by Jenna Rose
No. I don’t buy it.
But then why would she write an article like this? Just to try and convince me that she did nothing wrong? Is she really just a fame-seeking gold-digger and using her article to get back on my good side?
I want to believe that, because it would make things so much easier, but deep down, I’m not sure that I do. I still want Natalie. I know that. I don’t know if I should, but I’m not Spock; I can’t just turn off my emotions. I don’t know what the fuck to do at this point. For the first time in my life, I don’t know where the goal is. I don’t know what to do. Maybe it’s better to just do nothing and forget the whole thing—pretend like it never happened.
Epilogue
Natalie
One year later…
Yeah, I’m dead.
At least that’s how I feel as I hold Rob in my arms while he breastfeeds, staring at my laptop screen, waiting for a call from my editor to come in. It’s a video call, but he’s the only one who’s going to have his webcam on.
I’m exhausted. I haven’t fully slept in three days; this latest article on the health care crisis among the Boston working class has been eating up all my spare time, and Rob has been keeping me super busy. He hasn’t been feeling too well lately and has been very hungry. He’s an absolute blessing, don’t get me wrong, but Momma needs her rest. I’m just praying this call goes quickly so I can try and put him down and catch a nap before dinner.
My laptop beeps and I answer.
“Ted?”
“Hey, Natalie. Oh, your video’s off,” he replies. He’s sitting at his desk with his ugly yellow shirt on and staring at his computer like an old man should, not an editor who uses it daily.
“I’ve got my hands full with Rob,” I reply.
“Oh, I see. Well, I’ll try to make this quick. I loved the piece. I have a few notes that I included in an e-mail I’m sending to you now, but I’d love to punch up the story about the woman who lost her clothing shop. Do you have any more with her?”
“I don’t,” I reply, realizing my workload just went up. “But I can get it.”
“Can you? Because I think the article would be much stronger with it.”
“Sure, Ted,” I say, hiding the fatigue in my voice. “I’ll get on it.”
“Great! I’ll let you go,” he says with a smile. “Say hi to the little guy for me!”
“I will,” I say. I smile, even though he can’t see me, and end the call. Then, under my breath, I curse. “Fuck…”
“Hey, what kind of language is that to use around your baby boy?”
I turn and see the door swing open and my beautiful husband walk into the house. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see him—but then again, that’s always how I feel when he comes home.
He walks right up to me, kisses his son on the head, then kisses me on the lips.
“How’s my baby boy?” he asks.
“Hungry!” I reply. “Hopefully sleepy soon.”
“I sure hope so.” He grins. “Because I’m anything but.”
He reaches around and runs his fingers up my thigh, causing a shiver to run through my body. Smiling, I slap his hand away.
“Not while I’m holding him!”
“Of course not,” he chuckles. “Go put him to bed and we can have some time together.”
I should get started on my article—start making calls and seeing about a follow-up interview, but there will be time for that later. Right now, Mommy and Daddy need some alone time.
As we both put Rob down in his crib, I have a brief moment where I can’t believe what’s happening. We are together. My article was a Hail Mary, but it worked. The next day, Bobby showed up at my dorm. I explained everything, about how Rick and I were broken up at the time but I still felt bad for immediately having sex with him, and he understood completely. He asked me to be his girlfriend (something he assured me he never does) and of course I said yes. The next month I found out I was pregnant and he proposed.
Rob was born healthy and strong like his dad. The whole team came to the hospital to celebrate. Wayne bought us a crib with skates all over it, and he has so many hockey toys that it will be a miracle if he ends up wanting to do anything else with his life. I graduated BU and got a job at the Boston Herald. I worked basically until I went into labor, and only took a few weeks off. It’s actually not too difficult to type with a baby on your breast. Oh, and Bobby made good on his promise to his team; he carried them to another championship. He brought home the Stanley Cup.
“You’re so sexy, you know that?” Bobby asks me as I close the door to the nursery behind us.
“Stop,” I protest. “I look like shit. My hair’s a mess, I don’t have any makeup on—”
“I know,” he smiles. “And I love it.”
“You love it that I look like a mess?”
“I love that even when you think you’re a mess,” he whispers, leaning in, “you are nothing but perfection.”
I gasp as he runs his hand up my leg and slides his fingers down the front of my shorts. He knows just what I like, and I start to tremble as he gently teases my clit with a skilled finger.
I reach out and grab his bulge, which is already thick and hard beneath his sweats. I take a deep breath and bask in his scent; he hasn’t showered since practice, which I told him never to do. I love the way he smells after a good workout.
“You are a sweet-talker.” I smile as he kisses me all over.
“It’s easy to be one with a wife like you,” he replies. God, I love this man.
His cock is thick and warm beneath my fingers as I reach into his pants. He grabs the hem and tugs them down, and I take his hand and start to lead him to the bedroom, but he stops me.
