Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  The more Julie Michael’s “Heaven” flows out of the speaker of her phone, the more her hips sway. I watch her from afar, mesmerized by how she can make such a simple movement look so sultry. She’s barely moving, yet she has me feeling like I’m watching a performance worthy of the biggest audience.

  When the song reaches the chorus about bad boys bringing heaven to you, she glides across the wooden floor of my living room. Her toes peak and her shoulders roll when she gets lost in the music. The generous gap between my couches and dining table gives her the perfect stage to perform on, and I’m more than eager to have a front row seat.

  When her sexy one-legged twirl leads to her spotting my stalker watch, I assume she’ll stop dancing. She does no such thing. My sleeping pants can’t hide my enjoyment of her show, much less the smile on my face. She floats toward me, her dance moves a cross between ballet and the modern dance Danny is fascinated with.

  Just before she reaches me, she pulls out a chair from beneath the dining table. She even does that sexily, but it’s nothing compared to how she uses it to enhance her performance. She prances around it, her arms and legs weightless and free as she tumbles over it, under it, and around it. I’m reasonably sure this isn’t the type of dance she teaches the kids in her class, or last night’s performance would have had a lot of angry parents. This dance is especially for me, a one-of-a-kind show that doubles my fascination of her—like it could get any bigger.

  I groan and adjust myself when she lifts her leg well above her head. I learned firsthand how flexible she is only an hour ago, but my fucking God, seeing it outside the bedroom is as fascinating as using it for better angles beneath the sheets. Recognizing the song is seconds from finishing, she clasps my sweaty hand in hers, then guides me to sit in the chair in the middle of her makeshift stage.

  Her sweet scent streams through my nose when her hair slaps my face. She dances around me at a slow, seductive pace. It’s like a private lap dance minus the seedy, I’ve paid to have a woman grind against me factor. It’s fucking hot and has me conflicted. I want the song to hurry up and finish so I can check if she’s as turned on as me right now, but I also don’t want this to ever end.

  Seconds from my last thought entering my mind, Julie Michael’s song switches from a promiscuous tone to a sweeter one, but nothing can dampen the sexual tension brewing between Willow and me. She’s straddling my lap, and her thrusting-with-exhaustion chest is rubbing her erect nipples up and down my pecs.

  Just as they did earlier tonight, her eyes have me coming undone. The lust in them is too intense to ignore. They have me acting reckless, almost caveman-like. I tug my shirt off her body violently before yanking down the waistband on my pants. My hand slides up her sticky back to grip her hair in a firm fist when her heat hits the crest of my cock. She’s as turned on by her performance as me.

  As I tug back her head far enough for a bead of sweat to glide down her nape, I thrust my hips upward. The moan that shreds from her throat steals my worry that I’m fucking her without protection. This is worth more than any amount she could siphon from me with a paternity challenge. I’m acting reckless, but after the fucked-up two years I’ve had, I need to let go of the reins. I need to be the man I once was. I need to fuck her so hard and fast, nothing but me is on her mind even when I’m not around.

  Willow murmurs my name in a throaty groan when I stand from my seat, taking her with me. I’m not going far—I’m also not withdrawing my cock from her snug canal. I’m just planting her naked ass on my dining table so I can see her beautiful body while I fuck it to the brink of insanity. After I un-wrangle her arms from around my neck, I gently push her back by her shoulders. The speed of my pumps quicken when her sweat-slicked back braces against the sturdy wooden material. The visual is better than I was hoping. The generous mounds on her chest are bouncing, her tight slit already red from my poundings, and the satisfied look on her face. . . Pure. Fucking. Heaven.

  There’s no giggling this time around. No jokes about my cock poking her ass when she took it in her mouth. She’s taking as good as I’m giving, a fuck that’s happening on the very table I had planned to feed her on. What I said earlier was true. I didn’t bring her here to fuck her. I just needed a quiet location away from prying eyes.

