Scoring a Soulmate, a Mr. Match Novella

by Delancey Stewart

  As we turned a corner, Xavier pulled me to the edge of the sidewalk, up against the flat wall of the building, and I instinctively put my back to it, looking up at him.

  "Cat," he murmured, facing me, his hands dropping to my waist as he stepped near. "I feel like I’ve known you so much longer than I have. I don’t want to rush things, but if I don’t kiss you soon, I think I might implode."

  I tilted my head up to encourage him, and his lips brushed mine, a delicious tease. I wound my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him, rewarded with a thrill as his arms encircled me, pulling me nearer still. One of his big thighs wedged between my legs, sliding against my center, and I heard myself moan as my eyelids slipped shut.

  Xavier kissed me then—not a tease, not a suggestion—a slow, soul-searching kiss that claimed me, possessed me, marked me. And I swear, it turned out I'd really never been kissed before. Idly, some part of my mind wondered if this level of kissing skill came from practice (I pushed that thought away quickly) or from that alignment of elements Max was always theorizing about. Did we line up in such a way that it just felt more right?

  It didn't matter why, what mattered was that in Xavier's arms, I was a different woman. I was happier, sexier, somehow more me. And at the moment, I was becoming a wanting, needing, mass of nerve endings in search of release. I kissed him back, our tongues winding and grappling as our hands learned each other's bodies.

  "My hotel is just around the corner," I said, hoping I wasn’t being too forward. What was going on here was quickly becoming inappropriate for the sidewalk, even in Los Angeles, and if I got my way, it would get way more inappropriate. Fast.

  "I don't want to rush you, Cat." Xavier stepped back, his eyes dark and shining.

  I shook my head. "You're not."

  "Maybe we should wait." His words were at direct opposition to the bulge pressing against me through the denim of his pants. “I don’t want to screw things up with you.”

  "I admire that about you," I breathed, and then took his hand and led him up the sidewalk toward my hotel.

  Moments later we were in my room and Xavier stopped me again as I pulled at his clothes, suddenly more desperate than I'd felt in my life.

  "Cat," he said, holding my forearms and smiling at me. "We don't have to rush this. If I get my way, we'll have plenty of time together."

  God, had someone written a script for this guy? Every word he uttered was perfect.

  I stared at him. He was giving me time to think about what was happening. He was allowing me time if I needed it, time to consider. But everything happening inside me, everything that had been spinning and whirring and changing since the moment those coffee-chocolate eyes had landed on mine the night before was already in motion. And it was all telling me that this was different. This was unique. And this was something worth pursuing. I didn't want to wait.

  "I want you," I said, bolder than I'd ever been in my life.

  Something between a word and a groan escaped his lips then, and the sound pulled at something erotic buried in me that I had never even known was there. I pushed myself into his arms, every inch of my body in contact with his, and he kissed me again like there was something only I could give him, something he needed desperately.

  This time when I tugged at his shirt, he let me pull it from his body, and I inhaled a sharp breath at what lay beneath the fabric. His chest was tan, muscled, with just a smattering of golden blond hair in the center. He was like every dream of a perfect man I'd ever had, and I couldn't help running my hands over those smooth pecs, feeling all that silky skin under my palms.

  "You're killing me, Cat," he groaned, returning the favor by gently removing the light sweater I wore, pulling it carefully over my head. He took a step back, his eyes climbing the length of my body, lingering on my breasts, sheathed in white lace cups. And then he surprised me by reaching up to pull the clip from my hair, releasing it to cascade down over my shoulders. "Perfect," he breathed. "God, you're perfect."

  I couldn't wait any longer. Everything inside my mind was screaming for him, tossing in words like, perfect, match, fit—and a few other dirty words like cock, fuck, and screw, just for fun. I fumbled with his belt and pushed his jeans and boxer briefs from his hips just as he unfastened my jeans.

  He pushed my jeans down to my ankles, following their descent with his body, ending up on his knees in front of me as I stood there in only my bra. He helped me step out of my pants, and then his hands found my waist and traced a slow path down over the globes of my ass, all the way down the backs of my legs to my ankles and slowly back up, resting on my hips. He pulled me into him, and a second later, his tongue found my center, teasing and licking, and then making slow deliberate swipes that had me writhing even as I stood, my hands in his gorgeous thick hair.

  After a few minutes, he stood, lifting me off my feet and turning to deposit me gently on the bed. For a moment he stood in front of me, just looking at me as my eyes traced the perfect chest, the chiseled abs, and came to rest on a very thick, very impressive cock. "Oh, God," I said, not even realizing the words were escaping my lips.

  "I'll answer to that, I guess," he growled, moving to rest over me on his forearms, that thick heavy cock on my stomach.

  I would have laughed, but I was too busy exploring his body with my hands, trying to push myself up into him, to feel him everywhere at once.

  "Is this still okay? Are you sure?"

  "God, yes," I moaned, wishing for him to get on with it and for this to never end, all at once.

  He ripped open a condom and I watched him slip it on, and a moment later he was pressing into me, every inch of my body accepting the delicious feeling of him slowly filling me up. I'd never had anything close to this before, and I was like a live wire, ready to spark and explode.

