Wildcat

by Max Monroe

  Okay, wow. Not a good idea to headbang.

  I scaled back the personal violence, but I sang even louder.

  It helped a little—for about five songs—until “Sweet Caroline” started to play. Immediately, my mind changed the name to Catharine.

  I coached myself to consider personal safety. “No, you idiot. Do not text and drive. Catharine will wait fifteen minutes to hear from you.”

  Convinced, I focused back on singing almost aggressively. “Sweeeeeeet Cath-a-rine, bum, bum, bum!”

  God help me if someone snuck a surveillance camera into my truck.

  The minutes ticked by, one by one, just as slow as the miles, but finally, I made it home.

  The hot exhaust snapped lightly as I pulled into my circular drive and shut off the engine, all of the energy in my body draining like I’d opened up a faucet.

  I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was, how much I’d really taken out of myself until then. Practice, worrying about the date, having the time of my life with Cat, and then the fucking crazy drive home—I was officially spent.

  The temptation to sink farther into the leather and sleep right there in my truck was real, but I knew I’d regret it in the morning.

  Heaving the door open with a kick of my foot, I hauled myself out of the truck and trudged up the steps to my front door. I normally parked in the garage, but I’d just had the cement floor in there painted. All of 21 Savage’s rapping about his garage had influenced me to do a little sprucing of my own.

  The key slid easily into the lock, and the alarm beeped my arrival until I pulled up the app on my phone and shut it off. Jilly had obviously set it behind me when she’d left.

  I reset it for the Stay setting and then backed out of the app, and the little red bubble on my messages caught my attention.

  Eyebrows drawn together, I clicked my inbox to open them and went to the top of the list to see what was new.

  Two new messages from Catharine sat waiting. Instantly, my energy renewed, exploding like a tossed water balloon in my chest.

  Catharine: Um. What?

  Catharine: Did you fall and hit your head?

  What the fuck? What is she talking about?

  Quickly, I scrolled up, hoping to understand. Unfortunately, it all made sense immediately. I’d sent her multiple texts, all in a row, and the content…well. Yeah.

  Me: Sweat catheter Buns buns buns

  Sweet Jesus. My fucking truck must have voice texted her! I didn’t even know the thing had that fucking capability!

  Me: Reaching ouch touching me touching you. so good so good so good

  Me: Sweet Catharine!

  I scrolled back to the bottom hastily and started typing.

  Me: Sorry about that. Neil Diamond, you know? Apparently, my truck took over and texted you while I was doing some of my best vocal work.

  Her response was immediate and made my cock jerk.

  Catharine: Oh. I thought maybe you were thinking about touching me.

  Okay. All right. Sweet Jesus. It was safe to say I was thinking about touching her now.

  And to be fair, I’d most definitely been thinking about touching her then too.

  Me: I AM. Good God, Cat, believe me, I am. Are you thinking about me touching you?

  Catharine: It’s all I can think about.

  Fuckkkk. Taking them two at a time, I bounded up my stairs, ran down the hall, flicked on the light switch in my bedroom and dove headfirst into my bed. With a roll and a flop, I made it to my back, but my breath was still as thick as if I were facedown.

  Me: Where am I touching you, kitten?

  I looked down to my jeans to see if they were going to withstand the challenge my full-mast cock now presented. I thought better of it and undid the button, pushing them off my hips and tossing them on the side of the bed.

  Pretty soon, I was going to need them to be gone anyway.

  I palmed my dick over my boxer briefs and squeezed.

  My phone lay still in my palm, so I moved my fingers over the keyboard again.

  Me: Don’t be bashful, baby. Swear to God, you’re safe with me. Tell me what you’re picturing.

  Catharine: I want to…but…I don’t know how to do this.

  I’d been trying to give her the lead, just to make sure I didn’t make her uncomfortable, but she’d handed me the reins. I could do that and handle her with care.

  Me: Okay, Kitty Cat. Are you on your bed? What are you wearing?

  Catharine: Yes… And pajamas.

  I smiled and shook my head before working my fingers over the keyboard furiously as I bit into my bottom lip.

  Me: Good. Take them off. In fact, take everything off. I need to see your perfect pussy.

  Catharine: Oh God.

  Nearly a minute passed by, and I started to wonder if she’d lost the nerve, but then, another text rang through.

  Catharine: Okay, I’m naked.

  Sweet fucking hell. I groaned and pinched the head of my cock through the fabric. He was a little too willing and a little too ready, but if this was going to be good for her, he needed to slow the fuck down.

  Me: Are you wet for me? Aching?

  Catharine: Yes.

  Me: Touch yourself. Take those perfect, pink-tipped fingers and rub a sweet circle around your clit, baby. Can you feel yourself on your fingers? Slick and hot for my cock?

  Catharine: God, Quinn.

  Me: Yeah, kitten. I’m right here. Stick a finger inside, let your perfect pussy suck it in deep. Tell me how it feels.

  Catharine: Soft. Warm.

  My eyes tried to roll back in my head as I pictured it perfectly.

