Quarterback’s Surprise Baby

1





Gryphon



Creaking open the door, I'm hit with the smell of perfume, alcohol and the sight of women. So many women. There's gotta be a fine girl in here that can make me forget my troubles. Just a few hours of semi-sentient pussy, that's enough for me. All I want is to feel her lips wrap around me—both sets.

And then oblivion will be mine.

At least until tomorrow morning, anyway. And that's all I need.

Maneuvering through this bar is reminding me of being on the field, getting through the sea of guys wanting to take me down.

Just like she wants to take me down.

There I go, thinking about it again.

Don't think. Drink.

“Yeah, I'll have a whiskey, neat. And a beer,” I say, sitting my ass down at the bar. From my perfect vantage point here, I can see the chicks as they walk in. I’m already drawing a few stares. If all goes as planned, I should have a full buffet of women to choose from before the evening is through.

The whiskey comes, in a heavy glass, just the way I like it. I down it, which settles my lawsuit nerves a bit, and I relax and can concentrate on the thing that will top the night off perfectly: finding the sexiest woman I can, to suck my dick.

Thank heaven there's a baseball game on the screen. It doesn't stress me out like football might. I glance at it and, during the commercials, evaluate the talent in tonight's bar.

There are the soccer moms in the center of the room with their short haircuts and overly brittle laughs—too high maintenance and not all that feminine, but you know they’d work hard in bed with a man like me. The barely-legals are in the corner trying to case the joint themselves, just in case someone figures out that maybe they should be showing some ID. Too young. And then there are the married couples having a date night—longing in their eyes, but not for the one they’re with. They've got nothing to say to each other—just looking around aimlessly, careful not to let their eyes settle on any one person for too long lest the accusations start.

Fuck me if I ever become one of those folks. It’d be too damn dreary to have nothing to say to someone because they’re in your face all the fucking time. “How was your day?” Who the fuck cares? Women are trouble anyhow. Not that men are much better. Who would want to marry anyone? It’s for suckers.

I pour the IPA down my throat to chase the whiskey. Sweet nectar. I just want to drink enough so I can obliterate the thought of that dumb bitch trying to take me down. I did absolutely nothing to her, and she's acting like she's the martyr of martyrs, painting me as the great big evil villain. But the real reason she's going after me is because of what makes the world go round.

No, not love.

Money.

She wants my money. Tons and tons of it. Money that I’ve bled, sweat and cried out of every pore.

Shit, I promised myself I wouldn't think about this tonight.

“Bartender, another IPA please,” I say. “And fuck it, bring another whiskey too.”

“Coming right up, Griff,” he says.

I guess I’ve met this bartender before. He should know my order then, shouldn't he? I shoot the next whiskey and chase it with the beer. One thing about being a solid wall of muscle is that it sure does cost a lot to get drunk, but luckily for me, money isn't an issue—as long as I get to keep what I have, that is. The muscle thing ensured that for me when I was 20—just a little older than the scantily clad girls in the corner—and got signed for the first time. Straight outta college ball at Brooks U. And now Sabrina’s trying to take it all away.

I thought things were going to be as smooth as silk, once my dreams came true, but you wouldn't believe the number of people who are willing to take everything you've got. Lie, cheat and steal.

There I go, thinking about it again. I look across the top of my drink at the bar, willing myself to forget.

Then I see her. Walking in, looking like she's glowing from the inside, her skin set against a flimsy white shirt, her dark chocolate eyes flashing as bright as her smile. And the kind of lips that would feel perfect to kiss and suck as you buried yourself deep inside.

She's got jeans on, and her curves are killer, legs from her cute ass to her high-heeled shoes. She's talking to another girl, but honestly? I couldn't pick that one out of a lineup. No one but this single, solitary girl even exists anymore.

I watch her as she pulls out her chair, hooks her bag onto it and settles that fine ass down. She pulls a lipstick out of her purse and traces her full lips with it, her dark eyes lowered in such a coy way that it makes me want to bend her over. Watching her press her lips briefly together before letting them go soft, sends a shiver straight to my cock—which has been at very strict attention ever since she sauntered into the place. I pull my eyes away and attempt to watch the game again, but I can't concentrate. I search for her reflection in the bar mirror, so I can stare at her a little longer without detection, but no dice.