  With my game picking up right alongside my attitude the past six weeks, the attention from the public and sports reporters has returned to pre-Lillian breakup levels. I couldn’t even attend Willow’s recital without being hounded by fans wanting an autograph. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t like 69ers fans; I love them. I just don’t want them screwing up whatever it is I have going on with Willow. I can fuck up things perfectly fine myself, thank you very much. I don’t need additional help.

  Like now, I certainly don’t need any assistance taking Willow’s throaty moans to an ear-piercing level. I’ve got that on lockdown. She’s screaming as effectively as her pussy is sucking at my cock, and trembling all over when I shift some of my focus to her clit. I rub my thumb over the hardened bud while increasing the tempo of my thrusts.

  The wooden legs on the table begin to shake when the image becomes too much. She’s rocking her hips in rhythm with mine, which have taken on the speed I’m flicking her clit. It’s a brutal pace, faster than the one earlier tonight. We’re not fooling around or having sex; we’re fucking like animals. My grunts are one hundred percent proof of this.

  “Fuck, Elvis. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  Willow’s frantic moans reveal she can feel the table legs coming out from beneath us as well, but just like me, she’s not willing to end this for anything. She’d rather encounter a brutal blow with the floor than give up the climax I feel preparing to roar through her body. She’s heating up everywhere. Her clit is scorching my thumb, and the warmth surrounding my cock has reached boiling point.

  The intimacy I’ve gained with her body in a short period of time is proven without a doubt not even two seconds later. She stills as her back arches off the table. I hear my name in a breathless moan as violent shudders charge through her body. I thrust harder, filling her with every inch of my cock. She is slick and wet, her entire body trembling. She’s fucking me as much as I am fucking her, ensuring her pussy strangling my cock won’t slow down my pace.

  “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she begs over and over again, her pussy tightening around my cock with every word she speaks.

  Her face in the haze of climax pushes mine toward the finish line. Her lips part with want as my mouth waters with need. I pump into her faster, the heat inside of me roaring like a wildfire.

  Feeling the veins in my cock pulsating as my own release closes in on me, Willow says, “Pull out before you come.”

  I give her a look, one that exposes there’s no fucking chance in hell of that happening. I can feel cum sitting at the crest of my cock, begging to be released into the slickness causing its demise.

  “You either pull out or spend the next two weeks panicked out of your mind you went and got a college girl knocked up.” She overemphasizes the word “girl,” but her voice is still husky from the ferocious climax she just endured. “I’m not overly good with keeping a schedule, so I may occasionally skip a pill or two each month.”

  You’d think her confession would have me yanking my cock out this very instant, but for some fucked-up reason, that’s the last thing my fucked-up mind considers doing. It considers the idea I could get her knocked up, toys with it for several long minutes as my thumb does her clit before it finally succumbs to the glare Willow’s giving me through lust-wild eyes.

  “I’ll pull out, but I’m not fucking happy about it.”

  Willow flashes a grin that nearly has me breaking the pledge I just made. “I’m sure I can make it up to you.”

  Her dismount from my cock makes the first leg on the table buckle under our weight, but I hardly notice when her mouth arrows toward my cock.

  “Get on your knees, Will. If you want to suck my dick right, you need to be o
n your knees.”

  Sparks of excitement rain down my shaft when she does as requested with a moan. She swivels her tongue around my knob, tasting herself on my dick before lowering her pillowy lips down my twitching member.

  “That’s it. Just like that.” I gather her hair to the side, gaining the leverage needed so I can fuck her mouth as eagerly as I did her pussy. “Stretch your throat before I coat it with my seed.”

  She murmurs something in a gargle, but I don’t hear what she says. My cock is too busy plunging into her mouth for my ears to follow any commands from my brain.

  The wider she opens her mouth, the more of my cock I feed her. She draws me to the very back of her throat, triggering only the slightest gag before drawing me back out. Her eyes water from taking me so deep, but she pushes past the pain, her excitement too strong for something so minor to impact it.

