by Max Monroe
I pulled her nipple between my teeth and held it gently as I looked up at her. She gasped as I let it go. “Let’s change that now.”
Smooth like her skin, I slid a hand around to her back and popped the clasp of her bra open on the first try.
The shoulder straps slip off easily as I pulled it forward and off and tossed it over my shoulder.
“I think,” she breathed. “Maybe you’ve done that before.”
I shook my head. My admission didn’t even catch in my throat before making its way out. “It’s never been like this.”
Her eyes widened noticeably before I lost them, the draw of her naked breasts too strong. I had to see them, touch them, taste them. And I had to do it now.
All lips and tongue, I buried myself in them, moving my face around until I’d licked and nibbled on every square inch. Red-rashed with my attention, they looked perfect as I took them in both of my hands and squeezed.
A full fucking handful, in my giant hands—it was all I could do not to take my cock out and trap it between them.
Filled with thoughts of the fantasy, I told her. “I’m gonna fuck these tits one day, kitten. Come all over them.”
She gasped.
“But not right now,” I murmured. “Right now, there’s only one place my dick wants to be.”
She nodded, her eyes lighting as her body begged. “Please.”
Shifting my focus from her top to her bottom, I slid down her body and undid the zipper of her skirt at the side of her hip. She lifted for me as I slid it off, and I didn’t bother with leaving the panties. They were the same cock-hardening lace, but my cock was already hard and ready for bare pussy.
“Fuck, kitten,” I whispered, running a finger through her wetness and giving myself over to sensation. Her pussy was as smooth as silk. “I have died and gone to heaven.”
I shoved back off the bed, leaving her momentarily to undo the button on my jeans, grab the condom from my pocket, and push the denim and my boxer briefs off my hips.
My cock sprang free, saluting all the way up to my belly button, and she gasped.
“Oh my God.” Her swollen lips formed into a perfect little O. “You’re huge,” she muttered, more to herself than to me.
I bit my lip with a smile, trailing my eyes down her naked body like a caress. “Damn, baby. It’s not even my birthday.”
Her brows drew together, and I laughed. “Every man loves to hear his dick is huge, Cat. Most of them only hear it on their birthday.” I winked.
Condom on and free from my pants, I pulled my shirt over my head with a hand between my shoulder blades and crawled back on top of her. She opened her legs to ease my way, and I yanked her legs up high with clenching hands in the flesh of her thighs.
“Knees high,” I ordered. She nodded.
I reached between us to guide my cock to her pussy and then slowly pushed inside. Not hard and quick, but definitely not slow.
Just one smooth stroke.
She cried out on a deep and raspy moan, her nails raking over the skin of my back like sand.
I stilled there, fully inside her body, our bodies as close as they could possibly get.
A more perfect moment had never existed.
“Quinn,” she whispered, so directly in my ear, I could feel the moisture of her mouth.
I framed her face with my hands and looked directly into her stunning chocolate eyes. “Yeah, baby?”
“Can you please…move?”
I smiled and pulled my hips back, slamming forward again in one, quick thrust.
She gasped, her lips parting as her eyes glazed.
“Like that?” I asked.
Her nod was minute, but her grip on my shoulders was bone-breaking.
I did it again, swift and strong, once again settling all the way to the root, my balls against the skin of her ass.
Her moan was delicate—so fucking soft—as I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to hers. I worked at it, just barely moving my lips over hers until she was chasing my tongue. I gave it to her, spearing it into her mouth and shifting my hips in and out to match.
Her moan tasted like sex, and my hips, unable to stop themselves, fell into a steady rhythm.
The bed shook, squeaking with every thrust and making a song with the sounds of our flesh slapping. It was loud and wholly erotic, hearing nothing but the melody of our connection like that.
I sat back on my haunches, eager to put my hands to use on her tits and her clit and her ass and anything else I could get within reach, but she followed, hanging on to my neck like a monkey.
I smiled, unwrapping her arms from around my neck and laying her back down. Her face pinched in worry, but I smoothed it out with my thumb, explaining, “I just wanna play with you, baby. Lie back, okay?”
She nodded as I picked up my rhythm, and a bead of sweat ran down my spine so distinctly, I could feel it.
Suddenly, I’d never been more thankful for all that fucking football conditioning.
With her knees still high, I widened her legs and watched as my cock disappeared inside her body and came back out coated in her.
“We’re beautiful,” I told her. “Fucking beautiful.”
Her tits bounced with my momentum, so I reached up to get a feel of them. Her nipples were hard, and I gave them both a pinch and a tug.
“Quinn,” she moaned, already close. Her face was flushed and her eyes were cloudy, the space with which they were open thinning by the minute.
“Oh, come on,” I teased. “Not yet, kitten.”
Truthfully, my release was barreling out of my balls as we spoke, but I wasn’t fucking done. I wanted to play with her tits more, suck them inside my mouth while I reached around to put a finger in her ass.
I wanted to turn her on her knees and give both perfect cheeks a slap while I watched my cock disappear inside her from behind.
Oh, fuck.
Her pussy squeezed, gripping me like a vise as she screamed, the volume of it nearly ringing in my ears.