Those lips. Those hips. They're just what I need, to forget everything. Just for one glorious night, to be able to plunge myself over and over into her luscious body and to turn that sweet mouth into the crumpled “o” of orgasm after orgasm. That would be perfection. I look over at her again. She's laughing and talking with her girlfriend. They're in perfect harmony.

“You want another one, Griff?”

Another, and another and another.

“Yeah, just the IPA this time.” I hold back because I don't want to waste this chick with on a whiskey dick. She’s too hot to take that risk. It's never happened before but with the way my luck's been going these days, I can't count on anything.

Then it happens. Our eyes meet. Those rich, Godiva eyes shine directly into mine for what seems like an eternity but probably is only a second or two. It's like she's locked on to me, and I can feel not only her beauty but her intelligence. There's something real in those eyes.

Slowly she turns her head back to face her friend, but her eyes are on me until the last second. Then she sips her drink. It's one of those fancy girlie drinks—pink, with a straw and a crazy garnish. Probably sweet as all hell. I wonder what her lips taste like. Icy strawberries?





2





Odell



Sandra looks at me. “Damn, girl, don't look now, but that dude at the bar is giving you the eye!” she says.

“What dude?” I say. “He cute?” Whoever it is, sounds interesting. Tonight is my night. It’s my last night of real freedom before I become partner at the firm. I don't care what happens, as long as I can do whatever I like. Starting from tomorrow my life is going to be all work, all the time. Big case, some celebrity or something. I'll have to devote almost every waking hour on it, but for twelve more sweet, beautiful hours, I am my own person. A night with a strapping young man might be just the thing to kick off my new job.

“Oh, he's cute. More than cute. Incredibly, searingly, devastatingly hot, in fact.” She nods to herself. “But he's the kind who is cute for one night, not the kind you want to stick with forever. You want a lawyer like you,” she says sagely, nodding her head. “Remember that, Odell. You can mess around, but don’t get attached to a hottie with tattoos like Mr. Bad Boy over there.”

“A lawyer? Two lawyers together?” I'm incredulous. “Sandra. You really think that's a good idea? Can you imagine the arguments? Based on the case Humphrey vs. Simmons, it's clear that there is precedent for the loose end of the toilet paper to go over the top!” “I rest my case!” She laughs. “Loose end definitely over the top.”

“Can I look now?” I ask her. My head feels pulled in that direction—all I want to do is get a view of the man who could be my perfect prey for the night. Odell Williams! One night only!

“Ok!” she agrees. “Just don't be too obvious about it!” When I turn my head, I don't know how I missed him when I first walked in. He’s damn fine, that’s for sure. Broad shoulders, abs so ripped you can see them through his t-shirt and thick legs in blue jeans. A He’s got a thick head of dark hair cut short to show off his strong jaw, and cheekbones, and ... the bluest eyes on the planet. Boring into me. Somehow the way he's looking at me makes me feel like his hands are all over me. His fingers doing things they shouldn't. But they should. “Mm mm mm,” I say turning back to Sandra slowly. “He is one fine hunk of man. But those tattoos wouldn’t fly at Smith Williams Smith, now, would they?”

“Hardly,” Sandra says. “That firm of yours isn’t exactly the most progressive. It’s amazing that they hired you. Must be trying to reach out so that they can look a little more 21st century.” She takes a long sip. “You ready for another drink?” Sandra grins. “I want to get a better look at this admirer of yours.”

“Sure, sounds good. He's not bad at all!” I say. “See what you can find out,” I say, smirking back at her.

“A fresh Cosmo is on its way!” She stands up then leans in and stage-whispers, “Along with a full report!”

“Perfect.” I lean back and adjust my hair a bit. Even if I don't plan on anything lasting, I still want to look my best when I go in for the kill with Loverboy over there. I sneak another peek at him. He's still got his eyes trained on me from across the room, his burning gaze leveling me. I risk a little smile at him. I don't want him to come over just yet, but I'd be happy to have him know I noticed him.