“Bobby—”
“No,” he growls. “Here.”
He grabs my left leg and lifts. I may be a little bigger than most girls, but I’m super flexible, and he pushes my leg all the way up over my head so I’m basically doing a standing split. Then, he pulls the fabric of my shorts aside and slides his cock inside me.
“Oh, wow,” I groan. The angle is a new one, and he’s hitting places I never even knew I had. Grinning, he leans in and presses me hard against the wall as he starts to fuck me. His lips are magic against mine, and as my climax races toward me, I can’t believe how lucky I am. Who would have thought that an impossible assignment would have led to this? Who would have thought I would end up as Mrs. Bobby Brodeur?
The End
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4. Hard Hitter
Curves For the Boys Series
Jenna Rose
Contents
1. Jay
2. Emma
3. Jay
4. Emma
5. Jay
6. Emma
7. Jay
8. Emma
9. Jay
Epilogue
1
Jay
“You’re nuts, you know that? Seriously nuts.”
The boys on the team all laugh. We’re in the locker room post-practice and most of us have just gotten out of the shower and Eric, the team’s catcher (both literally and figuratively) has just gotten another glimpse of my baseball bat and is giving me a hard time.
“I’m just sayin’.” He grins. “Why deprive the rest of the world of that physique?”
Eric is “a little light in the loafers” as my dad would put it. None of us care of course; he’s actually one of the most loved guys on the team and is so funny he could give Chappelle a run for his money. But he does love making comments whenever we’re all in our birthday suits.
“So
I should just go pose naked for one of the figure drawing classes?” I laugh as I dry my hair off with my towel. “So I’m not depriving the world or whatever?”
“Not scared, are ya?” Rob, our starting pitcher, asks. “The big bad Sultan of Swing afraid of a class full of art students?”
“Bitch, please.” I grin as I slide into my briefs. “I just don’t see the point. That’s all. They don’t pay, right?”
“A college art class pay you to take your clothes off?” Chuck laughs. “You wish, buddy!”
“No, they pay,” Rob says. “Not much, but they pay.”
“Like he needs the money.” Eric rolls his eyes. “Guy’s gonna have a Lamborghini and a mansion next year. He doesn’t need fifty bucks.”
He’s right. I’m the all-star hitter for UNC Chapel Hill, and it’s pretty much a done deal that I’ll be in the major leagues come graduation. A couple of the other guys have a chance, but I’m basically a sure thing.
“Maybe you’ll meet your future wife there?” Rob suggests with a shrug. “Some cute girl who thinks she’s the next Picasso or whatever.”
“Cute art girls?” Paul scoffs. “Gimmie a sorority girl any day.”
“Yeah, I doubt that’ll happen,” I laugh. Even if I thought that an art studio was the kind of place to find a girl who was my style, the last thing I’m looking for right now is a wife. I’m young, single, and ready to take on the world. Once I’m signed, I’ll have models, actresses, cheerleaders all lined up to spend a night with me. Why would I want to lock myself down when I’m about to have what every man in the world dreams of?
“Tell you what, Eric,” I say. “I will do it.”
“You will?” he asks, perking up.
“Yup,” I nod. “But only if you eat this.”
Still smiling, I hold up my Tupperware container of tuna salad with mayo. Eric hates both tuna and mayo. Quickly, he shakes his head.
“Noooooooo fucking way,” he replies immediately as I walk toward him with the container.
“Come on, buddy!” I laugh as the boys start to cackle. “It’s just a little tuna!”
“Do it!” everyone starts to chant. “Do it! Do it!”
Eric backs right up against the lockers and I lean up against him, shaking the Tupperware in my hand.
“Fine. Five bites,” I tell him. “And I’ll pose nude.”
“I’ll puke,” he says, causing everyone to laugh even harder.
“You might,” I agree. “But won’t it be worth it?”
Eric frowns, smashes his lips together, glances at me and then at the Tupperware, then snatches it out of my hand and yanks the lid off. The locker room goes ballistic as everyone gathers around to watch.
Like a soldier going into battle, Eric snatches a big bite of the tuna salad and stuffs it into his mouth. He gags, but gets it down as we all cheer. He gets the next one, the next one, but almost hurls on the fourth.
“You got it!” I laugh as he grabs the last bite. “Just one more, man! Just one more!”
So two days later and I’m walking into the art building with a dumb grin on my face. You got me, Eric. You got me. I’ve never been in the art building before – why would I? Hell, I’ve barely been to my classes. I’ve got a tutor who helps me prepare for exams when they come up, but it’s my job to do two things: hit the ball, win the game.
That’s it. And that’s what I’ve been doing consistently since I was a freshman. No one at this school is under the illusion that I’m the next Albert Einstein, but I might just be the next Derek Jeter, so I get a bit of a pass. But as I pass the kids in the halls, I wish Rob was here. Yeah, there’s no way I’m going to be meeting my future wife today.