  The next few moments of my life were surreal—half dream-state, half more awake than I'd ever felt. Xavier's dark eyes held mine (when I could manage to keep mine open) and his body surrounded me and filled me at once. I breathed in the masculine scent of his cologne, mixed with the smell of our sweat and sex. I heard the sounds of my own voice crying out, his deep tones joining me, and our bodies sliding together. And I felt like I was at once cracking into shards and picking up new pieces of myself, mixing them together and reassembling it all into something unfamiliar. I floated above us, watched the uninhibited girl on the bed as she pushed Xavier to the side and climbed on top of him, throwing her head back as she rode him, his hands pressing into the flesh of her hips. It was like an out-of-body experience, except that I'd never felt so much at one with my own body in my life.

  And when the orgasm came, I understood the word "shattered." I was flung to the outer edges of my own reality, maybe to the edge of consciousness, and then I contracted, pulling back together to form the single most sated and content girl you've ever seen. In the midst of my explosion, I heard Xavier cry out his own release, and we twirled together through the ether, coming to land atop the bed in my hotel room, a sweaty panting mess.

  "Holy fuck, Cat," he whispered.

  And maybe it was holy. Maybe that was the only word for it.

  * * *

  Xavier had to get back to San Diego the next morning, but I needed to stay another day and shut down the gallery show, so I chatted on the phone with him as he made the drive.

  “So you lived with your mom and your brother after your dad died,” he said. “That must have been hard.”

  “It was,” I said. “But it was almost like my dad left some kind of legacy. We’d been a close family—we did everything together. And Mom made sure that didn’t change. We looked out for each other. We still do.”

  “Is your brother still a big part of your life?”

  I wanted to tell him how big, but wasn’t ready to tell him that Max was the whole reason we were having this conversation. “He is. We’re really close.”

  “So you spend a lot of time hanging out with pro soccer players?” he asked.

 
; “More than any sane woman should,” I confirmed. “Wait, why? Are you jealous?”

  “A less confident man might be,” he said. “Okay, yeah, a little.”

  “They look good in photos, but they spend so much time together they’re like fraternity boys,” I told him. “And they treat me like one of the guys most of the time.”

  “That’s nice, actually. You have a whole team of brothers to look out for you.”

  It was nice most of the time. “I’d never date one of those guys though,” I assured him.

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  A warm satisfaction flowed through me at his words. It was like we'd fast-forwarded through all the awkward dating crap, the will-he or won't-he call phase, and moved straight into comfortable familiarity. Except that we still had so much to learn about one another.

  I arrived home the next day and immediately called Xavier, as promised.

  “Do you want to come see my place?” I asked him.

  “If you’re not too tired after the trip,” he said.

  We agreed he should come over, and I took a few minutes to unpack. It didn’t take Xavier long to arrive.

  He kissed me hello, and came inside behind me, stepping back to look around my house. "This is nice," he said. "Really open and cool."

  "Thanks. It makes me happy—feels like home I guess.” I gave him the tour—though touring four rooms didn’t take long, and then we sat facing one another on the couch. I felt awkward suddenly, until Xavier asked if I wanted to go out for a walk.

  We locked up and strolled my little Ocean Beach neighborhood hand in hand. He stopped me in front of another cottage about two blocks from mine, and mentioned off handedly that it was his house.

  The man of my dreams had been living two blocks away?

  "How have we not bumped into each other?" I asked, punching his arm as I gaped at the little cottage.

  He grinned at me. "I have no idea. We needed Mr. Match. Come in, I’ll show you the house."

  Speaking of Mr. Match, I was going to have to come clean.

  I followed Xavier inside, unable to stop myself from thinking about how completely out of the blue this had all happened, and how perfect we actually seemed for one another. Maybe my brother really was a genius.

  Inside, I found a cottage decorated very much like my own. Open, clean, airy.

  “Lunch?” he asked, and then set about removing things from the refrigerator when I nodded.

  "I need to tell you something," I said, standing uncertainly behind him in the kitchen as he fixed us sandwiches.

  He turned with one eyebrow raised, his expression worried. “Breaking up with me already?”

  My stomach did a little flip. "No, definitely not. But I need to tell you something about Mr. Match."

  He turned to face me now, interest clear in his focused expression.

  "He's my brother."

  "What?" He laughed. "Seriously?"

  I nodded and explained that we were the first match Mr. Match had ever successfully made, that I was his guinea pig.

  "I guess we're both guinea pigs, really."

  "I guess so. Are you mad?" I asked.

  Xavier stepped across the kitchen floor and pulled me into his arms, looking down at me with an expression so warm it would fill my dreams from now on. "Never," he said. "Thanks to him, I've found the woman of my dreams. Now I just have to spend every day from here on out proving to her that I'm the man she's been looking for too."

  Goosebumps raced across my flesh and I brushed his lips lightly with mine. "You don't have to prove anything to me. I already know."

  Chapter 8

  Secrets and Soccer

  Max

  And that, friends, is the story of how I became Mr. Match.

