by Sierra Hill
Knowing it’ll be useless to try to get anything more done tonight, I close the lid, and set the laptop on the bedside table. Then I scoot down and face him, mirroring his stance by propping myself on my elbow.
“Lance and Micaela Britton’s.”
Garrett begins trailing wet kisses down my arm, the hair on top of his head tickling under my chin, as I drop my hand to encircle his cock in my fist, giving it a nice, tight stroke.
“Ah,” he says before latching on to my nipple through my tank top. I arch into him on a moan. “But aren’t they already married and having a baby together?”
He grips the top edge of my panties and slips them down my legs, as I kick them off the edge of the bed. I jack my leg up and over his hip, as Garrett throws an arm behind my back, pressing me into the curve of his body. His girthy cock, now very hard, nudges into my middle. He continues stroking my bare leg, as I luxuriate in the sweet tease of his fingertips.
With one swift move, he flattens his back against the mattress and swings my hips over to straddle on top of him. His knowing smile is devilish because he knows how much I love being on top. The quickest way to get me to orgasm is to let me ride first.
Experimenting with a few grinds of my pelvis, I rotate my hips seductively, stretching my torso up, as Garrett works at my tank, yanking it over my head and arms. Garrett loves my breasts. I’ve never paid them much attention or flaunted them, mainly because sports bras aren’t very sexy.
But the way Garrett worships them, with his mouth, hands, and tongue, has made me realize how important they are to my sexual satisfaction. He even got me off the other night just by playing with my nipples. He wouldn’t touch my clit or even let me touch it, but relentlessly sucked, licked, and teased my nipples so thoroughly, that he had me screaming out my release in no time, before he slid inside of me to enjoy the ride.
“Well yes, technically they are legally wed. But I guess Mica’s family wanted to do a big reception and invite all their friends and family to celebrate both their marriage and the baby. It’ll be fun. And we’ll get to see all the guys again from school.”
Garrett’s hands have been plumping my breasts, his mouth poised to suck a taut, sensitive nipple into his mouth when he stops, his eyes drifting up at me with jealous concern.
“All what guys? Did you…were you ever involved…”
I grin, quirking a brow and rubbing my mound over his erection. “Are you asking if I ever fucked any of them?”
His reply is a ragged growl. “Yeah.”
I join my hands with his, helping him to squeeze and knead my tits in his hands, enjoying the sensation of working together to achieve mutual gratification. Such good teamwork.
“No. Never. I kissed Lance Britton once at a party our freshman year. But nothing happened. He got wasted and blacked out before anything became of it.”
“Good,” he bellows. “Well, not that he got wasted, but that it stopped him. Because you’re mine. These are mine.” He demonstrates with a swipe of his tongue over both breasts.
“This is mine.” His hands land on my bare ass and he squeezes, then one hand swats a cheek, as I buck against him.
“And this…” His thumb circles over my clit, swirling and dipping inside the wetness. “This, sweetheart, is all mine. All fucking mine.”
“Yes,” I cry out, as he swiftly enters me and we both shudder at the sensation.
And then there’s no more discussion about the past.
Only the here and now.
31
Garrett
Staff meetings in any business setting can be boring, tedious and a waste of time. Luckily, today’s coaching staff meeting centered around our incoming team, as we sift through and analyze each of our kids’ strengths and weaknesses to determine how we’ll work with them individually throughout the season.
As I enter the conference room in the athletic building on campus, laptop and a stack of analytics I’d printed out earlier, I notice my colleagues, Jon Richman, the Director of Team Operations, Byron Hope, the other assistant head coach, Lamar Press, the team’s Strength & Training coach, as well as our administrative assistant, Cheyanne, already in the room.
“Morning,” I nod in greeting, taking a seat at the first open spot.
Jon is talking with Byron about his new ’67 Mustang he bought over the summer and is restoring, showing him pictures from his phone. I lean to the side to get a good look at his new ‘baby.’
“Nice.”
Jon doesn’t seem to like my ‘mid-west compliment’ and grunts. “Just nice, bro? Nah, man. She’s fucking beautiful.”
Lamar casually glances up from his laptop to comment, a bit of sarcasm lacing through it. “Put you back a pretty penny, though, didn’t she?”
“Hell, man. She’s worth it.” He side-glances toward Chey, covering his mouth to whisper conspiratorially. “And this beauty doesn’t talk back like my wife. Only purrs when she’s happy.”
Yep, just like it is in a locker room, except we’re wearing business casual attire in the conference room.
“Okay then, Jon. Enough with the inappropriate female references.” I give him a stern glare to ensure he knows I mean it. “Anyone know where Coach Welby is?”
I look down at Chey at the far end of the table. She’s tapping away at her laptop with her black raven hair falling over her eyes. Her head pops up, then diverts down to her phone, checking the time. “He’ll be here shortly. He’s running just a little late finishing up an interview with Sports News Radio.”
As we wait for our Head Coach to arrive, we talk shop, discuss some of the other things we did over the summer, games we took in, vacations we went on. I steer clear of my personal life but do mention that Caleb is starting kindergarten.