I’m wearing a white bath robe – something Hugh Hefner might wear, when I see the sign:
Nude Figure Drawing Class today
“Wow,” I chuckle. “Not very discreet.”
When I walk in, I see the woman I must have talked to on the phone and walk right up to her.
“Mrs. Potter?” I ask, extending my hand. “I’m Jay Moore. I’m your subject for today.”
By the way she looks at me, I can tell that she’s surprised; she must have thought I was kidding and wouldn’t actually show up. She’s not bad looking actually, as far as art teachers go, and I catch her giving me a quick once-over with her eyes before taking my hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Moore! Nice to have you with us!” she stammers. “If you want to take a seat there, you can remain robed until the rest of the class arrives.”
“Thanks.” I grin as I walk over to a white platform at the center of an arc of chairs. It actually looks fitting – like something you might put a Greek statue on top of. I take a seat and keep my robe on. One of the girls, with bright pink hair and a Sex Pistols shirt on, frowns at me. She knows who I am, and she doesn’t like me. That’s okay. I get that from girls like her. That’s part of what’s going to make this funny.
I sit there while the rest of the class filters in – about ten more of them, mostly girls but a couple of guys. I grin as I reach for the straps of my robe. Yup, no future-wives here today.
But as Mrs. Potter starts to close the door, something happens that catches me completely off guard. A girl walks in – no, a goddess walks in – with curves that start some pretty drastic changes going on with me that are seriously going to change the outcome of today’s drawings.
Her blond hair spills down across her shoulders like waterfalls. There are acres of it, draping all the way down to her busty chest that has me practically drooling. She’s wearing short shorts that show off her curvy thighs, and her lips are plump and glossy, just begging for my dick.
As she walks in, her breeding-hips swaying seductively from side to side, our eyes meet, and something like a bolt of electricity shoots through me. It’s the same feeling I got when I stepped out onto the field for my first college game, and a thought blazes instantly in my mind.
Maybe Rob was right after all…Maybe my future wife is here after all.
2
Emma
“Figure drawing? Seriously? Naked bodies? No thanks!”
Martha just laughs at me as she gets her things together for class.
“Emma, I know you’re the world’s biggest virgin, and I know that even the thought of a naked body scares the shit out of you.” She smirks. “But you are coming! If you want to be a real artist, you need to learn how to do this.”
“I’m not even sure I want to be a real artist,” I mutter.
Which is true. I’m not sure what I want to do at this point. I’m a college freshman – a virgin college freshman, as Martha loves to point out – who likes art but isn’t sure she actually wants to show that art to anyone. I’m sure someone must be able to relate to that!
I like to draw. I like to paint (abstracts mostly), but I’m taking one studio art class this semester, and Martha, who is a year ahead of me and completely submerged in her art major, is trying to convince me to go to a nude figure drawing class with her today. It starts in ten minutes.
“You do want to be a real artist, Emma,” Martha tells me as she grabs my hand and pulls me out the door. “You are just too afraid to admit it. Just like you are too afraid to admit that you need some dick!”
Martha’s voice echoes down the hall, causing me to hide my face in my hands until we’re outside.
“Are you crazy!?”
“You do, girl,” she replies. “I’ve met some ‘nice girls’ in my day, but you take the cake. I mean – how has a girl alive today never watched porn?”
“I mean…I’ve seen porn—”
“But you’ve never watched it,” she replies. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I ask.
“There is.” She nods.
“Well, we’re about to go and produce some porn right now, so…”
“Please,” she scoffs. “Figure drawing is not porn, okay? It’s art. And it’s a very important skill for every artist to learn.”
�
��But it’s naked people,” I counter.
“Oh, shut up,” she laughs. “You’re not going to be drawing some girl getting blasted in the ass by a big black dick, okay!? It’ll probably be some guy who eats too much McDonald’s so we can practice our shading.”
I burst out laughing, blushing simultaneously as I follow her across the Chapel Hill campus to the art building. I still feel nervous as we walk inside; it’s almost like I feel like I don’t belong here. Art has always been a personal thing to me – something I would do alone as a way of getting away from the world and dealing with my emotions. I guess studying it and putting it on display for others is something that I’m going to have to get used to.
“I’m gonna pee real fast,” I tell Martha. “You go in and I’ll be right there.”
“You’re not bailing on me, are you?”
“Of course not.” I smile as I enter the ladies’ room. I don’t actually have to pee; I’m just nervous. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m the naked person being drawn today. I wet a paper towel and pad my forehead with it, take a few deep breaths as I get my shit together, then head to the classroom. And when I step inside, I see a sight that takes my breath away.
Guy who eats too much McDonald’s my ass!
Sitting on a rectangular white box is the most amazingly good-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. In fact, he’s more than just good-looking; it’s like he’s been designed to check every one of my boxes in what I’d want if I was to describe my ideal man.