  I officially launched the service as a premium San Diego-only subscription matchmaking site offering no guarantees. The matches are determined by my algorithm, which I've made even more awesome over time, and I don't contact those who subscribe at all unless I've got the perfect match for them. But plenty of people subscribe.

  Because like I said, I’m a fucking genius.

  And my identity, by the way, remains a secret. That's part of the Mr. Match mystique.

  Plus, I already have a job. The fact that this secret side hustle has doubled my pro soccer income in the last year is just a nice little safety net and gives me enough spare cash to keep the site rolling nicely, maintain my rather opulent lifestyle, and take care of my mom.

  So now you know how it all works. If you ever find yourself in San Diego, you should definitely sign up. I'll see if I can find you your perfect match. It's just numbers, after all.

  And if you're wondering, my sister is still in the middle of her happy ever after. She and Xavier moved in together after like, a week. Okay, maybe it was more like six months. They’re happy, but the degree of public affection they're comfortable displaying has me second-guessing matching her in the first place.

  I love seeing my sister so content, and Xavier's a good guy. He's even a decent soccer player.

  And best of all? They've both sworn to keep my secret.

  But now? You have to keep it too.

  THE END

  Want more Mr. Match? Go grab the first book! To hear about future releases, you can follow Delancey on Facebook!

  Sneak Peek of Book 1

  Scoring the Keeper’s Sister

  Prologue: MAX WINCHELL

  There are a few things you need to know about me. Besides the fact that my last name is the same as the once-ubiquitous and always-tasty doughnut chain, which is certainly an indication of my desirability.

  Thing number one: I'm pretty much a genius. Yeah, I know that's not totally cool to say out loud, but here's the thing—staying humble about your rocket-science smarts doesn't make them go away. And it's not like I hang out in produce aisles chatting up women about my intellect while they fondle bell peppers, right? So it's cool.

  And if I was just telling you I was smart, that would be arrogant. But there's a point here. Which I'm totally getting to. Right now.

  Thing number two: I've created the single most successful matchmaking algorithm known to man. Or at least to the internet. And I've built it into a statistically reliable, money-back guaranteed online service, providing the lonely hearts of the greater San Diego area with dates that are practically a sure thing, not to mention excellent potential for the real deal—marriage and all that whiz. If that's your jam. All for the low monthly price of ... let’s just say its enough to cover my bar tabs when I go out with the team after games. And then some.

  And that's thing three...

  I'm the star striker for the South Bay Sharks, San Diego's league-leading pro soccer franchise.

  I like to keep my eggs in multiple baskets. You know, in case any of the eggs ever crack. Cuz in my experience? Eggs get cracked.

  But that's another story.

  Oh, and by the way? My identity is San Diego's best-kept secret.

  Chapter One: Hello and How Do You Do

  Fernando Fuerte

  My friend Max Winchell is supposedly some kind of genius. At least according to him. But I don't give two squirts of piss about that if he's not focused on his main job, which is scoring goals. And tonight? He was not focused.

  We were still debating the last play of the game, where something distracted Max just as he was poised to score the final shot—losing us the opportunity, though not the game. That would have made this a far more serious discussion. As it was, we were rehashing the final moments over beers at McDaughtry's, our favorite Gaslamp District hang out spot.

  "What the hell was that, Max?"

  Winchell shook his head, gave me his trademark non-committal Winchell smile. "I felt sorry for them."

  "Bullshit," Hoss huffed out. He leaned in over the spot where Max sat at the bar, getting in his face. "You had it, Fuerte here was set to bury it, and then you blew it. And that's not your style, man."

  Max moved back, out of range o
f Hoss's angry glare and his even worse breath. "We were already ahead by three. And it’s pre-season."

  I shook my head. Max wasn't going to tell us the truth, which was par for the course. The guy got weirdly secretive at times, but I guessed we all had stuff we didn’t share. "Dude. I get being distracted, but not during a game, okay?"

  Max shrugged and downed his beer.

  In truth, it had been only a scrimmage with the guys from Los Angeles to warm up before the season really started. Still. It made me worry about the season to come. I looked around to make sure no one else was nearby. "Please tell me it wasn't that website distracting you."

  Max narrowed his eyes and looked offended. He straightened up, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. "First, don't make me sorry I told you about that. You are literally the only person in town who knows. Well, besides my sister and my mom. And Xavier, but you’ll never hear it from him since his lips are permanently attached to my sister, which can make it hard to talk. Second, the thing runs itself, I don't need to worry about it."

  "Must be nice," I scoffed. "Taking money from all those poor lovesick fools month after month."

  Hoss had sauntered off to talk to some of the other guys who were busy hitting on anything with breasts that moved inside the radius of the bar, and Max turned to me with a quizzical look on his face. "If you're so skeptical, why don't you try it, Fernando?" He asked.

  I choked at the suggestion, which led to a coughing fit, and I was forced to apologize to Erica, one of my teammate's sisters, after coughing loudly pretty much in her face.

  "Nice," she said, glaring at me with icy blue eyes. Erica's brother was keeper, and Erica was hot. But she was also a royal pain in the ass, had announced publicly that she would never date a soccer player (like any of us had even asked... though, really, we would have. Did I mention how hot she is?).