BULL: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  “I like it when you talk dirty,” he answered, grabbing my hair.

  I gasped as he kissed me. “What else do you like?” I asked.

  He moved my head back down toward his cock, and I opened my mouth as he pressed his tip between my lips.

  “I like when you take that dick,” he said. “I like when you let me fuck your perfect lips.”

  He thrusted up and into my mouth, slowly moving in and out. I let him fuck my mouth because I knew he loved it, knew it drove him wild. I wanted to suck every inch of his cock and take every bit of cum he had.

  “I love that pussy and that ass,” he continued, fucking my face. “I love how tight you are and how you blush when I talk dirty. I love that you take my cock without complaining.”

  I began to work him with my hand, jerking him off as he fucked my mouth. He groaned as I began to suck him hard, working his length, my tongue rolling around. I tried to slide his cock into my throat but couldn’t, could barely fit him.

  I worked him like that, letting him thrust as I sucked him. I felt him grab my tits as his cock continued to move in and out of my lips.

  “Fuck, girl,” he groaned. “You want me to come in that pretty mouth?”

  “Yes,” I said, gasping, as I pulled my head back.

  “I want you to swallow every drop.”

  I went back to work, sucking him hard, and he groaned. I could tell he was close, as his whole body tensed.

  “Fuck, Alexa, suck that cock,” he grunted.

  And then he came. His salty cum filled my mouth, and I continued sucking as he shot deep into my throat. I swallowed every bit, just like he had asked me to, and never stopped once. His whole body tensed and stiffened as he grunted, his cock shooting his hot cum deep into my mouth.

  Finally, he finished, and I licked every inch of his heavy dick clean.

  “Shit,” he gasped. “That was fucking incredible.”

  He pulled me up against him and kissed my mouth roughly.

  “You’ve been thinking about that since I got home, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” I lied.

  “There you go, lying to me again.”

  I laughed as I sat up and put my dress back on.

  “We should go,” I said.

  “Guess so.”

  I stood up, my pussy still soaked, my body still aching for him. I knew that if I stayed in that room any longer, then I’d beg for him to fuck me. I knew that if I let him get hard again, I’d be gone.

  He reluctantly pulled his shorts back on and stood.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I said to him, smiling.

  “About what?”

  “I still want that divorce.”

  He laughed, pulling me against him. “We’ll see.” He kissed me deeply, and my head was a maze, spinning all across the room.

  We got home late. I had no clue what I was doing, letting my stepbrother, my husband, get me off like that. Worse, I didn’t know why I needed to suck his cock. I was a little embarrassed about it, but excited, too. I didn’t know what it meant, or where it was going, but I couldn’t wait for more.

  Because he made me feel good, oh so fucking good, so good it should be wrong. And of course it was wrong, which I was trying very hard to ignore.

  “Quiet,” I said to him. “Our parents are asleep.”

  “Who cares?” he grunted in my ear. “It’s not like they know what we were doing earlier.”

  “Are you home for good now?” I asked, ignoring his comment. We were standing outside our bedroom doors in the dark.

  “Maybe. Haven’t decided.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “Not sure.”

  His hands wrapped around my hips and pulled me against him.

  “Not here,” I said, opening my bedroom door.

  He grinned as he followed me inside. I could already feel him undressing me again. I couldn’t let him stay over, not with our parents home, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted him so fucking badly. I turned back to him and looked at his hard body and his delicious smile as he shut the door and locked it.

  I knew what that meant.

  He crossed the room and grabbed me, pulling me against him. I knew where this was going, too, and wanted it so badly. I was practically burning for him, a rough yearning deep between my legs, crawling in agonizingly slow waves up along my spine. He kissed me and I kissed him back.

  Together, we tumbled into the bed.

  But something stopped me. Something was crinkling under my back, uncomfortable. “What’s that?” I asked him.

  “What?” he grunted.

  I shifted my body. “There’s something under me.”

  I reached under my back and pulled out a manila envelope.

  “What is it?” he asked, kissing my neck.

  “I don’t know,” I said softly. “It has my name on it.”

  “Alexa” was written in sharpie along the front in a hand I didn’t recognize. It was addressed to our house and had postage, so the staff had probably placed it on my pillow.

  “Open it later,” he said.

  But something compelled me to ignore him. I tore open the end and reached inside. I felt something glossy and smooth and pulled out what I realized were large photographs.

  What I saw there nearly gave me a heart attack.

  “Cole,” I said.

  He stopped kissing me and sat up, hearing the panic in my voice. “What’s wrong?” he said seriously.

  “Look.”

  I held out the photographs. In black and white, grainy and dark but still visible, was the two of us kissing on the roof of the banquet hall.

  “What else?” he asked, suddenly all business.

  I showed him the rest. It was a series of us kissing each other, stopping only when we were interrupted by Madison the assistant.

  Cole’s face slowly darkened. I got to the last photograph and noticed something written on the back.

  “It says, ‘Five thousand dollars, five p.m., five days.’ That’s it.”

