Perfect Spiral (A Playing Dirty Sports Romance Book 2)

by Lane Hart

  By the time I’m finished washing my hair, Senn is standing in the shower across from me, ogling the flopsy twins. Having been mostly flat chested the majority of my life, it’s weird having boobs. Guys treat me differently, as in they’re staring constantly at my tits. Once they eventually see the growing belly below, they usually bolt; but not always. The girls have definitely received a lot of attention lately, including a few hands-on fondling sessions by Luke, a nineteen-year-old, blond and blue-eyed lightweight fighter at Havoc. Sure, he’s a little young for me. Okay, a lot younger than me, but he’s the only one who’s showed an interest in me since I found out…

  The day after my doctor’s appointment, Luke found me standing in the grocery store. I was staring at a row of baby bottles, wondering if I would actually get the chance to be a mother this time. I’m not sure how long I had been there when Luke walked up to me and asked if I was okay. When I blurted everything out in an emotional rush, he asked if he could drive me home. Back at my apartment, the two of us sat in the living room and talked for hours, about his tragic past as well as my own. He just lost his older brother in a car wreck three years ago, and my heart broke hearing about how his family is still struggling with Eli’s unexpected death, trying to pick up the pieces. Even though he’s young, Luke seems to have an old, kindred soul. By the end of the night, we were making out, trying to escape the pain of reality for a little while. Seeing his hard cock tenting his jeans and his beautiful blue eyes devouring my tits when I felt like I was at rock bottom…well, YOLO, right?

  “Abby, what the fuck?” Senn exclaims, pulling me out of my daydream. The next second his hands are on my face, amber eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell me I hurt you?”

  “Huh?” Is he trying to get me to admit that his big cock left me a little sore? Mums the word on that truth.

  “Your nose is bleeding,” he says before reaching past the curtain and then offering me a towel. I press it to my face and pull it away seeing it stained red. Well, shit. That’s embarrassing.

  “Did I hit you?” he asks, face full of concern. “Was I too rough?”

  “No, it’s just a random thing,” I tell him, the words muffled by the cloth on my face. “Like a change in air pressure or whatever.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Uh-huh.”

  By the time I dry off, the red river has thankfully stopped. Senn and I quickly cross the hall before anyone else in the house sees us. And as soon as the bedroom door shuts, I yank his boxers down and sink to my knees. I need a distraction, and he’s a pretty big one.

  “No, Abby,” Senn says, reaching for my arms to pull me to my feet.

  “You don’t want a blowjob?” I ask, looking up, way, way up at his face since he’s enormous.

  He hesitates, frowning down at me. “I don’t want you bleeding all over my cock.”

  “My nose stopped bleeding,” I assure him.

  “Forget it,” he says, looking only slightly disappointed. He pulls my dress over my head and then he hefts me up to carry me the few feet to the bed. After lowering me to the mattress, he tugs on both of my thighs until my ass is almost hanging off the edge. Only when he drops to his knees on the floor do I realize his intention.

  “You don’t have to…” I sit up on my elbows to mildly protest.

  “Shut up,” he says before his head disappears between my thighs. “I wanna taste of Abby’s homemade lemon meringue pie.”

  “Oh God,” I moan, his naughty words reminding me of that night months ago and how freaking hot it was when he ate me out in the backseat of the taxi. My back arches off the mattress at the first swipe of his tongue along my pussy lips. Just a few words and one lick has me gushing all over his face. Senn doesn’t seem to mind. He laps up every drop, feasting on me like a starving man. I make loud, nonsensical sounds that probably wake the whole house. But right when I’m there, on the edge, ready to let go…he stops.

  “Please, Senn,” I beg, sitting up to push his head back down shamelessly. I fucking begged him and I never beg for anything.

  “Say you love my cock,” he orders, his hooded amber eyes looking up at me from between my thighs. One of his thick fingers keeps teasing my clit with slow, gentle circles.

  “What? No, you big douche canoe!” I exclaim, flopping back down on the mattress.

  “You sure about that?” he asks, continuing to tease me with his fingertip.

  “Uh-huh.”

  His tongue flutters over my clit, and I bounce clear off the bed. “Please,” I gasp, holding his long hair in a death grip. Since he won’t lower his mouth, my hips lift to try and seek out his tongue on their own. My empty pussy clenches, and I cry out in desperation.