My release listened.
Hard and fast, it raced down my spine and out of my balls, straight through my cock and directly into her.
I pounded, my movements harsh, as we both finished, the veins in my neck standing out. I could feel them threatening to pop as I growled my release.
Dear God, I was in trouble.
I could spend the rest of my life losing myself between her legs.
Cat’s finger moved slowly, sketching an imaginary picture on my chest.
I wasn’t sure how I could tell it was more than a random pattern, the lines erasing as soon as she’d drawn them, but I could. Somewhere on my skin, a masterpiece lay undiscovered.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
Four times we’d made love throughout the night, and I easily could have done more. My dick didn’t know if he had the energy, but if I hadn’t been afraid of hurting her from overuse, I would have talked him into trying.
“Nothing,” she lied.
I chuckled. “I don’t believe you.”
She sighed then, both exhausted from the sex and whatever was weighing on her mind.
“Just say it, Cat. You can tell me anything.”
Her body pulled at my arm as she shifted up, leaned into my chest with her own, and looked me in the eye. “All right. I’m worried about how this is going to work. We both have insane schedules, and you’ve got a horde of followers.” She frowned, and I reached up to smooth the line between her eyebrows.
“How’d you get this scar?”
“What?” she asked, perplexed by the change in subject.
“The one right here.” I traced it with my finger. “It’s superfaint, but it’s there.”
“Oh,” she mumbled, reaching up to touch it self-consciously. “I fell off my bike when I was six. Face first.”
I smiled. She frowned. “What are you smiling about? You like the idea of me falling off my bike?”
I shook my head and pressed my lips to her
scar. “I just like picturing you as a kid.”
She sighed again, long and deep this time, before settling her head on my chest. I played with her hair and rubbed at her back until she was almost asleep, her breathing deep and even, and then I laid it out for her.
“We’re going to be fine, Kitty Cat. Hectic schedules, hordes of women, men who no doubt pursue you—none of it matters.”
Her sleepy voice was a soft puff of air against my skin. “Why?”
“Because I won’t let it.”
“You think just because you decide something, that makes it so?” she asked.
“I know you don’t follow my career, baby, but there’s something you should know about me.”
“What?”
“I don’t follow my destiny. I choose it.”
It was midday, which meant it was the worst time to arrive at any airport inside any city in the entire world. Nikki, Casey, and I exited our plane and headed toward the next gate of departure. Fluorescent lights from the ceiling guided our path with a breadcrumb trail of yellow and white hues.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time.
1:04 p.m.
We had an hour until we’d need to board our plane and get ready for our next departure out of Birmingham.
This time, though, we weren’t going to New York. Well, at least not on this leg.
All three of us were at the beginning of a five-day stretch, with four overnights scheduled at various airports throughout the South and Midwest. Atlanta, Louisville, Chicago, and Detroit. Those cities would be our home away from home for the next week.
“I’m famished,” Casey said and abruptly swerved right, his black loafers tip-tapping in the direction of the food court. “I need to eat something substantial or else you girls are going to have to carry me on to the plane.”
Nikki and I followed his lead, not even questioning his motives. When Casey was hungry, it was always in your best interest to go with the flow and give him the time he needed to choose his next meal.
Otherwise, he’d go Diva Smash and start demanding candy bars while simultaneously whining about anything and everything.
Trust me, it was a situation that needed avoidance.
Our terminal had the usual hustle and bustle of midafternoon on a Monday.
Airports, no matter what city or country they were located in, encompassed the same vibe—plasma screens with arrival and departure times covering the walls, people—excited, bored, and half-asleep—waiting at their gate with their suitcases and baggage resting beside them, and a cacophony of sights and sounds that provided the background music, all revolving around one thing: going somewhere.
A sea of faces that moved in an unseen current, flowing like water to their destinations and creating a wide river down the aisles. Small groups sometimes stopped and caused an eddy, but the others kept the current moving, flowing around the outside and continuing on their way.
Once Casey spotted the Great American Bagel shop, he became a man on a mission, swerving through the crowd and heading straight to the counter.
No doubt, his sights were set on a chicken salad bagel. He went nuts for anything chicken salad, especially if it was placed on a lightly toasted sesame bagel.
“Want anything?” he questioned over his shoulder before giving his order to the lady at the counter.
“I’m good. I packed my lunch today,” Nikki answered, and Casey redirected his gaze to me.
“No thanks,” I said and pointed toward the Hudson News Shop. “I’m going to run over there real quick and grab an US Weekly or something equally gossipy to read.”
“Grab me a Cosmo?” he asked.
“Sure thing.” I nodded. “I’ll meet you guys at the gate.”
Once I stepped into an empty Hudson News, my eyes quickly located the book and magazine section—an entire wall full of every popular magazine in circulation. For a little airport store, they had a nice selection, even organizing their books and magazines into genres with staff recommendation cards.
As I reached out my hand to grab the newest issue of Cosmopolitan for Casey, I paused mid-movement when a set of familiar blue eyes stared back at me from the cover of a magazine. Sports Illustrated, to be exact.
Instantly, I redirected my hand and pulled the sports magazine down from the rack.
