My Mom's Fiance: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  “Sorry, no go,” I drawled. “Not tonight honey.”

  And the woman pouted, still caressing my arm with that red fingernail, her other hand now dropping to my thigh.

  “Mister,” she breathed, the hot gust of her breath like spoiled garbage on my face. “I can do things no other woman can, just try me,” she purred again, winking. “Just try it and see.”

  And now, despite the fact that we were in public, a bar with plenty of other people, her hand literally slid up my thigh until she was cupping my crotch, running a nail over the curve of my dick, lightly tickling the bottom through the canvas fabric of my pants. The old me would have been on it. The old me would have groped a breast right there, maybe even twisted a nipple, reaching into her dress to feel that rubbery hardness. But fuck, it wasn’t the old Trent anymore. I didn’t want it, the thought of another woman was fucking disgusting, like I’d be bathing myself in a cesspool, some decayed shit that I’d never get clean from.

  So instead, I stood up abruptly.

  “Sorry, married,” I ground out, pulling some bills from my wallet and tossing them on the bar. Never mind that I didn’t have a wedding band on my finger. “No can do.”

  The hoochie wasn’t deterred at all.

  “So what?” she whined plaintively, reaching to grab me with those long fingernails again, her hands like claws. “I’ve done plenty of married men before, it’s never made a difference. My cunt likes married cock,” she added slyly, “The sex feels even better when he’s married,” she winked coyly.

  And I was beyond disgusted now. I’m not passing judgment on anyone, other peoples’ relationships aren’t my business. But this tramp took the cake. Shit, throwing it out there that was she was a ho, that she craved married men, that she specialized in married cock? Shit, that was fucking disgusting. Even if you like it, even if that’s your thing, don’t put it out there. It’s not like Michael Jackson’s nose, you don’t have to wear it on your face for the whole world to see.

  But I’d already spent enough time with this woman, her presence was totally toxic, making me nauseous with its lust for married ballplayers. What the hell, this fucking sucked, and I’d already gotten enough alcohol in me, and what the fuck, Marie’s panties were still waiting. In fact, I had them in my pocket, the wisp of nothing my memento of her, my link to the gorgeous girl, everything that this tramp wasn’t.

  So I shot the no-name hooker an disgusted look and took off, striding to the elevator, my long legs eating up the distance before the doors slid shut. And once I was alone, my hand reached for the slip of silk, lightly caressing the fabric as if it really were her cunt, that wet, engorged sweetness ready for me all the time, whenever I wanted it, her heaving form at my knees, on the bed, on her back, available throughout the night, so intense, so willing.

  But as I let myself into the room, a thought caught in my mind. I’ve been approached a million times on the road, at bars, right outside the stadium, shit anywhere women were. And I’ve turned a lot of them down, hey, even I’ve got to sleep sometimes, you can’t be fucking every single minute of the night, every night, a ballplayer’s got to be rested for games. But this time, I’d done something different. I’d played the married card, like I really was a married man, like I had a honey at home, a sweet, willing woman waiting for me, arms warm, breasts soft, cunt wet.

  And it shook me, for sure. Because that sweet willing woman had Marie’s face, it was her breasts I stroked, her soft, wet pussy I touched, her tiny asshole that I kissed. I’d pretended that Marie was my wife to the other woman, and the crazy part? It didn’t feel wrong. It felt amazingly right, like I wanted the brunette to wait for me, I wanted her to keep her pussy safe, I wanted to be the only man plumbing those sweet depths, the only man allowed to shoot my sperm inside.

  But that was the irony of all this. At this very moment, the woman of my dreams was probably at a sperm bank, picking out some anonymous donor and getting ready to take his semen into herself in the hopes of having a child. The thought made my body go cold, literally chills running down my spine, my chest beating with pain. Because fuck, I didn’t want some other guy’s sperm in her … I only wanted mine. Marie was mine, and even though I had no right to tell her, of speaking my hopes, dreams, my desire to her, the brunette was mine, absolutely, completely mine.

