Time Out: A Holiday Sports Romance

by Amanda Heartley

  She shivered so much I thought she might come right then, but she rode out the latest wave of desire. She gripped the sides of her barstool, shook her head and said, through gritted teeth, “Fuck, yeah I like it. And it means that whatever you do to me, I get to do to you.”

  I considered the prospect, watching her whimper and moan as I touched and teased her, my fingertip sliding inside once more to feel the heat and desire lurking there, just waiting to burst forth—if only I’d let her release it.

  “How long do you think you can last?” I murmured, wriggling my finger playfully to accentuate my question.

  “Just as long as you’ll let me,” she said, eager as ever to last as long as she could. I knew the feeling. Being with Avery was like nothing I’d ever experienced before—a long slow burn instead of a fast fuck, quick explosion and even quicker exit. Suddenly, the prospect of bringing Avery to the edge of climax over and over again, only to ease her back, then back once more, seemed exciting enough for my own cock and balls to throb and leak. “The question is how long do you want to keep me on the edge of the seat.”

  “Until you beg me for it, of course,” I said, grinning. “Are you there yet?”

  I swirled my finger around her clit, practically vibrating with anticipation, for emphasis. “Are you even close?” I teased, leaning closer until our faces were close enough to kiss.

  “I’m so close,” Avery said, breath hot and thick across my lips as they brushed against hers. “But it feels so good I don’t want it to end. I never want it to end…”

  “Your wish,” I said, rasping two fingers around her hot, quivering pussy lips, “is always my desire.”

  “Good,” she said, thrusting her hips so my finger, that was perched just out of range, slid inside her wet hole. “Because by the time I’m through with you, Mister—you’ll be begging me to let you come.”

  Fifteen

  Avery

  “Please, Avery,” he begged, lathered, lubed and dripping in my hand. “Please let me come!”

  Craig’s body trembled, drenched in sweat and red from exertion. He lay in front of me, his thick muscular thighs shaking, his chest heaving, eyes pleading as he nodded down to where I cradled his glistening cock in my hand. I sat cross-legged in front of him, as I had for the last hour, gently teasing and pleasing him as he’d done for me just a few hours earlier.

  It was well into evening now, candles flickering all over my bedroom as my double mattress squeaked with Craig’s weight. “I told you I’d make you beg, baby,” I teased, feeling the heat from his rock-hard cock as I gently, slid my hand up it. “Just like you made me.”

  He winced from the effort, his skin hot and tender from over sixty minutes of constant, careful, sensuous edging. We’d started not long after he’d pleasured me, taking a quick break to open and sip another bottle of wine before retreating to my bedroom where Craig had promptly stripped and lay on top of my bed—as hard as a wrought iron fence post—and nearly as long.

  We’d been there ever since, the night growing dark around us as I stroked Craig’s iron cock in an increasingly maddening mixture of fast and slow intervals, watching him buck and throb as he almost came again and again. Now, he lay sweating on my soft white sheets, his glistening body glowing in the soft candlelight, and his cock—his beautiful cock—leaking pre-come between my fingers, as I teased and nodded in reply.

  “Your wish,” I murmured, echoing his words from earlier in the evening as his whole body trembled with urgency. “Is my command…”

  I cradled him in my open palm as I reached for the half-empty bottle of lube with my free hand. It had been full when I grabbed it—blushing guiltily—from my nightstand drawer over an hour earlier. In fact, Missy had given it to me for a gag gift the Christmas before and I’d always been too embarrassed to use it alone. Now I squeezed the bottle gently and drip by drip, it coated his fat cock in a glorious sauce, clear and wet.

  He whimpered with the slightest pressure as I coated him from base to tip, gathering the runoff in my palm until I set the bottle aside. Wrapping my fingers back around him, I coated every inch of him until his prick was slippery and wet.

  He bit his lip at the sensation, shaking his head back and forth, moaning from deep inside as I began to slowly stroke him until I could feel the very veins in his cock pulse and with his legs trembling from every cell in his body, I finally let him come.

