Submitting to the Billionaire(48)

I look down at my hard cock. He's still waiting for a hot cunt to drop  down on him. Fuck. What a little tease? I snatch up the discarded towel  from the floor and wrap it around my waist, raging and frustrated beyond  belief. Why'd she leave like that? She looked like she was having a  great time and then  …  she's out the door faster than shit through a  goose.         

     



 

Beneath the towel, my cock aches, and I consider jerking off just to get  rid of my erection, but no, I'll save it for her. I'll find her again,  and she's gonna open up, and take all of me inside her pink hole. After  that, I'm gonna pump into her over and over until my cum is dripping out  of every orifice. Her mouth, her pussy, her ass.

I stop suddenly. What the fuck?

Unbelievable, but I realize that in the hot haze of mindless lust I was  about to fuck her bare. I actually wanted to slide my bare cock into her  wet flesh. Hell, I'm still fantasizing about it. I must be going  insane. A girl like that? Who offers herself to anybody. Shit, I've been  hit in the head too many times to be thinking such crazy shit!

I swipe a deodorant stick under my arms, pull my clothes out of my  locker, and begin to get dressed, but she's etched onto my brain. She  walked her ass into a men's locker room like she was some innocent, pure  thing. All big eyed and dressed like a schoolteacher, but she was so  astoundingly into it, so open, so fucking hot. I practically had to keep  myself from drooling when she was fingering herself. The look on her  face. I've never seen anything like it in my life. She was utterly lost  to the pleasure she was bringing herself, and not paying any attention  to my presence.

Every other woman I've been with has been either so focused on pleasing  me so she can become a permanent fixture in my life, or just looking  good while she was doing it so that she can become a permanent fixture  in my life, but this girl. This girl made herself cum as though there  was no-one else in the room but her and her dirtiest fantasies.

And then …  the sensuous way she rubbed her pussy lips on my dick. That  sure was something else. The slick softness tantalized me. Her juices  coated my cock, the sweet scent driving me crazy, while her little hard  clit rubbed and rubbed, and begged for more. Oh, Jesus!

I fuck a lot of women, no, make that a shitload of women, but I never  felt like I had to have any of them before. Not like I need to have  Reese. This is like something out of a damn chick flick. I walk to the  bench and pick up the piece of paper she gave me, looking for a clue as  to how to contact her again.

My eyebrows shoot up when I see the address on the paper. It's from my  hometown, Petersville! Not that, that gives her story anymore  legitimacy, but it does establish that whoever these people are they've  taken the time to do their research. Obviously, I'm not falling for it  or anything, but …  seeing the address does make a tiny flicker of doubt  light up in the back of my brain. I grab my phone, pull up Mom's number,  and dial.

"Hello, honey!" she answers after a couple of rings.

"Hey, Mom."

"I saw the game. You were just wonderful," she gushes.

"Yeah, it was good," I reply, pacing the locker room floor.

"Good? Drake Kelly, you scored the winning touchdown. You deserve a medal," she says proudly.

I fucking deserve a medal for the control I showed this evening when I  let Reese's hot pussy walk away. "Yeah, it wasn't bad," I agree  distractedly.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" she asks, sounding concerned, and I have a  flashback of the time I fell out of a tree when I was seven years old  and broke my hand. She was so frightened and distressed her hands were  shaking, and I had to tell her to stop worrying. It was nothing. The  image puts everything into perspective again and suddenly the logical  side of my brain takes over. What the hell am I doing? How could I even  consider for a moment that she is not my mother?

"Yeah, I am," I reply quickly. "How are you and Dad?"

"We're great, honey. Dad and I were just listening to your game on the  radio." Her voice muffled as if she's just turned her head to look at  something else. I must have interrupted her while she cooking dinner or  something.

"You busy?"

"I was making dinner, and I think I heard the oven ping. Can I call you back later this evening?"

"I'm out with the guys, Mom."