  I inhale sharp, quick breaths as a tingle works up from my balls to the crest of my cock. I could have come the instant she wrapped her lips around my dick, but I held off, certain the reward would far outweigh the penance. I was right. She’s sucking me more fiercely now than she did earlier tonight. Not even tasting her climax has slowed her down.

  “I understand why I couldn’t come in your tight, drenched, fucking wet slit, but do you have any objections to me coming down your pretty little throat?” My grip on her hair tightens with every word I speak. I can feel the wheels jumping off the track, feel the hysteria coming on. “You’ve got two seconds to answer me, Willow, or I’m going to come in your mouth like I’ve been fantasizing about since the day we met.”

  When she answers me with a groan, I come hard and fast down her throat. She takes everything I’m offering, her swallows as frantic as her sucks, and she does it all while staring up at me with wild, lust-blitzed eyes.

  “You liked that, didn’t you?”

  She extracts my cock from her mouth with a pop before running her finger over her lips to soothe their burn with a bit of moisture. “Very much so. . .”

  Her last word comes out with a groan, but not like the groans she was making only minutes ago.

  “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  She shoos off my worry with a wave of her hand as she gingerly rises to her feet. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Will. . .” I let the worry on my face express the words my climax-hazed brain can’t articulate.

  “It’s my knee,” she confesses, her tone annoyed. “After standing on it for hours unbraced during the recital, I shouldn’t have danced around on it—”

  “Or gotten on your knees to suck my dick?”

  Jesus, I’m an A-grade fucking moron.

  She tugs my shirt back over her head before snagging my pants off the ground and bridging the gap between us. “Believe me, I wasn’t feeling anything close to pain then. . .” Her glistening eyes dance between mine. “Except perhaps wondering how I could stop you coming out my ears.”

  Her playfulness lightens the tension between us, but it does nothing to ease the weight on my shoulders. “How about we take a look at your knee?”

  Not giving her a chance to protest, I yank on my pants before scooping down to gather her in my arms. She remains quiet, but I can feel her excitement thrumming through her veins as we weave through my living room to the kitchen on the other side.

  “What’s your pain scale? One is non-existent; ten is you’re seconds from ripping out the nuts of any man within a five-mile radius?”

  While she comes up with a suitable number, I move into the foyer to grab my gym bag from the closet. It has tape, stitches, bandages, and enough pain medication to cover the highest number on her list.

  When I reenter the room with the goodies in my hand, Willow’s teeth catch her bottom lip. “You’ve got a whole pharmacy there, don’t you?” She drops her eyes to a nearly empty bottle. “Is that sugar-coated oxycodone?”

  Smiling, I nod. “Makes them easier to swallow.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Anything coated in sugar tastes ten times better.” I feel my cock pulsate like it didn’t just release when she raises her eyes to mine and murmurs, “Except perhaps you.”

  “Knee first.” I dump my medical equipment next to her naked backside that is sitting on my kitchen counter. “Then we’ll discuss back-breaking positions that don’t require knee strain.”

  “I’m going to pretend I’m not pissed at your extensive knowledge of sexual positions, but you should take note that I am pissed—so much so, I’m considering switching my rating from a seven to a ten just so I can rip your nuts off.”

  Like many male specimens, I hear only what I want to hear. “Your pain is a seven?”

  When she halfheartedly nods, I bite out a string of curse words. Even if she had said a two, I wouldn’t be happy, but a seven; that’s high.

  “Pick your poison while I get your knee wrapped.”

  I nudge my head to the ten or so containers of pain medications displayed near her thigh before dragging over a barstool so I can sit between her legs. Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but her puffy knee keeps my focus on the task at hand instead of an area much more appetizing. It’s well past dinner and way too early for breakfast, but dessert is a meal that can be consumed at all times of the day and night.