  But what did I have to offer a woman? I was a journeyman athlete at the beginning of my career, making practically nothing with no stable home, no home base even, just a man with a suitcase pursuing my dream of playing pro sports. And Marie was a woman worth far more than that. She deserved more, she was catnip to billionaires, I’d witnessed Vincent hitting on her with my own eyes. I had nothing to offer in comparison except a hard body, a devoted heart, my absolute passion for her sweetness, her willingness, that curvy form. And unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Marie deserved more, she deserved better … and I’d come up short.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marie

  Robbie came down into the kitchen while I stirred my tea, using a little more sugar than usual. I needed the sugar, needed the high, given how terrible I’d been feeling lately.

  “You okay, Mom?” he asked off-handedly, opening the fridge and peering inside. Pulling out a carton of juice, he took a swig before putting it back. “Mm, this shit is good.”

  I mock frowned at him.

  “Robbie, you know you’re not supposed to drink from the carton,” I scolded lightly, my heart not in it. “The juice’ll spoil that much faster.”

  He nodded, already moving to the front door, hand outstretched to the knob.

  “Sure Ma, no worries, next time I won’t,” he said. But then he paused and spun around, looking at me suddenly, eyeing my make-up less face, the way my hair was caught in a sad ponytail, the curls deflated and worn unlike my usual bouncy brown. “You sure you’re okay Mom?”

  The truth was that I wasn’t. I missed Trent desperately. I missed the alpha, I missed Trent’s looming presence, the way he made me feel small, I was positively petite in comparison. Even more, I craved that deep growl, the humor in those blue eyes, the way he held me close to his hardness at night, his long legs tangling with mine. I was in love with my son’s best friend, it’d happened during our sinful week together, and there was no way my son could ever know.

  “Yeah I’m fine,” I said in a chirpy tone, pasting a smile on my face. “All good, no worries.”

  But Robbie looked at me carefully again. Single moms often have a close relationship with their kids and Robbie was no exception. Even though he was an adolescent male, twenty years old and chasing skirt, still, my son was perceptive, he knew me in and out even when it was uncomfortable. So he cocked his head, eyeing me speculatively, before turning away.

  “I know something’s up, Ma, we’ll talk about it when I’m back okay?” he said, fixing me with another look. “Clarisse is waiting at the mall already, so not now, but when I’m back.”

  And I flashed him a real smile then. Even if my love life was a wreck, I was happy for my son. I was glad he was out there, getting to know pretty girls, doing what it is that kids do these days, seeing movies, hanging at the mall, hell, even having sex, he was old enough. So I blushed a little, involuntarily, at the thought of my son getting naked with a girl. God, Robbie was so young, and where would they do it? In his car? Her car? I really had no idea.

  But that was the thing. Trent was the same age as Robbie, and Trent was old enough, absolutely. My lover was charismatic, magnetic, sure of himself, he had a dream to play ball and was pursuing it with a single-mindedness that I had to respect. So Trent was old enough to handle himself, and my son probably was too. After all, there was no reason to think otherwise either. Robbie was doing well in college, a double-major at that, with every sign that he was succeeding, forging a path for himself in this game called life.

  So I smiled at the boy again. Robbie was my other amazing love, just in a different way, the baby I’d raised since birth.

  “Go, have f
un,” I said gently. “Meet up with your friend, what’s her name again? Clarisse? Sounds exciting,” I smiled.

  My son grinned back at me.

  “Clarisse is more than exciting, she’s incredible,” he grunted. “But more on that later. When I’m back, Mom. We’ll talk when I’m back,” he said firmly, stepping out.

  And I sighed as his car rumbled and then took off down the street. Because I had a shift coming up, I’d taken an afternoon shift at the hospital and this was no way to walk in, gloomy, schleppy, lonely and sad. I worked in the maternity ward, a place filled with joy, moms and their new babies, and I needed to be peppy and happy, a ray of light, not all gloom and doom.

