Baller’s Baby(23)

She dips lower, raising her leg when she does so, and slowly slides one finger into her glistening pussy lips. Another moan escapes her beautiful lips, this one deeper, more like a growl of pleasure. She slips back out and rubs the wetness across her most sensitive spot again. Her legs twitch, and my breath hitches in my throat. I want to be the one to make her twitch and scream with pleasure.

Her hand freezes, and when I look back up, her chocolate eyes meet mine. She looks shocked and ashamed to be caught doing something so beautiful and natural. I hate it.

“Don't stop.”

My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough and ragged. She hesitates, unsure. I lean against the door frame and pull my hard, swollen cock free from the confines of my jeans. Taking it in my hand, I stroke it slowly from the base to the tip and back again. My balls are tight as fuck. I want to be buried inside of her, but the sight of her growing baby bump reminds me exactly why I can’t.

“Touch yourself, Skila.”

She holds my gaze for another moment before her fingers trace across her stomach, rubbing light circles on the stretched skin. Her hand wanders up and across one breast, to the other and back again, teasing. Her nipples harden. She’s still watching me, or rather, watching my hand, as I slide it up and down the length of my dick. She licks her lips, and my cock jumps in my hand.

“Touch your clit for me.”

Her hand slides down her stomach to the crease at the top of her thigh and then darts over to the top of her pussy, where her hand rests lightly on top of her clit.

“Rub it. Use two fingers.”

She obeys immediately, and the sight of her doing exactly what I tell her to do is empowering. I start to pump a little faster, up and down on my cock, only slowing to rub the moisture beading at the head around the tip. She hasn’t quit circling her clit. Her head is thrown back and to the side again, and her breath is labored. My hips thrust out as I stroke over and over.

“Slide one finger in.”

Fuck. I watch as her middle finger slides inside of her. She takes her time, enjoying the tortuous journey. When she pulls it back out, her finger is coated in her wetness. She slides it back in and out, over and over again, each time grinding her palm against her clit when she’s as deep as she can get. Her skin is flushed, and I can see the sheen of sweat coating her brow.

“Two,” I say, and this time when she slides out, she reenters with her ring finger too. Her hips rise off the bed, and she calls out my name.

“Look at me, baby,” I demand.

Her eyes meet mine, and I pump my cock faster and faster as she slides in and out of her slick folds. I feel my balls tighten. My legs are shaking, weak as fuck from standing here while I jack off, but I refuse to look away from the beautiful midnight goddess before me.

I feel my orgasm start at the base of my cock. My long, slow strokes are now short bursts of rapid movements. Skila’s hips are raised off the bed, spread wide for me. I can see every single move she makes, every time she slides her long fingers in, and when she wiggles them upward to touch that spot that feels just right for her. Her eyes widen, and her mouth forms a silent “O” right as my seed shoots out the tip of my cock, and I slump, exhausted, against the door frame.





Chapter Thirty-Three

Skila



I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT JUST HAPPENED. Who does that? This isn’t some E.L. James novel. I didn’t sign a contract, and yet . . . I’ve never felt freer, more liberated, more open in my own sexuality, and let's be real here—there weren’t any whips or chains. We masturbated together while the other watched, and it was hot.

Hot as fuck.

I refuse to feel ashamed of that. I’m a grown ass woman. If I want to experiment, then I can. Period.

Kiptyn walks out of the adjoining bathroom with a warm washcloth and wipes the sticky moisture from between my legs before tossing the rag to the laundry basket in the corner and crawling in the bed with me.

“Well, I was going to cook dinner, but how do you feel about pizza instead?” he asks.

“Pizza sounds great,” I say with a laugh, thankful that he isn't even going to bring up what just happened.

“Do you want to rent a movie while I order?” he asks, passing me the TV remote. I scroll through the options on the ON DEMAND page and settle on Pawn Sacrifice. It looks good and intriguing, and I’ve already seen the rest of the stuff. I click buy and then wait for Kip. He comes back into the bedroom ten minutes later, carrying a large pizza and two glass bottles of Coke. My stomach shows its displeasure at being made to wait by letting out a loud growl.