With both hands clutching the magazine, I stared down at the cover graced with a closeup view of Quinn’s handsome face—black paint smeared below his eyes—shielded behind a football helmet.
The Quinn Bailey Connection: A Champion on and off the Field.
Get to know the best quarterback in the league,
and find out why his Mavericks are our Super Bowl pick this year.
It was surreal seeing his name and face on one of the most popular sports magazines in the country. Hell, for all I knew, it was a worldwide publication.
I flipped through the pages until I found the six-page spread with Quinn’s interview, more pictures of him on and off the field, and the sports magazine’s Super Bowl predictions for this year. Which, out of ten analysts, eight of them voted in favor of the New York Mavericks bringing home the championship. And every single one of them attributed that possibility to Quinn’s quarterbacking abilities.
When my eyes caught sight of a photo with Quinn’s back to the camera, his body clad in football pads, helmet, and Mavericks uniform, my brain fixated on the thick, veiny muscles of his forearms until it moved down to his strong hands.
I knew those hands. They’d touched every inch of my body.
Images of hot kisses and greedy touches and soft caresses filled my head, and I pretty much lost myself after that, floating inside the memories of spending an entire night wrapped up in Quinn.
Our first night together had been engraved inside my brain, painted on my skin, every little moment memorized to the point of obsession.
My skin hummed and vibrated with cravings for more.
More Quinn. More nights like that. Just more.
We’d both been busy, too busy since that night a week ago, and I’d only gotten to see him one night in the entire seven days. And trust me, after you’d had Quinn Bailey inside you, once a week wasn’t enough.
“No doubt, Bailey is going to get a Super Bowl ring this year.” A voice pulled me from my daydreams, and I looked up to see a young, twentysomething guy standing behind the counter of the store. He nodded toward the magazine in my hands. “Are you a Quinn Bailey fan?” he asked, and I internally smiled at his question.
Does having his dick inside me make me a fan? I thought sarcastically, but luckily, I cut off the signal from my brain to my mouth before offering up that information to a complete stranger.
Instead, I just shrugged. Sarcasm was better in secret anyway. “He’s all right, I guess.”
“Just all right?” the guy, whose name tag read Devon, questioned in outrage. “Homeboy broke league records last year with his laser-sharp arm. And that was before the postseason.”
I smiled at his words, and my heart twitched inside my chest as it grew bigger with the intensity of my pride. I was honored to know Quinn. In that moment, with a magazine spotlighting his career in my hands, everything he’d accomplished settled inside me with undeniable clarity. After getting to know the man behind the football persona, I knew, without a doubt, he deserved all of the recognition he received.
“I take it you like Quinn Bailey,” I responded, and Devon grinned from ear to ear, pointing toward himself proudly.
“You’re looking at one of his biggest fans right here.”
“Is that right?” I asked and refocused my attention on getting the things I actually needed.
“Yep,” he answered. The honesty in his voice rang clear. “In my eyes, Bailey is a legend. The best quarterback that’s ever lived.”
I grabbed Casey’s Cosmo off the rack and an US Weekly for myself, headed toward the counter, and set my magazines—including the Sports Illustrated—onto the glossy white surface
. Just before Devon started ringing up my goods, I spotted Twizzlers on the candy rack down below and snagged a pack for Casey and added them to my items. “So, do you ever go to the Mavericks’ games?” I asked as he started to scan my goodies.
“Ah, man, I wish.” He sighed a disappointed breath. “Game tickets are expensive. Flights are expensive. Hotels are expensive. Hell, pretty much everything is expensive,” he said with a chuckle. “Plus, I don’t think my car would make it all the way to New York.” He placed my magazines and candy into a plastic bag. “What about you? You ever see QB play live?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never been to a game. Hopefully, this year I’ll go.”
“You live close by?”
“I just moved to New York, actually. So, no hotel or flight necessary,” I added with a grin.
“You work for an airline,” he mused. “It shouldn’t matter where you live, you can probably get your flights for free.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess you got me there, huh?”
Once I swiped my credit card, I slid the bag over my arm and leaned my hip against the counter. “If you could say anything to Quinn Bailey right now, what would you tell him?”
Devon thought it over for a minute. “I guess I’d just wish him luck this year. And let him know that that seventy-three-yard throw to Phillips in the last twenty seconds against Baltimore was the single best play I’ve ever seen.”
“Seventy-three yards?”
I was no expert in distance, but that sounded pretty damn far.
“Seventy-three yards and Phillips had triple coverage. Bailey is a fucking monster out of the pocket.”
I had no idea what out of the pocket meant, but I chose to keep my mouth shut and not reveal my idiocy on football-related topics.
While Devon filled my ears with another play-by-play of another “seventy-yarder by Quinn” my phone pinged in my uniform pocket. Discreetly, and without disturbing Devon’s man-crush gush session, I pulled it out and checked my inbox.
Quinn: I just left a shop called Bath & Body Works with a bag full of Citrus Explosion. That place is nuts, by the way. Everything smells like fruit, and the ladies working there never stop smiling. I think they might all be high from the fumes. What are you doing right now, kitten?