  “Blackmail,” Cole grunted, standing up.

  He was furious.

  “Who would do this?” I asked him.

  “Come on,” he said, looking at me. “We both know who this is.”

  I shook my head. “Really, I don’t.”

  “That paparazzi piece of shit that I knocked out. He must have snapped these without even realizing what they were.”

  I nodded slowly. “And now he’s blackmailing you.”

  “Explains why he didn’t press charges.”

  I shook my head in total shock. I looked through the pictures again as Cole paced the room, fury rolling off him in waves. It was palpable, his anger, and it scared me.

  “He knows what these pictures would do,” I said. “They would ruin our parents.”

  “I know that.”

  “And, Cole, our marriage. If he digs . . .”

  “I know that, too.”

  I stared at him, terrified.

  “What are we going to do?”

  He stopped pacing and looked at me. I’d never seen someone so serious in my entire life.

  “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Cole—”

  But he had already turned and stormed out of my room. I got up and followed him out into the hall and down the steps.

  “Cole, wait,” I said.

  He ignored me, throwing the front door open. He went out into the street and climbed onto his bike.

  He gave me one last look as he kicked the motorcycle to life and sped out into traffic.

  I watched him disappear.

  Something had almost happened between the two of us. Somehow, something had almost changed because of what had gone down in the dressing room. I’d felt myself almost cross a line.

  But the pictures had pulled us back. Things had shifted, ever so slightly, but I knew it was true.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  I shook my head, afraid, as I went back i
nside.

  I was afraid for my parents and afraid of what Cole made me feel. But I was also afraid for him and what he was going to do.

  I dialed his number but got his voice mail.

  10

  Cole

  It was surprisingly easy to find him.

  Since his name was on the police report, and I was directly involved with the incident, all I had to do was make one phone call to a bored desk sergeant and I knew what his name was.

  Sergey Svitko lived alone in L.A. and published mainly fluff fiction for women’s magazines and other periodicals. He also sold images and other things like that. Basically, he was a paparazzi for hire with aspirations to be a real journalist, but the guy was clearly too much of a sleazeball to get his shit together.

  Or at least that was my guess. From what Google told me, Sergey had never held any other jobs or even had very many friends. He lived and breathed the celebrity circle, sometimes dabbling with startup assholes.

  Which was probably what he was doing in San Francisco the night I clocked him.

  It took me five hours on my bike to get to L.A. I wound my way through the California foothills, the smell of the ocean never too far away. I wove in and out of traffic, dodging the occasional speed trap, and basically kept my nose pointed directly at Sergey the Fucked Asshole.

  I should have probably been a little nervous about how easy it was to find out all his information. Frankly, it was insane that I could Google the guy’s name and figure out his home address and plenty more besides, but that was the world we lived in. Even fighters had to have a social media presence anymore. It wasn’t enough to be a tough motherfucker; you had to be likeable, too, for some fucking reason.

  I checked into a seedy motel for the day and crashed. The place was probably full of hookers and their clients, but it didn’t matter to me. I didn’t plan on staying very long.

  My phone kept ringing all night and all morning. It was Alexa, trying to stop me from finding the Sergey fucker. I couldn’t talk to her, not yet, not until I had found the guy and killed him. Or at least beat him to a quivering pulp.

  So I turned off my phone and went to sleep, pulling the heavy curtains shut. I was bone-tired from riding all night, and I’d need a little rest to be sharp the next day.

  Hours passed. When I finally woke up, the sun had already set. I rolled out of bed, took a quick shower, and then got dressed. I headed out into the cool L.A. night and hit the streets.

  I’d been to L.A. once before, but it had been a while. I had the guy’s address and my phone to guide me, but I still got lost a few times looking through the dense streets.

  Eventually, though, I found his little rat’s nest. He lived in a shit neighborhood on the top floor of a three-story apartment building. The place was a converted house, so he had the whole top floor to himself, which was perfect for me. I didn’t need any nosy neighbors calling the cops.

  I sat back against a wall within eyesight of his place and waited. Charging in there was my preferred method, but I knew it would be stupid and would lead to nothing. Instead, I watched and I waited.

  Hours passed. Eventually I started to wonder what the hell I was doing all the way out in L.A. trying to track down some bullshit paparazzi asshole that probably was only at that event because he got paid some petty cash to stake the spot out. The guy probably traveled all over California taking pictures for people. He might not even come home any time soon.

  As midnight slowly rolled by, things were looking bleak and I knew it. If Sergey was blackmailing us, it would make sense that he was in San Francisco. Why did I assume that he was running the show from home? And why was I assuming he was even the one running the show? Whoever had hired him could have easily been the one with the pictures in the first place.

  Either way, I was there and I was waiting. It didn’t make sense to start second-guessing myself considering I was already committed to staking the guy’s place out for at least a night.