“Oh my God, feed your son before he eats me from the inside out,” I joke.

“We can't have that.” He places the box in the middle of the bed and passes me a napkin. I don’t waste any time in devouring the first slice. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days. Kiptyn just leans back against the pillows, watching me shove pizza down my throat. I don't bother chewing. What's the point?

“Hey, don't judge me. I’m eating for two here,” I say when I take a second to breathe and sip my soda.

“I wouldn't dare. I’m just wondering if I need to call Dominos and have them bring another ten or so pizzas.”

“Shut up,” I say, slapping at his bare stomach. Even though he is joking with me, I know he doesn't mean a word of it. Kiptyn goes out of his way every day to make sure I know how beautiful he thinks I am, so even though I have marinara sauce on my face and dripping down my chin, I know he still sees perfection. I can see it in the way he looks at me, the way his eyes light up, and the tiny dimple that appears when he gives that half-ass grin without even knowing it—like he’s doing right now.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. How’s your arm feeling?”

“It's all right. I took my pain medicine a few minutes ago, so it should ease up soon.” His words make me feel like shit. I hadn’t even been thinking about his shoulder. I just wanted to change the subject. I know it has to be hurting him. He was supposed to start physical therapy today, but after everything else that happened, it kind of got pushed aside.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to rub it?”

“I don’t think it would help. I’m fine, baby. Swear.”

“Okay.” I drop it, even though I don’t want to. I can tell he’s worried about it and I want him to talk to me, but if he doesn’t want to, then I’m not going to push him. Remembering the injury to his shoulder reminded me of everything else that has happened since then, though, and how we still need to talk about his coming home with a stripper, and Camryn being alive and serving me with papers.

Hesitation causes me to hold off on filing the paperwork to terminate Camryn's parental rights. It's almost like I feel sorry for him. Sorry for myself. Sorry for the fact he is virtually unable to step up and be the man he is supposed to be. I hate it, all of it.

Kip has been so understanding, but I don't know how long that will last. His support seems never-ending, but I don't truly know how he feels about me. He seems to love me, to care, and his actions speak volumes, but I long for the words to be spoken.

Validation—that’s what I need. I need to know it’s not just pity because he thought his brother was dead and now his brother is a douche. I need to know that he'll still be around after the baby is born, but I'm afraid to push the issue. I'm afraid of hearing the wrong answer.

Kips head falls to the side. The day and the painkillers have finally taken their toll on him. I grab the pizza box and our empty bottles and ease out of bed, careful not to wake him up. He looks so peaceful like this. I wish I had my phone so I could snap a picture of him to use on my lock screen, but I don’t know where the hell I left it last night.

After dumping our trash in the bin, I go to the refrigerator to grab some milk and a few—oh hell, let’s be honest, a sleeve of cookies, and I hear a knock on the door. I jump a mile in the air, and it takes everything in me to keep from crying out.

Shutting the refrigerator door, I flick on the back porch light so that I can see outside. It’s Camryn. I haven't had any contact with him since he left the hospital, and he looks even worse now than he did then. The normally perfectly groomed man who I was so accustomed to seeing when we were dating is all but gone, replaced by a scrawny, frail man who looks like he's just come off a bender, and the smell of whiskey, stale cigarettes, and sex make my stomach turn.

"Camryn?"

"Skila, I need to talk to you."

I open the door to allow him in. I have no idea what he's up to, but I really wish Kiptyn was awake now. Everything about this feels wrong. I can’t explain it. Camryn’s eyes dart around the room, never staying in one spot for more than a second at a time.

“Listen, Skila, I need you to come with me.”

“Come with you? Where, Camryn? It's ten at night.”

“I know, I know, but they aren’t watching. I can get you out.”

“Camryn, what are you talking about?”

“You need to come with me. You’re not safe. No one is safe.”

“Camryn, you’re scaring me. Who’s not safe? Who’s not watching?”

“It's not important right now. We need to go.” He reaches for my arm, but I pull back before he can grab me. He spins like he didn’t mean to try to grab me and takes two steps toward the kitchen.