"Oh, all right. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Have a lovely night, honey.  You deserve it. Dad's out in the garden. I'll tell him you called."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Before you go, I just want you to know that I'm so proud of you, Drake.  You're everything I ever wanted, and I couldn't have asked for a better  son."

"I love you, Mom," I mutter guiltily.

"I love you too. Speak to you tomorrow."

"Bye," I say, and hang up. Thank God, I had enough sense not to ask her  outright. Now that I can think about it without the smell of Reese  fucking up my head, the whole idea sounds crazy even to me. I screw up  the paper the phone number is written on, and chuck it into the bin by  the door as I exit the locker room.         

     



 

I get as far as the corridor before I come to a complete stop. A janitor  is coming up the corridor with his pail and his mop. He'll empty out  the bin, and her number will be gone forever. I realize that I can't let  it go. I don't know why, but I just can't. I whirl around jog back to  the bin, and retrieve the screwed-up ball. I smooth it out, turn it  over, and spot something on the other side.

It's a torn off hotel stationery, but a piece of the logo and name is  still intact. What's more, it looks familiar. I hold it closer to my  face, squinting, and finally, it clicks. The Regatta. Okay, that is good  to know, because I've been in it once before. It's just outside town. A  Swedish girl I was banging years ago, was staying there. I feel  happier, suddenly. I stuff the paper into my pocket and head out of the  stadium.

I'll ask Dad about the adoption thing tomorrow, but I'll build up to it  slowly. No point hurting him. In the meantime, I'll work getting my mind  off Reese.

My phone rings. It's one of the guys, probably already hammered on  whiskey shooters. Tonight, I'm just not in the mood to get completely  fucked up and have my pictures snapped by the paps as I stumble out onto  the street in the early morning hours.

I don't pick up the call and decide to drown my sorrows in my favorite bar instead.

My body is still buzzing when I slide up a bar stool. It's like Reese  sashayed into my locker room and pussy whipped me in one encounter. I  like it here because it's small and private and everyone knows me, so I  can usually come for a drink and not get mobbed by half the city. I know  some of the guys really dig that side of playing, but it's not my  thing. Sure, notice me when I'm on the field, but off it, give me a  break, will ya?

Sandy one of the bartenders comes over with a bottle of beer for me.

"Great game," she says with a friendly grin.

I nod my thanks. As I slide my card along the bar surface I tell her to  get herself and the rest of staff a drink too. She flashes an even wider  grin and goes away.

I take a long slow swallow and let out a satisfied sigh as the cold  liquid splashes down my throat. Closing my eyes, I try to lose myself in  the social buzz of the bar for a few seconds. This is my happy place,  but today I find myself fucking tormented by the image of Reese, in  nothing but her panties, hand busy underneath the thin fabric. My dick  twitches.

Fuck, that girl …

Before the image earns me another painful erection I snap my eyes open. I  stare moodily into my glass and feel someone's gaze on me. Not an  unusual thing. I spend a lot of time with people either recognizing me  outright or squinting at me while trying to figure out where they've  seen me before. I turn around and clash glances with a woman sitting at  the other end of the bar. She is staring hard at me.

Her mouth curves. I smile back as I lift my glass to my mouth. She's  hot, not Reese-hot obviously, but hot nevertheless. Blonde hair down to  her breasts and a tight sweater that accentuates a trim, athletic  figure. I trail my finger down the condensation on my glass and wonder  what it would be like to ask her to strip, play with herself, then sit  on my cock the way I asked Reese to do.

I don't have long to wonder because, a couple of seconds later, and  she's making her way over to me. She leans right into my ear to talk to  me. It isn't exactly loud in here, and she really doesn't have to get so  close, but hey, I'm not complaining. She smells good, not Reese good,  but good enough and Reese did leave me with a bad case of blue balls.

"Drake Kelly, right?"

"Yep," I confirm, as she pulls back, and beams at me.

"Damn, I was just watching you play," she gestures towards the TV above  the bar. "You're hot." She bites her bottom lip. "I meant to say good."