  Willow rifles through the box until she finds one that is the equivalent of Tylenol. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to stuff up your prescription schedule.”

  “They’re not current.” I raise the hem on my shirt before straightening her knee. She hisses in pain from me bending it to its natural position. Wanting to keep her focus off the pain, I say, “They’re old scripts I keep around just in case they’re needed.”

  “In case you hurt your back again?”

  I do a weird, shruggy thing. “My injury isn’t like yours. The chances of it occurring again are low, but the worry is always there.”

  My low tone reveals more than my words ever will. I’m not scared of breaking my back. I’m scared of severing my spinal cord the second time around. I’m walking proof you can do anything you set out to achieve, but if my break had been mere millimeters from where it was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be holed up in a wheelchair at an old folks home with a nurse wiping my ass every day. That scares me. It scares the fucking shit out of me.

  I freeze my taping of Willow’s knee when she asks, “How did you hurt your back?”

  I begin taping her leg again, hoping it will hide the shame my eyes get every time I recount my story. “I was an idiot who thought nothing would bring me down. I learned the errors of my ways when I got behind the wheel of my car drunk and crashed into a minivan, nearly killing all the occupants inside.”

  Willow’s hand darts up to cover her gasp, but she remains as quiet as a church mouse.

  “The driver of the minivan spent four weeks in hospital. I was there for twelve. It doesn’t change what I did, but I’m glad his injuries weren’t as dire as mine.”

  I cut the tape with aggression, my anger still paramount. I’m not angry at the driver; I’m pissed that no matter what I do to fix my errors, the guilt never fades. The driver forgave me; I call Mr. Beckett every Monday to see how he’s doing, and we even got together last Fourth of July, but the frustration remains heavy on my chest. I was an adult; I knew the consequences of my actions, yet I still got behind the wheel after drinking because I thought I could do no wrong.

  “Survivor guilt is horrible, isn’t it?”

  After fixing the last piece of tape into place, I stand to my feet to face Willow. She didn’t ask her question like my therapist did numerous times the months following my accident. She asked it as if she has experienced it herself.

  My thoughts are proven correct when her quick brush of her cheeks misses the faintest tear slipping off her chin. “My parents died in a housefire when I was nine. It was a bitterly cold winter that required more heat than our little house could handle. My dad got me to safety before he went
back for my mom. They both perished in the fire.”

  “Oh, Willow.” I don’t know what else I can say. There are a thousand condolences in my head, but none I’m sure she hasn’t heard before. So, instead of offering her words of comfort, I use my body. I grip her head as firmly as I did earlier before drawing her into my chest.

  Her tears soak my pecs when she whispers, “I was so sure they were going to be okay, I stood on the footpath, panicked out of my mind that my dancing trophies were melting. I never considered the fact they might not make it out. My dad was so strong, I didn’t think anything would take him away from me.”

  Now her bigger-than-life personality makes sense. When you’ve been hurt, you either became a recluse who hates the world and everyone in it, or you bring out the sunshine, certain your worst days are behind you.

  Willow is the sunshine, and I was the blackness determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.

  That all changed when a ray of sunshine I never knew I wanted shone down on me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Willow

  “A re you sure you don’t want to stay another night? I can drop you at school before your first class tomorrow. I’ll even set two alarms to make sure I don’t sleep in.”

  I giggle, loving the cheek in Elvis’s voice. If I could explain this weekend in only one word it would be outrageously-fucking-fantastic.

  What? When it’s hyphenated, it’s only one word. I found that out the hard way when I submitted my English essay earlier this month. It had to be three thousand words. I delivered an amazing piece of literature that was exactly three thousand words. Supposedly I lost a few points because I didn’t reach the minimum required word count. It’s a crock of shit excuse as far as I’m concerned, but my B+ averaged out my score to a A-, so I pulled up my big girl panties and copped Professor Smith’s disdain on my chin like a nearly graduated student.