  “Say it,” Senn tells me, and then the asshole chuckles when the tip of his tongue sends my body into a convulsing frenzy again.

  I shake my head back and forth on the mattress in defiance. There’s some dignity still left in me.

  Two thick fingers are shoved inside me at the same time he swipes his tongue softly over my clit.

  “I love your cock, you arrogant jackass!” I cry out, and he thankfully sucks on my clit, giving me a grand finale. “Oh God! Ohhh!” And what a show it is. I see stars, rainbows, pink hearts, yellow moons and green clovers. Mmm, yes.

  “You good?” Senn asks sometime later with a chuckle. He apparently moved up beside me on the bed while I was pondering the fact that orgasm heaven is like a bowl of cereal without the nasty toasted oats. Just the delicious marshmallows. Yum. The baby must be hungry. My stomach growls as if on cue. I’m hungry, too. How long have I been fucking or asleep inside this damn room?

  “You hungry?” Senn asks after he must’ve heard the rumble. “You want me to get you something from the kitchen?”

  “Um, you don’t happen to have a box of Lucky Charms do you?” I ask, figuring the odds of a house full of adults eating the children’s cereal is slim to none.

  “Yeah, sure, it’s my favorite cheat day food,” he says, bouncing out of bed with a grace that would rival a ballerina’s.

  “Yes!” I shout with both arms pumped victoriously in the air. You’re in luck, baby girl. It’s like I need that shit right now or I might die of marshmallow deficiency. It’s also sweet of him to offer to go get it for me…

  Wait a second.

  Senn freezes in the process of pulling on his boxers, looking at my stomach and then up at me.

  “When was the last time you had a bowl?” he asks.

  “Probably around the time I started wearing training bras, so, like, thirteen years ago.”

  He flashes me a smile, turning on the defrost around my cold, dead heart before he says, “You think she wants them?”

  I nod, blinking away the stupid tears because he’s momentarily happy about sharing something with the daughter he doesn’t want.

  “Have-have you had any other cravings?” he asks as he pulls a pair of shorts on over his boxers.

  “Uh-huh. I wake up, wanting enchiladas for breakfast.” And cock. Lots of cock. “Then, almost every night, I have to have, um, cucumbers in vinegar before I can go to sleep.”

  “That is…weird,” he says with a shiver. “My mom used to eat cucumbers in vinegar, smelling up the whole damn trailer.” With that snippet about his family, he walks out of the room and comes back a few minutes later with a big bowl of cereal.

  Senn stays quiet until I finish eating, and then he places the empty bowl on the bedside table before turning off the lamp.

  “Goodnight,” he says when we lie down, back to back instead of spooning. Not that I ever thought of him as a spooner. He’s clearly only a forker. He didn’t spoon with me the night he knocked me up. I had cuddled up to him, and he stayed put until the sun came up. But even so, he didn’t kick me out of his bed tonight, and I can still feel the warmth of his body heat, so that’s something, I guess. After a few yawns, I finally drift off to sleep.

  …

  The wonderful scent of sandalwood, along with the eye-sta
bbing sun reflecting off the ocean and into the window are the first things I notice when I wake up. I barely see the digital clock’s red readout of nine a.m. before I shoot out of bed like a toilet-seeking rocket. Only when the heaves let up do I realize I’m hugging the commode in Linc’s beach house with the door wide open. Senn staggers out of the room from across the hall in a pair of shorts before I can get to my feet. Then a red head appears in the doorway in front of him. Nate, one of the other fighters from Havoc.

  “Whoa!” he says, eyes widening when he sees me. “Abby, are you – ”

  That’s all he gets out of his mouth before he’s put in a headlock and yanked backwards out into the hallway. Senn steps in the bathroom and slams the door a second later, chest heaving as he paces in the small space, looking pissed off because I inconveniently interrupted his beauty sleep with my morning sickness.

  When he looks down at me, his forehead wrinkles and transforms him into the confused Shar Pei again.

  “What?” I huff. “Haven’t you ever seen a naked pregnant woman puking before?”

  “Your nose is bleeding again,” is his quiet response.

  “Shit,” I mutter. Grabbing some toilet paper from the roll, I hold it to my nose just as another wave of nausea comes barreling in.

  Fuck.