  It was less of an explosion and more a flood. A great tidal surge coating my fingers with wet, sticky jizz as I continued to milk his cock until he begged me to stop. I did so as we were both exhausted then we faced each other in the small, sticky bed.

  “Jesus,” he murmured, still pulsing gently as his softening cock drizzled it’s last onto my come-soaked sheets. “That… that was fucking amazing.”

  “Yes, it was,” I said. “I’ve never done that with anyone before.”

  “Me either,” he sighed, seeing my sticky hand and watching me use a corner of my bed sheet to dry it. “Fuck. Fuck. That was hot. God, I wanna fuck you, Avery. I wanna stick my face in your pussy and suck your clit until you scream.”

  “Yeah…” I sighed, reaching for his arm, still quivering from his orgasmic blast, to pull him to me as I lay down on the bed. He got the hint and in a second, we were spooning, arms and legs entangled as he squeezed as tightly as possible against my back.

  “I wish we could spend all day together,” he murmured, breath warm against the back of my ear as I felt his heart, still pounding, against my back.

  “Yeah?” I teased, squeezing his thigh. “What would you want to do all day?”

  “Seriously?” he asked, no teasing for once. “You want to know what I’d do with you all day? What I’d really like to do?”

  I turned slowly until I was facing him. His sexy brown curls were sweaty and wet, his lips full, his eyes soft and gentle. “What would you like to do, Craig?”

  I was expecting something sexy, even sensual, like the two hours we’d just shared naked and shaking and facing each other in my empty apartment. What I got was something just as good. “I’d like to sit on the couch with you all day,” he said, surprising me with his simple—simply genius, that is—idea. “Eating popcorn and watching TV with you.”

  “Popcorn? For real?” My eyelids fluttered, suddenly touched by the romantic notion. “What… what would we watch?” I stammered, reaching for his hand in the twisted sheets. When I found it, we both clung to one another, fingers laced to match our legs.

  “Anything,” he said, as if we were two kids in a tree fort, plotting our getaway. “Everything. It wouldn’t matter, as long as we were together the whole time.”

  “I’d love that,” I mused, gently tracing soft fingertips along the curve of his hipbone. “If only I hadn’t agreed to go out to eat with my mom tomorrow.”

  “You too?” he asked, smiling up at me as his eyes grew half-lidded with exhaustion. “My old man is taking me out to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “No shit?” I asked, growing weary myself as my hand trailed down from Craig’s hip, across his flat belly and onto the mattress.

  Craig snorted—or so I thought. But when I roused my own eyes fully open I saw that it was a snore—he was already fast asleep.

  Sixteen

  Craig

  “Do you mind if we walk?”

  Dad looked kind of normal in black jeans and a grey sweater with a red stripe across the chest, his thinning hair slicked back under his trademark fedora.

  I smiled, glad for the chance to rehab my healing—but still aching—leg. “Or will that be too much of a stretch?” Dad snickered at his own pun—a favorite method of communication for an English professor—while I nodded and held open the warped wooden gate at the end of his walkway.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” I said, nodding at the sagging pumpkin atop his highest porch step. “So would throwing out your old jack o’ lantern.”

  Dad turned, as if surprised to see it there. “I suppose I’ll get arou
nd to it someday,” he mused, the ultimate absent-minded professor.

  “Maybe by Christmas,” I chuckled, securing the gate after he’d shuffled out, the soles of crisp brown loafers scraping over the fall leaves in his path. “Or you could make it your New Year’s resolution?”

  He ignored my playful sarcasm and waited for me to catch up at the curb. Dad lived on what was fondly called “Academic Alley,” a shabby but quaint strip of old Victorian and Craftsman homes not far from Fraternity and Sorority Row. It was cheap—the college owned most of them, and rented them out to tenured professors at a discounted rate—and convenient to campus. Dad had lived there ever since transferring to Worthington five years ago, and had eventually started to look as shabby and ill-kempt as his quaint Victorian cottage.

