stiff. She licked her lip and turned her attention to me.
“I can entertain him all by myself.” She breathed in my ear. “Right, baby?”
She smelled like cigarettes and one too many martinis. Blondie scowled. The other blonde adjusted her halter-top and let her tits do the talking.
Three under-sexed, intentionally-starved, loose-moraled women vying for the opportunity to get fucked by the Rivets’ quarterback? Yeah, I’d take those odds.
I waved to another waitress, frantically mopping up a spill. She leapt at the chance to serve someone other than my offensive line as they chugged another pitcher of beer and gnawed on the bones of their third order of barbeque wings.
She was just some chubby little college girl, pushing up glasses and huffing as the pitcher spilled. Beer soaked into the carpet. She was cute, but too flustered. I liked a girl with confidence.
“Another round for these ladies.” I waved over my newest fan club. “Whatever they want.”
“I know what I want…” The blonde bit her lip, her eyes skipping the flirting and darting to my groin.
The waitress sighed and grabbed her pad and pencil, though halter-top blonde scoffed as she had to repeat her order over the noise. My offensive line roared in laughter and stole the remote, turning the television to a show replaying one of our critical games last season.
One of my best passes was highlighted in full glory for us to admire. The table bumbled, and glasses went flying. The girls laughed. Blondie ran a hand over my throwing arm.
She squeezed the muscle.
Giggled.
She’d learn soon enough that wasn’t the hardest part of me.
The waitress bolted to the kitchen and returned, red-faced and brushing the sweaty hair from her cheeks. She looped the room, depositing drinks and collecting dishes. This time she left the door open, and our private party was no longer separated from the restaurant. It wasn’t a great place, just some trendy little burger bar that seemed a good investment for when I got my contract renegotiated. The burgers were greasy, the women attractive, and it offered a night of endless fun.
Except Rivets’ management said we weren’t technically supposed to be partying in public anymore. They said we were likely to cause a scene and our behavior was hard to spin to the fans.
I didn’t understand that. We acted like any other red-blooded man who had a couple million to blow and the attention of short-skirted women. Apparently, that was a problem. The team and league were as big a pain in the ass as my publicist.
What was the point of being rich, famous, and sporting a nine-inch cock if you didn’t get to celebrate with it once in a while?