  Me: I bet it is. I bet it tastes like the sweetest fucking honey too. Tell me. Take your finger out and suck it. Tell me if you taste good.

  Catharine: Oh my God.

  Me: Tell me, Cat. Tell me how good you taste. I’m dying. I want to eat you so bad it’s painful.

  I waited—not at all fucking patiently—as I imagined her finishing herself off. The seconds turned into a minute, and I thought I would die from the anticipation.

  Catharine: I…well, finished. I can’t believe how good that felt. You know, without you even here.

  I totally fucking understood the sentiment.

  Now, I had to catch up. I shoved my underwear off and grabbed myself, hot skin against the palm of my hand.

  Hard and sweet, I stroked my cock as I pictured her hand taking the place of my own. On her knees between mine, which I held cocked high, hunched back on her heels while her breasts swayed in my line of sight.

  Fuck, she’s perfect.

  Harder I stroked as my imaginary Cat licked her lips and moaned, thinking about swallowing my whole cock deep in her throat.

  The silence in my bedroom came in broken sections, the sound of my groaning pants filling the gaps as I worked my hand over myself, paying special attention to the top.

  I wondered if sweet Cat would be shy as she took me in her grip, or if she’d find a confidence she kept special for the bedroom. Would she be wild like her name or would she purr softly?

  God, I had to know.

  My balls ached and swelled, pulsing in my other hand as I gripped them hard and squeezed, rolling them between my fingers and giving them a hard tug.

  Fuck yeah, I told imaginary Catharine, reaching forward in my mind to tweak one of her perfect brown nipples. Put me inside that perfect pussy.

  Wet, bare, and glistening, she’d climbed up higher, straddling my thighs with her own so her juice would run all over my balls while she stroked my cock.

  Goddamn, I could punch myself in the nutsac for leaving her apartment tonight.

  Faster and faster, up and down I stoked, pulling at the head like the mouth of her pussy would until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Fuckkkk, Cat!” I shouted into the empty space, shooting a hot stream of come all over my hand and onto the ridges and planes of my straining abdomen.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to clean up before
reaching for my phone with the only part of me not slick with come.

  Still breathing heavily, I typed.

  Me: I know. I need to see you again. Tell me when I can see you again, and make it soon.

  Her reply came quickly, and I hoped that was a sign she was just as desperate as I was now that she’d had the teeniest of tastes.

  Catharine: Yes. Soon, please…

  Another text came a moment later.

  Catharine: Call me tomorrow and I’ll tell you my flight schedule? My brain is all 2 + 2 = Potato right now thanks to that delicious orgasm.

  A soft chuckle left my lips. God, she is something.

  Me: You got it. Sweet dreams, kitten.

  Soon, I promised in my head. I’ll see you soon, and we’ll both be naked in person.

  As I fluttered my eyelids open and caught sight of the morning rays filtering in through the sheer white curtains of my bedroom, I felt the instant sensation that only zero sleep could provide. I had a feeling mothers with newborn babies feeding every two hours had slept better than I did. After tossing and turning for most of the night, my body was still reeling from my date with Quinn. Not only had he only kissed me at my door, but he’d left me with the kind of kiss people spent their entire lives trying to experience just once.

  Literally, the unicorn of kisses.

  And after that kiss, when I’d been heated with arousal and left unsatisfied, he’d engaged in a text conversation that had left me gasping, sated, and flushed with satisfaction.

  His professional status wasn’t just reserved for the field. Quinn knew and executed the art of dirty talk like it was his day job.

  Imagine what those words sound like in person, when he’s sliding inside of you…

  My skin heated and ached at the thought.

  But I refused to let my mind go there. It was the sole reason I’d slept like shit last night in the first place. As I’d lain awake, staring up at my ceiling, my mind had raced with the play-by-play of our conversation and the way his words had made me feel. By the time the clock had struck three a.m., I had wound myself up again to the point of frustration.

  Thinking of time, I glanced at the clock on my nightstand and saw it was only half past eight.

  Jesus. It was my day off. I should not have been awake.

  With a sigh and half-assed attempt at throwing my hair up into a messy bun, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen to make some coffee.

  Right now, my coffeemaker was the only man that could offer any inkling of satisfaction. Mr. Coffee had been a good friend, oftentimes the only man in my life, for the past five or so years.

  Once I’d filled him with enough grounds to brew six cups, I tapped his lid closed and pushed his start button, and then pushed again when he failed to respond.

  The first initial trickles of hot water brewing filled my ears, and I smiled. He might’ve been slow and sluggish at times, and his buttons had seen better days, but I still loved him all the same.

  While my coffee brewed, I plopped down onto my sofa and started scrolling through social media on my phone. Mentally, I told myself it was just because there was nothing better to do. And I also reminded myself that I should definitely not look at the text conversation we’d had last night.

  But, apparently, my brain wasn’t very good at remembering anything at eight o’clock in the morning because I somehow found myself exactly where I shouldn’t be.

  Our text conversation was front and center on my screen, and I couldn’t stop myself from rereading his messages.