  So, seeing him freshly scrubbed and dressed in clothes from our century was a refreshing eye-opener. So was the crisp fall air after racing from Avery’s apartment at the last minute, freshly scrubbed—and definitely sated—from a hot, soapy shower together.

  “This is nice,” Dad said, nodding and tipping his charcoal grey fedora toward an older woman walking her poodle as we crossed the barren street. “Don’t you think?”

  “Very,” I mused, the only thing missing was Avery’s hand clutched tightly in mine as we wound through the quiet streets surrounding campus. “I’m glad you thought of it.”

  “Me too,” he bragged lightly, punching me playfully on the shoulder in a rare show of affection. Dad was not one for tender moments so whenever they came, I appreciated them. I supposed he’d passed that gene on to me since I called him about as much as he called me, which was way less than often. Maybe, I thought to myself as we neared the edge of Academic Alley and got closer to campus, this quiet Thanksgiving together would bring us close together.

  “What are you in the mood for?” I asked as we approached State Street, with its string of small, cozy cafes and ethnically diverse restaurants.

  “You know me,” Dad mused, sounding more distracted than usual. “I’m easy.”

  “You?” I snorted before I’d thought better of it.

  He paused by a bus bench, peering back at me curiously. “You think I’m difficult?” he chuckled dryly.

  I blushed. I’d forgotten how sensitive Dad could be. “Not difficult, per se,” I reminded him, “but you definitely have specific tastes.”

  “Such as?” he asked, crossing his arms over his striped sweater, waiting for an answer. The posture reminded me vividly of growing up and coming home from a big game, all keyed up, only to be peppered with questions about that day’s homework. “Name one.”

  “How about the time I took you to eat Indian food?”

  He rolled his eyes. “This again?” he chuckled humorlessly. “I’m still on the hook for that?”

  It was my freshman year of high school, not long after mom passed. At the suggestion of our grief counselor, Dad and I had started spending Sunday afternoons together. Sometimes we’d go to a museum, sometimes a park, other times an art gallery.

  When I complained to the counselor that Sunday with Dad was boring, she suggested he start to weave in activities that were fun for me too—not just him. I immediately suggested going to a movie and dinner, as long as I could choose both. He’d relented reluctantly, then bitched and moaned the whole two hours we spent watching Escape from Planet Werewolf. Then to cap it off, he’d thrown a fit at the Indian Restaurant I’d chosen because they didn’t serve ketchup!

  “I was grieving, Craig,” he complained. “And so were you. Neither of us have good memories of that night—or for that matter—that time in our lives.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, remembering how far we’d drifted apart that year—and every year since. In a way, neither one of us had ever recovered from losing Mom. Probably because outside of a few counseling sessions that neither of us took seriously, we never really talked about it. “But still, Pops, you must admit you’re a steak and potatoes kind of guy, right?”

  “Nothing wrong with protein and starches,” he said, easing away from the bus bench where we’d paused and inching farther up State Street. “But, I suppose, just this once, we could be a little more daring—”

  “Let’s try this then,” I suggested, nodding toward New Delhi, a cozy, funky Indian restaurant I’d been dying to invite Avery too since the day we’d met.

  Peering at the Middle Eastern lettering gracing the door, Dad looked slightly panicked, as if he hadn’t quite forgotten that night so many years ago, as much as he’d claimed. “Maybe for Christmas,” he promised unconvincingly, as he inched away from the doorway. “I’m all for something unconventional today, but maybe not quite so spicy.”

  “Pizza?” I asked, passing Mama Mia’s a few doors down. “We could see if they have steak and potatoes for toppings?” I teased as he seemed to distance himself from the modest pizzeria as well.

  “How about this?” he asked, nodding toward a small Chinese restaurant called Chow Fung’s that didn’t even look open. “We could try the duck and pretend it’s turkey?”

  I considered the other options farther up State Street. A German restaurant that smelled like mold, a sports bar with 23 big screen TVs and a local chain seafood restaurant called The Shrimp Boat. “Sure,” I shrugged. “Just try to order something that doesn’t need ketchup, okay?”

