Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(73)

I carry her up the stairs like that, hardly even looking where I’m going I’m so lost in those lips. I ease her down onto my bed, pulling my clothes off and crawling in after her.

I use my mouth on every goddamn inch of her, starting at her toes and moving to her lips - teasing her along the way. She squirms and gasps, vainly trying to arch her hips or her chest towards my mouth as I wickedly pass just shy of the good parts.

But that’s exactly how I want her - moaning, begging, whimpering. Craving my touch.

And when I do move down between her legs, it’s like touching her with a live-wire. Her whole body jumps off the bed as I slip my tongue along her seam, dragging it through her sweetness and lapping up every drop of her cream.

And then we make love - really, actually make love. It’s confusing and consuming, like some sort of damned drug. It’s like I’m high off of her, lost in her, drowning in those eyes and those lips.

I drive in deep, grinding into her and feeling her legs tighten around my waist, her nails dragging down my back. There’s this new fiery side to her - this powerful new part that’s opening up to me.

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Her moans are like a sweet song in my ears as she throws her head back and shatters beneath me. Her orgasm seizes through her as she holds me tightly, and she’s never looked so fucking beautiful than how she does when she comes right there and then.

I’m letting go, coming with her and gasping as I explode into her.

And this is fucking perfect.





39





Natalie




“Honey, I found the sweetest little veil you ever did see when you come out of there!”

Bernadette’s voice is muffled through the bathroom door, and I nod, if only for myself.

“Okay, thanks!”

“You sure you don’t need any help with that dress in there honey?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” My voice is distant, but I can’t help that.

Two weeks after the first visit, Austin’s mom and I are back at the dress shop, putting the finishing touches on the dress ensemble - what she’s been calling the “icing on the pie.”

The location is hardly the place where I should be doing this, but I’ve had to pee all day, even if I’ve been too scared to. I’ve been too nervous to make myself do it, but it cannot wait anymore

This is just nerves, or stress.

It’s the fortieth time I’ve said those words to myself, like some sort of TV drama cliché.

But honestly, what else do you tell yourself when you’re a week late on your period?

Yeah…that.

My hands are literally shaking as I pull open the package and take the little stick out. My pulse hammers against my chest as I pull up the elaborate white dress and crouch.

Holding the stick.

Shaking.

Nerves, that’s it.

I count breaths with my eyes closed while I let the timer on my phone count down the two longest minutes of my life. In my head, if I don’t look, it won’t be real. As long as I’ve got them tightly shut, I don’t have to see what happens next.

I won’t have to see it when my world turns upside down.

The timer dings quietly, and I slowly peel my eyes open and stare at the stick on the edge of the sink.

I can pee again.

I can definitely pee again.

I can feel the color draining from my face as I shakily unwrap a second test.

“You okay in there, honey?” Bernadette’s voice through the door scare the living daylights out of me in my focused state, almost making me drop the test.

“Yep!” I suck in a lungful of air. “Just, uh…cramps.”

God do I wish it was cramps.

A minute later, I’ve got my eyes closed all over again, the second test sitting on the sink. And I’m not a praying person, but I’m whispering to whoever the hell will listen as I wait for that timer to go off.

This can’t happen. This can’t happen, this can’t-

The timer chimes.

And, there sitting on the periwinkle blue porcelain sink, is another plus sign.

I sit, and I stare.

I’m wondering what the odds are of two false tests when the knock comes again.

“Sure I can’t get you anything sweetheart? Got some Tylenol in my bag in case you need it.”

Bernadette’s voice pulls me out of my trance. I’m suddenly moving on autopilot as I quickly flush the toilet, and wrap ten layers of toilet paper around the tests before I stuff them into the trashcan.

I look at my white-dressed reflection in the bathroom mirror.

This doesn’t mean anything.

Nothing.

I’ll go to a real doctor, and get a real test. These take-home ones are bullshit anyways.

I say it twice more before I open the door.



Wow.

Back in the dress shop, and back on top of that little pedestal by the mirror, I look like something out of a Disney movie.