  God, what was wrong with me? In the course of a week, I’d done crazy u-turns, one moment joyful, ecstatic, coupling with an insanely gorgeous man, welcoming him into myself over and over, sure I could handle the consequences. But now that it’d ended, I was a mess, it’d been a terrible miscalculation. Plain and simple, I was worse off than when I started, I’d veered between the highest highs and the lowest lows, and had hit rock bottom now. Before, I’d been wallflower Marie, a little shy, a little afraid sure, but still protected, my heart cocooned so that I’d never feel pain. And now that I’d put myself out there, it seared so badly, tearing me apart. I missed Trent so much, mourned his absence, the fact that I’d probably never see him again.

  And that thought pitched me over the edge. I might never see my lover again. I might never see the man I adored, I’d never feel his hands on me again, much less look into those clear blue eyes. Crumpling at the kitchen counter, I absolutely lost it, chest heaving, head in my arms, wailing like a siren. God, what a mess! I cried for everything I’d never have, everything that would never come true, there was no fairytale ending to this story.

  But at that moment, my cell rang, the buzz insistent. I let it chime for a minute, ignoring it, the table vibrating as a cheery song, ringing insistently. And with a resentful swipe, I picked it up and answered.

  “He-hello,” I sobbed, trying to hide my tears. “Hello?”

  Angie’s voice rang out, loud and clear.

  “Hey girlie,” she sang. “Long time no talk. How’s it hangin’?”

  I let out a snort then, half laugh, half sob. It’d been a week since I’d gone to the party, and so much had changed, yet my friend knew nothing. All she knew was that I’d disappeared, probably thinking I’d gone home and gone to bed, the old boring Marie.

  So my breath hitched a little.

  “Hey, I’m okay,” I lied. “How are you?”

  And Angie took off at a million miles an hour.

  “Honey, that party was so awesome, did you have fun?” she chirped. “Oh my god, I met so many men, it was incredible, I gave my number out to like ten guys.”

  And I giggled blearily despite myself. That was amazing, we were forty year-olds and I felt like giving your number to one guy was pretty good. Hey, age bias runs deep, old ways of thinking are hard to shake even though I was being biased against myself in this case.

  “That’s great,” I said, blowing my nose. “Did any of them call?”

  Angie squealed then.

  “You know it! Three of them did, and honey, I’ve been going on dates every night of the week. In fact, sometimes I go out twice per night. Isn’t that incredible? I’ve been forcing myself to eat two dinners, it’s so hard with all that food, but it’s worth it, it’s sooo worth it,” she cooed. “These guys are amazing.”

  I giggled again, wiping my nose and letting out another huge honk.

  “That’s awesome Ang, I’m so happy for you,” I said into the phone, trying to sound peppy and supportive. “It’s so great that you found people, don’t worry about the two dinners, just don’t eat dessert.”

  And Angie chortled happily on the other side.

  “I know, I really got lucky at the party, I’m so glad we went,” she giggled. “But what about you Marie? I didn’t see you after twenty minutes, what happened? Did you go home? Or did you,” and here, her voice lowered, “did you go home with someone? Meet someone for a hot night of no-no?” she asked wickedly.

  I laughed then. Because yeah, Trent and I had done anal our first time, did that count as a “hot night of no-no”? But even worse, I’d fallen in love with the alpha male, completely lost my heart to the big man, and was only worse for the wear now. So I laughed, a little brokenly, and sighed into the phone.

  “Well, I’m not sure if I did any ‘no-no,’ but I met someone,” I admitted.

  Angie squealed then.

  “Oh my god, you did? Don’t say it was that fat blonde guy I saw you talking to. Honey, you can do better than that, that dude’s the type who goes to nude beaches even though he has a tiny pecker. That kind of guy, you don’t need,” she proclaimed authoritatively.

  And I laughed for real then. Because where did Angie come up with this stuff? A nude beach? A tiny pecker on a nude beach? I giggled again before saying, “No, not that guy. I met someone else, someone amazing in fact …”

  And Angie cut me off.

  “Oh my god, that’s so great! What’s his name? What does he look like? Where does he work? Tell me everything,” she rushed.