  Finally, around three in the morning, when hope was just a tiny speck of shit in the sky, a car pulled up outside his building. I perked up and watched closely as a guy got out. He looked to be about Sergey’s build, but it was hard to tell at night, especially considering I had only gotten a quick look at him originally before knocking him the fuck out. The guy disappeared inside the building, and I felt a bolt of adrenaline hit me as a light flicked on up in a third-floor window.

  Perfect. All of my patience was paying off. I pushed up off the wall and headed over toward the building, heart beating hard in my chest as I rehearsed my plan in my head.

  Up in front of the door, I looked at the intercom and hit the buzzer for the third floor.

  I waited. Nothing happened.

  I hit it again, this time holding it longer.

  Nothing. I hit it again, and finally a haggard-sounding man responded.

  “Who the fuck is it?” he said, clearly angry.

  “Hi,” I said quickly. “So sorry to bother you. I’m your new neighbor downstairs and I locked myself out. I was hoping someone could buzz me in?”

  “Fine. Just don’t buzz me again,” he grunted.

  The door’s buzzer sounded, and I felt elated as I pushed into the building. I couldn’t believe it had worked, but I was willing to bet that Sergey would have buzzed in anyone just to get them to shut up. The guy didn’t seem too bright or patient.

  The building was drab and seedy. Whoever had done the construction to turn the house into three apartments hadn’t done a great job. The stairs felt rickety as I walked up toward the third-floor landing.

  I stood in front of his door and took a deep breath. Now was the real shit. Now I’d find out the truth.

  I banged. “Police,” I yelled. “Open the fuck up.”

  There was silence on the other side. Then, “Fuck off,” Sergey said.

  Asshole. I banged again, more insistently.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he yelled.

  “Last chance,” I called back.

  “You fuck off or I call the real cops.”

  I grinned to myself and stepped back. I kicked my foot forward, aiming for just above the lock. The door buckled but didn’t break.

  “Whoa!” Sergey yelled.

  I kicked out again. The door buckled again and was hanging on by splinters.

  “Who the fuck!” he yelled.

  I kicked one last time, blowing the door inward.

  Sergey was standing just inside, wearing a tight white T-shirt that barely hung over his gut and loose boxer shorts. He stared at me in fear.

  “Sergey Svitko?” I asked him.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “You’re Cole Redson.”

  “God damn right I am,” I said. I pulled what was left of the door shut behind me as I hustled him into his kitchen.

  “What the hell is happening?” he asked.

  “Sit,” I said, nodding at a chair. He listened, though I could tell he was beginning to find some confidence.

  I needed to shut that down immediately. I got in his face. “Do you get off on blackmailing people?” I asked him.

  He looked surprised. “What are you talking about? You people paid me off. I thought we were done with this crap.”

  I cocked my head. Paid him off? That made sense; that was probably how the charges had disappeared. So it seemed Cindy and Frank were not above lying, or at least only telling partial truths.

  “Who paid you off?” I asked him.

  “Some big bastard. Never got his name. Said I either took his money and went back to L.A. or he’d break my spine.”

  “Listen to me, Sergey,” I said softly.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “Finding you was easy. Listen to me now.” I was right in his face, practically breathing into his nose.

  He nodded.

  “I got your package. I know you took pictures you shouldn’t have.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re lying to me, but
I don’t fucking care. Tell me who you sold them to and I’m gone.”

  “You dick,” he said, angry now. “You bust into my apartment and accuse me of blackmail? I’m a respected journalist!”

  “You sell pictures of celebrities in bikinis and write gossip for cheap magazines. You sell lies and you spy on people.”

  “Still journalism!”

  “No,” I said slowly, “it isn’t. Now tell me who you sold the pictures to.”

  “I didn’t take any pictures that night,” he grumbled. “I didn’t get a chance because you fucking punched me.”

  “I’m going to do worse than just punch you right now,” I growled, getting angry. “Tell me. Now.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” he said. “Look!” He pointed back into the living room. “All of my memory cards are in there. You can have that night’s. I don’t have anything on it.”

  I stared at him for a second and then nodded. “Lead the way.”

  He stood and I followed him back out into the living room. Sure enough, he had a box full of dated memory cards. He located the one from the night of the banquet and handed it to me.

  “Some shots of rich asshole tech bros for a little blog that pays garbage, but otherwise it’s nothing.”

  “Show me.”

  He grunted and walked over to a desktop computer. He slipped the card into a slot and pulled up the folder. He slowly scrolled through the content.

  “See?”

  Sure enough, no pictures of the banquet. I pushed him aside and right-clicked on a photo, checking out its metadata. True to his word, according to the date in the file, it had been taken that night.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mumbled.

  “What sort of shit are you in, anyway?” he asked, his arms crossed. “Must be bad if you’re breaking into my apartment.”

  I pulled the card from his computer. “I’ll be taking this.”

  “Oh sure,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Maybe you’re not lying. Maybe it isn’t you. But if you were smart, you’d forget I showed up here.”

  “What about my door?”

  I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred dollars in cash and tossed it to him. “For your trouble.”

  “Asshole. This won’t cover it.”