  I throw up so hard blood starts to splatter from my bleeding nose. It’s a god-awful mess. I wipe up with tissues as best I can and flush the grossness away. Senn offers me a wet washcloth, which I graciously accept to wash my face.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asks softly, sounding slightly worried or highly disgusted.

  “Crackers?” I ask. When he disappears without a word, I assume they have some of those in the big house. But he doesn’t come back.

  Getting to my feet after it seems the worst of the nausea is over, I wrap a towel around myself and go back to Senn’s empty room to get dressed, trying to escape the embarrassment as quickly as possible.

  Chapter Five

  Senn

  “Fucking ow!” I screech when another seashell or piece of gravel stabs the bottom of my foot. I should’ve gone back to get shoes. When Lynn, Linc’s mom, told me there weren’t any crackers of any kind in the house, I just started for the store around the corner from the beach house without thinking. I do have a fiver and some change in my cargo shorts pocket, which I assume will be enough to cover the cost of a box of saltines. Or Ritz. Does Abby have a preference? If I had thought to grab my phone, I could call the house. Oh well.

  Walking into the beach shop, I finally find the right aisle and grab the first box I see. Of course, since I’m in a hurry to get back to the house and stop the horrendous morning sickness Abby’s enduring, the one check-out line is a mile long.

  Huffing out a breath in frustration, I wait not so patiently for my turn. The unfortunate image of Abby naked and retching with blood pouring from her nose might be branded on my brain. I realize that today is probably not the first time she’s had morning sickness, and it’s my fucking fault she has to deal with all this shit. Yes, we were both participants in the conception; but if I had just abstained, listened to my head telling me not to fuck my best friend’s ex-girlfriend, she wouldn’t have to hug toilets. And what’s with the nosebleeds, twice in a few hours? Is that another pregnancy symptom? I’ll have to Google it later. Fuck, I’ll have to add it to the long list of Googling I need to do, like, “How not to suck as a father” and “How do you change a baby’s diaper?” and even “How the fuck do you hold a baby without breaking them?”

  I have to admit that hearing Abby say the baby craves one of my favorite foods in the world was pretty cool. That’s probably the moment when the last shred of doubt I had about the paternity went flying out the window. Of course I still want to do a DNA test because I’m not a complete idiot, but I already know how it will turn out.

  Finally, I’m next in line. The punk rock cashier with purple hair shorter than mine and a nose ring gives me my total for one box of crackers. Six dollars and seventy-five cents. What the fuck? The markup along the coast, mooching off tourists, is unbelievable, but, hey, I guess it’s tough to make a living where you only have customers a few months out of the year.

  I pull out my five dollar bill and start counting change. There’s only four quarters. Half a mil in my bank account and I don’t have enough cash on me for crackers. It’s enough to cause flashbacks of my childhood, ones where I was trying to buy bread or peanut butter from the smoke-filled convenience store near our trailer park with a handful of pennies because I couldn’t count. Even if I could, I wouldn’t have been able to scrape together enough for any of the shit I usually tried to buy. Hell, it wasn’t even embarrassing when I was that young and hungry. By the time I got old enough to know shame, I was so smooth I could just steal food instead of have to beg for it. Guilt might be a stronger emotion, but at least you get to keep that shit to yourself.

  While I stand here stuck in the past, the clerk eyes my bare chest all the way down to the waistband of my shorts. Then, she reaches in her pocket and puts three more quarters on my pile.

  “Thank you,” I say in relief since I won’t have to make a trip back to the house for my wallet and waste more time. “They’re for my pregnant girlfriend, who’s at this very second puking her guts out across the street.”

  Girlfriend? Did I seriously just say that word? I’ve never had a girlfriend in my entire life. Subconsciously I’m sure my brain just thought it sounded better than “baby mama.” That has to be it.

  Taking my plastic bag from the counter with an offer of congrats from the punk rock clerk, I head out the door and wait for traffic to clear, so I can cross the street. When I see a red BMW come flying by from the direction of the beach house, I know I’m too late.

  Abby just left.

  Keep reading Senn now!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart was born and raised in North Carolina. She continues to live in the south with her husband, two daughters, and several pets named after Star Wars characters.

  When Lane's not writing or reading sexy novels, she can be found in the summer on the beaches of the east coast, and in the fall watching football, cheering on the Carolina Panthers.

  Connect with Lane:

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/WritingfromHart

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lanehartbooks

  Website: http://www.lanehartbooks.com

  Email: lane.hart@hotmail.com