  Taking a deep breath, I braced myself. I wasn’t sure I could do it, the pain was so fresh, the wound still tearing me apart inside. But I’m not a fan of bottling things up, and it was time to let go. There was no hope for me, the show was over, so I may as well let it out now, this was a good time as any. Taking a deep breath, I recounted my tale to Angie, describing how I’d met Trent, fallen in love, and how our time together had been so meaningful, so life-changing, transforming me from plain old Marie into a woman of the world, a woman who appreciated life and everything it had to offer.

  “So that’s great!” chirped Ang at the end of my story. “But I’m confused. Are you seeing him or what?”

  I shook my head with frustration, tears welling in my eyes.

  “No, we’re done. He’s done, he’s gone,” I said, the words so painful to speak, each one lancing through my heart.

  But Angie wasn’t so sure.

  “But how do you know? Don’t you have his number? Why do you say it’s over?”

  And I sighed again.

  “Because, Ang, we agreed on one week together, nothing more. And that week’s done, he’s gone. Left without saying goodbye in fact, no note, no nothing,” I added softly. Of course, I blushed remembering Trent’s semen, the warm cup of jism waiting for me, but that hardly seemed appropriate to add.

  But my friend was on a different level. She snorted, a weird sound of exasperation and hilarity.

  “A one-week pact?” she asked drolly into the phone. “What, are we in seventh grade where we do pinky promises? Did you cross your heart and hope to die? Stick a needle in your eye? Is that it?”

  I grew red then, even though she couldn’t see.

  “No of course not,” I said, a little stung. “It’s just, well you know, we said one week, and the one week ended.”

  But Angie wasn’t taking that as an answer.

  “Girl, this isn’t the Dark Ages, you can call, you know,” she said. “You sound so sad, why don’t you make yourself feel better? Just call to say hello.”

  I was taken aback.

  “And say what?” I huffed, my heart beginning to speed, my breath coming fast. “What could I possibly say?”

  “I dunno,” replied Angie airily, “but it sounds like you guys really got along, that you were never short on words. Just give him a call and feel it out, go with the flow.”

  I choked then.

  “But Ang, did you hear what I said? Trent’s my son’s age. In fact, he’s my son’s best friend, it’s so wrong.”

  The blonde laughed again.

  “Honey, that was the best part. That was the most awesome part of the whole thing, that you hooked a man half your age, that you turned his head, made him want you, and by the sounds of it, made him love you too. Who cares if he’s your son’s age
? What, he’s got a career, he’s got his own life, it’s not like you’re picking up a kid.”

  And I was stunned silent. She didn’t think I was some gross cradle robber? But Angie wasn’t done yet.

  “Besides, if you’re some old witch, then what am I?” she asked. “One of the men I’m dating is eighteen,” she confessed wickedly, her voice lowered. “Grant’s eighteen, he’s so hot, so amazing in bed, I forgot how good a younger man tastes,” she purred into the phone. “So if you’re a cradle robber, then I’m robbing in utero, my new guy’s barely a baby.”

  I choked then.

  “Eighteen, really?” I croaked. “That’s barely legal.”

  “I know,” said Angie smugly. “But it’s legal. Barely legal, but legal still.”

  And my head whirled. Oh my god, we were both cradle robbers. My friend and I both, we were cougars preying on young men, robbing them before they reached maturity. But something about that description was wrong, flat out wrong and even silly. Because although I couldn’t speak for Angie’s boy, I knew Trent was nothing of the type. My man was self-assured, charismatic, he knew what he wanted, a man with a purpose and meaning to life, a confident spring in his step. I was no cougar “preying” on some helpless victim. Trent would never be a victim, he was too alpha, too sure of himself.

  So my voice wavered as I spoke again.

  “But Ang, don’t you feel guilty?” I asked tremulously. “And don’t forget, Trent’s my son’s friend, it complicates everything.”

  But Angie just pshawed.

  “Honey, you don’t give these guys enough credit,” she admonished. “Seriously, your son is a grown man. Robbie. Is. A. Grown. Man. He can handle it, he’s not some middle school boy who’s upset that his parents are divorcing. And if I remember, Robbie’s been telling you to get out, he wants you to be happy, find someone new. And if it’s with his best friend, then all the better. He knows both of you already, it simplifies everything.”