“That’s great to hear, G. That kid of yours is pretty inspiring. He doesn’t let anything slow him down.” Byron shoves a hand out to fist bump me.
Jon joins in. “I’m telling ya, bro. It feels like it was just yesterday when Kristin and I walked Amelia into her kindergarten class. Then I blinked and she’s already a junior in high school this year. I don’t know how that happened. And she started seeing a boy over the summer that she worked with and they’re getting serious.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you what. Having that conversation with your seventeen-year-old daughter is about as fun as getting all your teeth pulled without the Novocain. It’s painful, uncomfortable and has you gripping the arm chair hoping it’ll just end.”
Lamar mutters, “I bet she knows more about sex than you think she does. Just tell her to remember to wrap it before she taps it.”
“What the hell, man? That’s my daughter you’re talking about.”
Lamar can be a little dense and rough around the edges at times, but I’m sure he doesn’t mean any disrespect by his comment.
I’m about to jump in to smooth things over when Coach Welby flies through the door.
“Sorry, I’m late. Let’s get started.”
That’s what I like about Coach. He’s no-nonsense, direct and can be blunt to the point of caustic at times. But he’s a good leader and has turned out some really great players over the years. Most recently, we had a handful of players get drafted into the NBA, including last year’s senior, Carver Edwards, who’s now up in Seattle playing for an expansion team.
The only problem with the current coaching dynamic is it leaves me little room for advancement. Coach Webly isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, which leaves me with wanting something more in terms of responsibility and authority over my coaching decisions. I know I have room to grow in my coaching skills, but I am competitive, and always aim for the next big achievement.
I sigh wistfully, recalling my early days out of college when I was young, free and loving life. I had no mortgage, no responsibilities and certainly no disabled son to worry about.
The whole kindergarten situation really freaked me out. As a basketball player and coach, you need to display mental toughness – bo
th on and off the court. Toughness and resilience are needed strengths in order to win the game. And if you show any sign of weakness, you’ll be eaten alive by your opponent.
In this case, my opponent seems to be life in general. If I let down my guard for one second or lose my grip on the ball, it’ll have me beat.
And I’m too competitive to lose at anything.
We’ve been at this for two hours now and I can tell we’re all getting a little antsy for a break. But Coach Welby doesn’t seem to notice.
“Okay, let’s talk about Tyus Washington.”
I shuffle through my stack of print-outs, all alphabetized and in order, and pull out Tyus’s stats.
“His last year in high school he averaged 22.3 points, 3.8 assists and 2.2 steals per game as the point guard. He was a McDonald’s All-American and received the MVP for being the leading scorer at the Proviso West Holiday Tournament.” I continue reading through his long list of achievements when there’s a knock on the conference room door.
All heads turn toward the door, which is closed but not locked. I’m closest to the door and rise from my chair to go open it.
There’s an older looking gentleman, with a gray-white tuft of hair in a comb-over, a wrinkled plaid suit and a folder in his hands standing on the other side of the door.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
He clears his throat, his eyes darting around the room behind me before landing back on me.
“I’m looking for Mr. Garrett Parker.”
My forehead crinkles and I tilt my head. I have no idea who this guy is. I’m not saying I’m the most recognizable former player in the world, but my face has graced a lot of national magazines and TV sports commentary. I find it odd he doesn’t recognize me if he’s looking for me.
“I’m Garrett Parker. What can I…” I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence.
“Mr. Parker, you’ve been served. Have a nice day.”
The next thing I know he’s shoved the folder in my hands and spins on his heels, practically sprinting down the hallway whence he came.
A silence fills the room as I pick my jaw up off the floor, staring down at the ominous folder in my hands.
I don’t even have to open the envelope to know exactly what it is and who it’s from.
“Goddamn, Penelope,” I curse loudly. “Goddamn her.”
32
Brooklyn
It’s been two days and Garrett won’t talk about it.
He came home the other day after his staff meeting irritated and grumpy, slamming doors and mumbling under his breath about his “mistake” and “why can’t she just leave us alone?”
After I fixed dinner and cleaned up, he gave Caleb a bath and put him to bed, while I got situated on the couch with some newly assigned coursework from class. I’m taking three courses this semester, one of them related to clinical psychology. Even as I read through the first chapter of the textbook, my brain is working to diagnose and breakdown the distress and dysfunction that seems to be sidelining Garrett this week.
I, of course, am fully aware of what’s gotten him in such an uproar and know all about Penelope’s lawsuit. Her petition is to have the original parental rights reversed so she can seek joint custody.
It’s the most absurd thing I could ever imagine. Penelope wanting to share custody of her disabled son that she gave away two years ago. What the hell is she even thinking?
What’s even more disturbing is that I overheard Garrett on the phone in his office with his attorney last night. His lawyer apparently explained that in many cases like this, where a mother has given her child up for adoption, the judge can overturn the original verdict in favor of the biological mother’s request.
I could offer no words of encouragement to Garrett, because really, what good would it have done? It doesn’t change the situation and certainly can’t prevent the potentially life-changing decision from happening.