  Dad clapped me on the shoulder, squeezing tightly, almost affectionately, as I reached for the door handle. “Anything for you, son,” he said, winking merrily as a series of bells rang overhead. “And in case I forget to tell you when the hubbub starts… Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Hubbub?” I began to ask, but Dad had already passed into the restaurant, his words drowned out by the cries of a particularly loud and surprised female voice.

  Seventeen

  Avery

  “Duck, I think, don’t you Avery dear?”

  Mom looked regal in a purple blouse and grey flannel skirt, her hair pulled back in a soft ponytail with several stray wisps framing her pretty, middle-aged face. A funky vintage cornucopia broach nestled just above her left breast, the only thing in the whole restaurant signifying what day it might be. I was surprised the restaurant was even open.

  “That’s the most like turkey, right?” she asked when I hadn’t answered right away, my eyes flitting back from the menu to her.

  “Why do we have to have anything like turkey?” I suggested, peering at the Chinese restaurant’s sumptuous Dim Sum offerings. “We’re out to dinner on Thanksgiving, right? Let’s be untraditional.”

  A smile crossed mom’s face, complimenting the extra layer of makeup she’d layered on for our girl’s night out. “Great idea,” she said, closing her menu and reaching for her glass of chilled plum wine with an air of finality. “You pick and I’ll just sit here and be untraditional while you order.”

  I peered at the menu, making several unique and savory choices while intermittently checking out the mostly empty restaurant. It was called Chow Fung’s and deserted at 6 pm on Thanksgiving night. I’d worried, at first, that we might be keeping the restaurant open later than usual but the elderly waiter informed us that they were open until ten every night of the week—and apparently didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving in their own home.

  Feeling a little better knowing they stayed open so late, I ordered liberally from the menu: spring rolls and dumplings, boneless spare ribs and pork buns and while I was at it, another round of drinks. Hot sake for me, and plum wine for mom. The waiter shuffled off, stooped but dignified in his stained black jacket as the strains of Asian music tingled overhead.

  “What a great idea!” I mused idly in the waiter’s absence, somewhat soothed by my first glass of sake and the multi-orgasmic shower I’d shared with Craig less than an hour earlier.

  “Wasn’t it?” Mom said, as if it was hers. “Why haven’t we done this every year? It’s a helluva lot easier.”

  “Well, Mom,” I reminded her playfully, “if you’ll recall, you started throwing that big party for
your clients every year and well…”

  A chime rang over the door—more like a gong—distracting Mom from my response. For a moment, her face looked excited, then relieved, then positively giddy, making me wonder who—or perhaps even what—had just walked in.

  “Randolph?” she cried, standing abruptly so that her knees rocked the whole table. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  I turned abruptly, spotting my English professor standing just inside the door. “Dr. Robinson?” I asked, my voice a mere whisper compared to mom’s booming greeting across the deserted restaurant.

  He beamed as well, inching closer into the restaurant as someone familiar followed him inside. “Craig?” I gasped, imagining the odds of them both walking in the door together at the same time. Then it dawned on me—it wasn’t random.

  The way Craig stood next to Dr. Robinson, my English professor. The way he gazed from his father, to my mother and then to me, then repeated the process all over again gave me the time to see the vague similarities in their features. Damn. How could I have missed it? Craig Robinson was clearly Professor Robinson’s son!

  Holy shit, I thought to myself, slumping in my seat as they approached our table. I’d been fucking my English professor’s son every day for the past week!

  Eighteen

  Craig

  The look on Avery’s face made it clear she was thinking the same thing I was. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  “Dad?” I choked out, as the pieces all added up. But he was already shuffling toward the table, his face beaming, taking his hat off to make it easier for him to plant a huge kiss on the lady who was obviously Avery’s mother.

  I stood there in the lobby for a moment, the waves of understanding and realization crashing into me all at once. I was fucking my dad’s girlfriend’s daughter. Wow. What were the odds? I crept over to the table for four where Avery and her mother were clearly enjoying Thanksgiving dinner out together.