“Ohhh—” A moan escapes from a place deep inside, and I cover her mouth with mine as her walls tighten and pulse against my fingers. She pushes down, bucking against my hand. The heat spreads over her body, shivers rising over her skin, until I sense that her pleasure is complete.
I expect her to go. I expect her to waltz out and leave—and she’d have every right to. Instead, her hand reaches out and finds my cock. It’s like time stops at that instant, and everything starts to go in slow motion. She gets me to back up, and then she kneels in front of me, unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them down so that my rock-hard cock is exposed.
Her lips. Her lips. Touching my skin, finding the sensitive spot beneath the head of my cock, coaxing me like I did her a few moments ago. She flicks her tongue over the head, and she takes my shaft in fully, letting it hit the back of her throat.
In my days as a professional athlete, I’ve been with women—plenty of them. None of them compare to Renata, the pure pleasure of watching her, seeing her become the sexual goddess she usually keeps hidden inside. It’s a thing that happens with many women—especially the smart, professional ones—but when that woman is particularly special and she gives pleasure with such relish and abandon, it’s maybe the rarest and most beautiful thing a man can witness.
She slows her rhythm, tending to my cock with great care.
And then it happens. I come, the sensation like a jolt of white-hot lightning searing through me all at once. I don’t mean to let go inside of her mouth—but she swallows, her hand at the base of my shaft, like this is what she clearly intended. Even being near her is different than being with any other woman. This encounter made it even clearer that she was the one that I was intended to be with.
Later, after we’ve pulled on our clothes, and straightened mussed hair and shirts, the emotion lingers for me. But Renata seems distant, far away, almost like she’s sad or angry or deeply disappointed. I can list ten reasons why she'd be distant, but there’s no regret on my part.
This is just the first step in showing her that we’re right together, and that I am capable of change.
When she turns to go, she looks at me quizzically for one second. “You want to keep your job?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“And you want to be with me? And ditch Kinley?”
“That’s about right,” I reply.
“And you want to tell me nothing about what happened before?”
“Well, not nothing. But yeah, you got me. Not much right now. You gotta trust me. I can tell you in time—but there are things I need to tend to first.” I slip my hands in my pockets and watch her as she walks to the door.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?” I ask.
“Okay, I’ll try and trust you. And I’ll see you tomorrow night for that event with Kinley. Then we’ll talk and try to get out of this.”
The first time I got out of an engagement, I was a broken man, and maybe I still am. But this—this is something to be excited about.
I go for my next practice and try to push away the feeling that none of this is going to be as easy as it seems.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I don’t want to go through with it.” Mack is on my doorstep again, and it’s the eve of his engagement party to a woman who doesn’t mean a thing to him. That would all be well and good if I hadn’t let him tear off my clothes and—well, everything we did.
There’s a signed contract. There are messages on my phone from Kinley and Eddie Davidson, reminding me that if we don’t go through with this, Mack is out of a job. And his reputation is permanently ruined.
“I don’t think we can relent on the engagement party, Mack. I said it when I saw you last… and I’m saying it now.” I pause for a moment, a deep heat coming to my cheeks. The last time I saw Mack, well—things had gone a little farther than I’d anticipated. I’d finally given in to the painful need I’d been feeling for him.
Two nights ago, I reconsidered everything. And I knew that this engagement wasn’t right.
Two nights ago, I went to bed, desperate for Mack’s body. I’ve never felt what it was truly like to be with him, to have him inside of me, see his face when he comes.
It was a good thing I slipped my vibrator into my checked luggage on the way from San Francisco, because I needed to come twice before I could fall asleep. The taste of Mack on my lips was intoxicating, damaging, dangerous.
Like a drug you can’t get enough of.
You know it’s bad for you. You know you’ll be longing for more once it runs out on you, once you’re sad and lonely, waiting for a fix that won’t come again.