All I could do was offer up my body in hopes of sating his frustrations with the world. I knew he’d just received a devastating blow and he was a desperate man in need of some relief, in whatever way he could get it. Even if only a physical and temporary solution, it was something.
When I heard him hang up and silence descended over the house, I slowly crept down the hallway, knocked quietly on his door and walked over to his desk, where he was hunched over like a sad and dejected Quasimodo.
I stood behind him and slid my hands over his bunched shoulders, squeezing and manipulating the straining muscles of his tightly corded neck and back with my ministrations. His lips parted on a pained sigh, as I trailed my fingertips down the front of his chest, lifting the material of his tucked shirt from inside his shorts.
He leaned his head back, flopping it to the side, as I kissed the rough texture of his scruffy jaw, using my tongue to lick over the taut, throbbing vein in his thick neck. I felt the current of vibration rumble from his throat, sucking a spot in the hollow of his throat that I knew he found sensitive.
“I need you,” he murmured with a gravelly voice, lifting his arms behind his back to pull me closer.
Without a word exchanged between us, I stripped off my shorts and T-shirt, removing my bra and panties, as he unbuttoned and unzipped his shorts. My gaze drifted to the fat bulge in his underwear, the tip of his erection straining to punch through the edge. He grabbed the elastic and pulled it down, allowing his cock to spring free.
I was about to kneel in front of him and take him in my mouth when he reached for my hips, spinning me around to bend me forward over the desk. The warmth of my breasts touched cold, hardwood and the contradiction sent shivers down my spine and had me gasping, as did the forcefulness by which he spread my legs and speared me from behind with his tongue.
Crying out something altogether unintelligible, the tip of his tongue slipped through my wet folds, his hands roughly holding me open for him. I could feel the wetness dripping from my core, my hardened nipples pebbling with every sweep of him between my legs.
Suddenly, his tongue disappeared, replaced by the wide, straining head of his cock as it surged inside me.
There was no time to even adjust my stance, as one of his palms securely fitted over my hip and the other pressed into the top of my shoulder, anchoring me into the desk and to him. And then he was slamming into me in a frenetic pace, no sultry rhythm or calculated tempo to his pistoning hips. It was just pure, unadulterated rutting.
Dewy sweat beaded my back, my thighs rubbing against the smooth edge of the desk, as Garrett breathed and panted like he was running with the bulls, focused only on finishing.
And then he came, long and hard, with a groan that mixed satisfaction with agony. Pain with pleasure. Love with lust.
My pussy flooded with his spend, as he pulsed and pulsed out his release. It was a long silent moment until the pressure of his hands left me, the spots where he had touched me now cold and marked from the roughness of his grip.
No words were exchanged, no terms of endearment or gratitude given. As he slipped out of me, leaving me empty and bereft, I felt the dynamic shift between us.
Something foreign and strange, full of censure and distaste, crept up my spine as Garrett quickly stuffed his dick back in his pants and zipped up.
He reached over my shoulder to hand me the Kleenex box, which I accepted with a soft, “Thanks.”
As I cleaned myself up, he picked up my discarded clothing, hanging them over the arm of the chair, before turning toward the door.
“I’m going to bed.” And then he paused, a heavy stone of guilt being hoisted above him, ready to be flung over a wall that was just built between us. It was a battle cry. A testimony to his anguish and torment.
“I think it’s better if you sleep in your own room tonight.”
And then he was gone, leaving me naked and alone.
Now just feeling like an intruder and interloper in his life.
An unwanted nuisance.
Feeling like just another frustrati
on for him to contend with.
33
Garrett
Everything I had, I gave it all to her.
My rage, my sorrow, my despair. She took it all from me. She wrapped me in her arms, gave me the shelter of her body and soothed my aching and beleaguered heart.
And what did I do for her in return?
I gave her the cold shoulder. I iced her out.
I am a motherfucking asshole.
But I couldn’t stop myself. I was so angry over what I’d learned from my lawyer, Bob Guthry, about the possibility a judge could just snap his or her fingers to overturn the original judgment, that I think I temporarily lost my mind.
I allowed my frustrations over this Penelope situation to deconstruct and tarnish everything Brooklyn and I have been building together. I took advantage of the situation and Brooklyn’s kindness. And now I’m hiding out – from her and myself.
When I left Brooklyn in my office, I went straight to the liquor cabinet, pulled out my Scotch and returned to my bedroom, in hopes I could drink myself to sleep.
No such luck.
Instead, my past is catching up to me, haunting me with a vengeance. It has my thoughts gripped in its steely tentacles, holding me hostage as I play out every stupid mistake I’ve ever made on loop like one of those gif videos.
Over and over again, including that night five years ago when I got that fateful call from Penelope.
“Hey babe, do you know where my razor is?” I call to Becca from the bathroom of our new house we’d just moved into a month earlier, just twenty-minutes out of Indianapolis.
I’d just returned from a grueling ten-day road trip, leaving Becca, my new fiancée and future wife to do all the heavy lifting, unpacking and organizing. Though if you asked her, she doesn’t mind. She was just thrilled to finally be settling into our new life together.
I was just thrilled to be able to fuck her in every room and surface in our new house. It was a win-win in my mind.