  Quinn: Touch yourself. Take those perfect, pink-tipped fingers and rub a sweet circle around your clit, baby. Can you feel yourself on your fingers? Slick and hot for my cock?

  Oh, sweet baby kittens in a pink basket.

  His version of dirty talk was better than my own personal porno.

  When the apex of my thighs started to ache and protest lack of stimulation, I closed out of my inbox and decided that if I wanted a virtual dose of Quinn, I needed to find it in less arousing ways.

  One click tap to the Instagram icon, and I quickly navigated my way to Quinn’s page.

  I opened his most recent post—uploaded a little over an hour ago. It was a picture of him standing in the Mavericks’ weight room with a big old smile on his face, dumbbells in his hands, and droplets of sweat dripping down his bare chest.

  Heaven Almighty, no one should look that good sweaty.

  Memories of the videos he’d sent from that very same weight room filled my head like visions of sugarplum fairies dreamily dancing for children on Christmas Eve night.

  Eventually, my eyes found the strength to move away from his abs and read the caption.

  @QuinnBailey: I be up in the gym, workin’ on my fitness.

  #practiceday #weightroom #Mavericks

  #GoodMorningKittyCat

  I blinked once, twice, and reread the last hashtag.

  #GoodMorningKittyCat

  I couldn’t have stopped the smile that crept onto my lips and consumed my whole face if I’d tried. Good Morning, Kitty Cat. I probably shouldn’t have been so damn smitten over it, but it was the sweet, thoughtful little things like that that put Quinn in a league all his own.

  There was a Times Square painting highlighting various kittens and cats sitting on top of my mantel that proved that very truth.

  I had the urge to send him a message, but quickly remembered he’d be at practice for the next few hours. He probably wouldn’t even be able to respond.

  I glanced toward the kitchen to see that Mr. Coffee had finally finished up, and I shuffled in there to get a much-needed dose of caffeine. And possibly, a little distraction from my brain’s horny as fuck thoughts.

  But while I fixed up my coffee, my brain couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn.

  God, I wanted to see him again. As soon as possible, to be exact.

  Like a corn kernel turning into popcorn, a thought popped into my head.

  What if I turn the tables on him and stop in for a quick hello visit while he’s at practice?

  He’d definitely shown up at my place of employment. Hell, he’d purposely flown on more than one of my flights to see me.

  But was it a good idea?

  Oh, geez. Stop worrying about the logistics, Cat. Be spontaneous.

  Before I knew it, I’d convinced myself that stopping by the Mavericks’ stadium to say hello was a good idea. And about fifteen minutes later, I was dressed, inside my car, and following the instructions of my GPS, en route to the stadium’s location, and surprisingly, the New York Mavericks were located in New Jersey.

  Once I pulled into the parking lot, I shut off the engine and hopped out of my car. It only took a few glances around the perimeter for my eyes to spot what looked like an entry gate. The giant security guards manning that entrance weren’t too difficult to spot either.

  Instantly, realization started to set in.

  I’d just made a forty-minute trip to an NFL football stadium to say hello to Quinn, you know, like he was just some average Joe working at Target. Not a freaking professional athlete who probably required his own team of security when he went to highly publicized events, not to mention his team had their own team of security. Which, apparently, they utilized on a daily basis.

  Basically, everyone but me had fucking security, and it was most likely impossible for me to get anywhere close to Quinn without him knowing in advance.

  “Oh my God, you’re an idiot.” I loudly chastised myself—to myself—for going with the whole don’t worry about the logistics mind-set before I’d left my apartment to start this venture of crazy. “I mean, seriously? Who does this, Cat? Who just shows up to a football stadium on a whim?”

  I kicked at a few loose pebbles of the gravel parking lot and groaned.

  I wasn’t sure which was worse: the frustration of wasting nearly two hours out of my day to drive back and forth to a stadium for no goddamn reason, or the mortification over the fact that I’d actually just go
ne through with this absurd, and let’s face it, extremely impulsive plan.

  “Can I help you?” a voice called over to me, and I looked up to find a man walking toward me.

  Oh, great. That was just what I needed, someone to actually spot me in the fucking parking lot. I honestly didn’t know what to say to his question, and I found myself blurting out something just as equally ridiculous as showing up to the stadium unannounced.

  “Uh…I wanted to see Quinn Bailey…”

  Way to let the impulsive and completely awkward cat out of the bag…

  Why couldn’t I have just said something simple like, I got lost, so I just pulled in here until I could get my GPS straightened out?

  The man, who I quickly realized was pretty fucking good-looking once he’d closed the distance between us, tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Quinn Bailey?”

  “Yeah…You know the guy that…uh…throws the ball…” I answered, and I even added a throwing motion with my right arm to really hit a home run of embarrassment.

  An amused smirk crested the man’s lips. “Do you know Quinn?”

  “Uh…Yeah.” I nodded and decided to just throw caution to the wind and see if maybe this man, whoever he was, could get me inside the stadium. “Quinn and I are friends…good friends… And he left this…uh…” I paused and quickly glanced into my purse for some kind of excuse for my random drop-by.

  It was a fucking mess by the way.

  Pens.